Civil War (1)
Shortly after our army began its march, an imperial messenger arrived from the emperor.
The messenger commanded us to suppress the legions along the Drvina River and restore order to the empire. We had no choice but to swallow that bitter order.
Of the more than ten legions that had guarded the long northern border during the golden age, only about eight remained. Two of those had been disbanded in recent battles, and two more had turned traitor, forcing us to fight them with our fates on the line—right in front of the barbarians' eyes.
In just one year, the empire's northern military strength had been halved.
The empire's defenses, weakening day by day, sapped our own strength, but at the same time, it piled an even heavier burden on our shoulders. We marched along the imperial road, bearing the crushing responsibility that we could not fail.
“Boruman.”
“Yes, sir.”
The bearish man spurred his horse to my side at my call.
“Have you heard anything about Pompeianus?”
“I served briefly in his legion once.”
“Rumors say he's a great general. Is that true?”
“I don't know if he's a great general, but as a commander, he was exemplary. Strict on rewards and punishments, kind to his men. He had their respect and stuck to the classics—never once put his legion in peril, from what I heard.”
“That alone makes him frightening.”
“But we're not going in alone to suppress them, right?”
That was a small mercy. The imperial government still had some grasp of reality; they'd ordered three legions to put down the rebel legions.
Apart from our 16th Legion, the 24th and 27th Legions stationed along the Drvina River had also received suppression orders. Combined, our available forces totaled nine thousand.
If even one mobile field army had joined us, we'd have boasted a force of ten thousand or more—but they'd all been shattered by Heigirt.
Nine thousand men to crush two legions of nearly equal strength. It was no easy task.
To make matters worse, we were advancing from the western and eastern ends of the Drvina River, unable to exploit any inner-line advantage. The rebels held complete strategic initiative.
“True enough. Ah, scouts incoming.”
I looked up at Boruman's words. It was a scout from the 11th Cavalry, which we'd sent ahead. Lis leaped from his horse, knelt, and reported.
“Sir. The border fort 'Blood Citadel' under the traitorous 29th Legion is empty.”
“They abandoned the fort?”
I was stunned. Even a legion was expected to leave minimal defenses on the border as an ironclad rule. Were they that furious with Emperor Baccus?
My lips went dry. If they'd stripped the forts bare, the enemy legions had mobilized their full strength—possibly over ten thousand. They outnumbered us.
A great general, indeed. Decisive as hell. But even Anpianus didn't go that far.
I closed my eyes.
To abandon border defenses for a civil war within the empire. Pompeianus, no matter how brilliant a general you are, you have no right to claim the throne.
I declared it to the enemy commander I'd never even seen.
Our legion marched along the imperial road hugging the Drvina River's banks. With the river beside us, we could ferry weary soldiers on rafts, making the advance smooth and unhindered.
We covered thirty kilometers a day on average and reached Bionna, the 29th Legion's main stronghold.
Like most frontier cities, Bionna was ringed by sturdy walls. We'd assumed the 29th had left a garrison, but to our shock, the city was deserted too.
What the hell was Pompeianus thinking?
I considered he might have assembled his legion and marched on the capital without waiting for his allied legion.
But that was a gamble with no chance of success. The capital had the Praetorian Guard—mocked as parade-ground troops—and the Atillca legions, dubbed homeland defense.
Subduing them, especially in a siege, would take at least two legions.
No way a commander like Pompeianus didn't know that.
That left two possibilities.
Either he'd swing his entire force across the Drvina's east bank to envelop and devour the two legions on our right flank before turning on us—or feign a move east to lure us into an ambush.
If it worked, he'd clean up our rear and absorb any stragglers. For Pompeianus, it was the optimal strategy.
I wouldn't have seen through it without the brutal lessons from Heigirt and the barbarians.
But knowing it doesn't make countering easy.
That was the crux. Pompeianus had stripped his forces so openly, leaking his plans, because he held the inner line.
He knew even if I caught on, I had no good countermeasures. A great general is a great general.
I acknowledged his caliber.
As I scanned what had once been Pompeianus's office, trying to peer into his mind one more time, Rubiot entered.
His face was flushed with excitement.
“Fresh report from Jarlmal.”
“What is it?”
“Pompeianus has veered south off the Drvina. Rendezvous at Severn Plains, looks like. Good news, right?”
His words struck me as odd.
Severn Plains was a transport hub—ideal for assembling legions and fighting a pitched battle.
But why would Pompeianus, who could defeat us piecemeal, abandon his advantage?
It made no sense.
Some scheme? Or make it look that way to panic us into a trap?
I realized I still had a long way to go compared to Heigirt. He'd have spun some unimaginable scheme to crush Pompeianus instead.
But I lacked that cunning.
All I had was the experience and insight from hard years—and trusty comrades.
Should I clash head-on?
I suspected a lure, but opportunities like this were rare.
With luck, we could link up unharmed and face them in battle.
After a moment's thought, I nodded heavily.
“Relay to Jarlmal: Send the 11th Cavalry south to Severn Plains. We'll head there too.”
“Got it.”
“And one more thing.”
“More orders?”
“Set march speed to minimum.”
“Will do.”
Rubiot didn't argue. Even in private chat, he never forgot I was his superior.
I glanced around Pompeianus's room one last time, pocketed a notable book, and left.
Flutter, flutter.
The empire's banners whipped wildly in the fierce wind. I gazed toward Severn Plains, where the gales howled strongest.
The enemy had brazenly built a massive camp, ringed by vigilant sentries. The wind direction meant if we attacked from the north, they'd shred us instantly.
They'd even anticipated the weather?
I realized their aim wasn't a simple ambush or lure—it was a pitched battle. With winds this favorable, Pompeianus would dominate with ranged weapons. No chance for us in open battle. We'd be pummeled, lines broken, and slaughtered on collision.
I stroked the flapping banner and said to Boruman,
“I need to talk to Pompeianus.”
“Pardon? Converse with a traitor to the empire?”
“No negotiations, of course. Raise a parley flag and convey my intent.”
“Understood.”
The bearish man saluted across his chest.
I knew Pompeianus was dead serious about the throne—persuasion was pointless. But talking would let me gauge his legion's morale.
A great general breeds confidence, but rebellion is a gamble that unnerves the rank and file. Reading the troops' mood might reveal something.
I waited for Boruman's report.
Soon, he galloped back.
“Sir, he agrees to talk. But he insists you come to his camp in person. What now?”
I smiled.
“Frontier legionaries are keen on profit and pragmatism, but they prize pride above all.
If I go to parley and they cut off my head, his men will see Pompeianus as dishonorable, lacking faith.
Even if he seizes power, it won't last. A man like him knows that.”
“Then I'll bear the legion standard and escort you.”
“Do it.”
I crossed the plains with Boruman. True to his reputation, Pompeianus had pitched camp masterfully.
Using aqueducts and drains cleverly for defense—it wasn't amateur work.
In experience and eye as a legion commander, he outranked me. But I was the eagle risen from the Black Forest.
I strode arrogantly into the camp, cloak billowing. Enemy legionaries encircled us. Boruman raised the standard high and bellowed,
“Legion Commander Ain of the 16th comes to see General Pompeianus!”
The troops held firm, spears leveled. We waited like that for Pompeianus.
After five tense minutes, a group emerged from the tents—mostly senior officers with rooster plumes.
Among them stood a short, lean man draped in the ornate cloak reserved for legion commanders.
That's Pompeianus.
I studied his face closely. Unimpressive at first glance, but etched with the scars of time.
Arrow and sword marks from unknown battles, a cheek burned like it'd been seared.
His face screamed reverse-turn hero, where his build didn't. A fitting visage for the silent guardian of the empire's frontier.
Pompeianus eyed me briefly, then raised a hand. Spears lowered; I dismounted and approached.
“Ain, commander of the 16th Legion.”
“Pompeianus, of the 29th.”
Unlike other pretenders, he didn't call himself emperor. Keeping a general's poise until the laurels? I glimpsed his caution and patience.
After formalities, I probed,
“I heard you've risen in rebellion, general. Do you intend to turn your sword on the empire?”
A faint smile crossed Pompeianus's face.
“My sword aims not at the empire, but the rotten emperor. Baccus has trampled our legions' honor, pride, and the nation's dignity into the dirt. We cannot serve such a man as lord.”
“Yet we are sworn legions. Voicing discontent with force will delight only the barbarians. We must fulfill our duty.”
“Commander Ain, I've heard your tales. Crossing death's line for the empire, venturing into the Black Forest—your epic heroism commands even my knee.
But what did your blood buy? In the end, imperial surrender. As long as Baccus sits the throne, the empire has no future. Our decision is for the empire. Isn't it, brothers?”
“Pompeianus is right! We're justice! We'll rebuild the empire!”
The legionaries roared.
I realized they followed his rebellion without a shred of doubt.
As I bit my lip, Pompeianus placed a hand on my shoulder.
“Join us now, Commander Ain. We don't want to kill patriots and heroes like you to reach Baccus.”
“Then, General Pompeianus, you'll never reach Emperor Baccus. Better to face you honorably here and perish than see an era of soldier-emperors mad for the crown.”
I placed a hand on my chest, heart aching. To stake life and death against such imperial talent was tragedy.
But for the empire's tomorrow, I had to kill him.
As I saluted briefly with military courtesy, Pompeianus gave a wry smile.
“Then we're enemies.”
“Once fellow eagles, it seems.”
“A pity, hero of the Black Forest.”
“Likewise.”
I turned, cloak swirling. As I mounted, a few legionaries leveled spears. Pompeianus barked,
“Let Commander Ain go. He's foe now, but a brother deserving our utmost respect. Escort him with legionary honor.”
At his word, troops parted into double ranks. Boruman slung his spear over his shoulder instead of gripping it.
“Let's go.”
I left the camp with Boruman bearing the standard. Pompeianus—a man I'd have been glad to meet as ally. Perhaps fate decreed otherwise.
I sighed heavily and galloped toward our lines.
(To be continued)