Rooster Helmet (2)
“The enemy has roughly eight thousand troops. Far larger than we imagined. Even accounting for them stripping the border fortresses bare, they must have fully mobilized their auxiliaries.”
At Jarrmal's words, I crossed my arms and sank into thought. Eight thousand from the 29th Legion. Plus at least five thousand more from the incoming 30th.
Even if our three legions combined forces, we couldn't match them. If there was any chance, we had to win the first clash.
But how?
I wrestled with the question.
“We're outnumbered in cavalry and infantry alike. Worst of all, our organization is inferior.”
Rubiot spoke plainly, without exaggeration. Unlike them, most of our men were green recruits with less than a year under their belts. Qualitatively, we had no hope.
“And the wind's a problem. It favors their arrows and catapults.”
“In other words, a head-on fight offers no chance of victory.”
Every officer's face hardened.
Exactly. Pure combat spelled our doom.
I stood, clasped my hands behind my back, and paced.
That's when Rikius entered the tent with a report.
“Sir, we're building temporary latrines, but the sewage smell is drifting into the camp. We need engineers to dig new drainage ditches.”
“Right. Ah, hold on.”
I nodded at first, then called him back.
“Yes, sir?”
“Did you say latrines?”
“Yes, sir.”
“That's it!”
I clenched my fist and shouted. Everyone stared at me, dumbfounded. What the hell works? Their faces screamed skepticism.
I told them about a problem from the past.
“Remember when Sian was under siege? The barbarians didn't cut the aqueducts.”
“I do, but...”
“They dumped shit into the water supply. And within three days, chaos erupted, right?”
“Ah.”
Finally, the officers caught on. We held the high ground near the Drvina River, and the aqueduct passed our camp en route to the enemy lines and the southern city.
Taint their drinking water, and the effect would come soon enough.
“But sir, won't that endanger the southern civilians too?”
“Of course. Could even spark an epidemic. But imagine if we lose here. The whole empire falls. We're not philosophers preaching humanity or priests teaching justice. We're soldiers. We'll do whatever it takes to defend the empire. Don't forget that.”
I clapped their shoulders and left the tent.
Easy words, but I loathed myself. A defender of the empire, staining my own hands with civilian blood. Ironic. Contradictory.
But if I couldn't stomach such self-contradictions, I wouldn't have lasted as a soldier this long.
Your decision was right, Ain.
I repeated it to steel myself, gazing toward the enemy camp.
Our legion held the high ground, staring them down. The 29th had the edge in strength, but without us descending to the plains and baiting them, a reckless assault was unlikely.
From their view, they needed not just to beat us but to smash our homeland legions too. Natural caution.
I watched silently as soldiers poured excrement into the aqueduct. Barbarian tactics, really. But in war, the line between acceptable and forbidden blurred endlessly.
At least two or three days.
By then, disease would ravage their camp. Pompeianus was sharp, of course—digging wells to supply most of his water.
Still, soldiers couldn't ignore the aqueduct's easy, clean water just a short walk away. I was confident it'd work.
I summoned Rubiot and ordered wooden palisades around the camp, just in case.
As we dug in defensively, the 29th flaunted their forces across the plains in drills—a psychological ploy to awe us into crumbling.
Pompeianus choosing this plain as the battlefield hid reasons I'd overlooked. A true talent. A worthy foe.
But Pompeianus underestimated me.
I wasn't a genius general, but years of experience honed my insight and wisdom. I could always find the dagger for the enemy's vitals.
So in this fight, I've already gained the upper hand.
I'd start strong. The follow-up was the question.
I called Jarrmal to scout the 30th Legion's position. If Pompeianus feigned a siege to envelop and crush us first, we'd need to swing behind them.
“I'll find them, no matter what.”
I clapped the barbarian cavalry commander's shoulder.
After sending Jarrmal off, I climbed a palisade watchtower to survey the enemy. No major moves from Pompeianus's main force yet. But their barbarian cavalry differed.
The enemy riders prowled five hundred meters out, taunting us to fray nerves and sap stamina for a decisive strike. Clear intent.
They were laying groundwork for victory too.
No easy opponent. Facing a legion commander versed in imperial basics was this thorny.
“Ershiang!”
“Yes, sir.”
“Give those thunderhead bastards a taste of arrows.”
“Won't make a dent.”
“Of course not. Just want to seem jittery under their pressure.”
He got it. If they aimed to fray my nerves and cloud my judgment, I'd make them think it was working. Buy us days.
Then...
Our chance would come.
My cloak billowed as I awaited our archers' volley.
Twang. Thwip thwip.
Ershiang's bowmen loosed. The enemy cavalry scoffed, slipping just beyond range. Then they jeered.
“You idiots can't even hit that, yet you fly the eagle standard?”
Arms crossed, I raised my hand.
“Loose!”
Ershiang ordered again. Arrows flew once more; the riders pulled back, circling far off. I warned Boruman to stay vigilant, then descended.
Three days later, anomalies stirred in their camp. Pompeianus tried hiding it, but we weren't fools. Extra tents, chaos, more cookfires—signs of trouble.
I sent a full battalion down to the plains in formation. As we advanced, they scrambled into response.
More men than us, but sloppy. Mismatched centuries cobbled together, no doubt.
Our ploy had landed.
I bellowed for Rikius.
“Sound battle stations for the legion!”
“Yes, sir!”
I personally bore the legion standard, standing before the men. As battalions emerged, I split the cavalry to the infantry flanks. Classic anti-flanking formation.
Pompeianus responded with a triangle. Thick center, vulnerable wings—terrible matchup for us. Oddly, he placed his superior cavalry at the tip.
Would a battle-hardened veteran like Pompeianus botch that?
No.
Gripping the standard, I scanned their lines again.
Pompeianus is experienced. He has a plan for that deployment. Can't assume otherwise. Problem is, we won't know till we clash.
I dipped the standard toward them lightly.
“Legion, advance!”
Rubiot drew his sword up front, directing the march. We started in extended line, soon curving bow-like due to infantry-cavalry speed gaps.
As distance closed, my eyes stayed glued to the foe. Was Pompeianus truly desperate for basic triangle? Lucky if so.
I swallowed dryly.
Soon our cavalry grazed their edge. Enemy arrows rained overhead, but few horses fell.
Then our extended infantry neared head-touching range with their coiled ranks. That's when I spotted it: excessive density.
“Gods... planning that from the start?”
Before I could react, their front dropped weapons, rear shoving long spears forward.
Hedgehog bristles evoked the infamous old heavy infantry of rotations.
The legend that crushed all arms once: phalanx.
I mulled the archaic name from history books. So Pompeianus picked this plain for a reason.
To let his undertrained troops maximize output. Legionaries rarely drilled phalanx against barbarians.
We'd been had.
No time for orders—the bristling phalanx surged. If we were golden-age elites, it'd be nothing. But most were recruits.
Front ranks sprayed blood, collapsing. Shields buckled under spear pressure; stances crumbled, impaled.
Thank the gods their phalanx was raw. And diarrhea-weakened from water woes.
Without that, first impact would've been catastrophic.
But this wouldn't do.
Standard high, I roared.
“Signal retreat for the legion!”
Theirs was sluggish phalanx. In legion gear, pursuit would've slaughtered us. But phalanx crawled—especially untrained, spears clogging their own path and sight.
Battalion commanders yanked men back. Threatening, but slow. Yet Pompeianus anticipated: his rear cavalry exploded forward, outpacing the phalanx. The “sloppy” triangle masked it.
Worthy of his barbarian-crushing streak. Feint and reality woven tight. Simple, yet bold and risky.
But I wouldn't fold easily.
I grabbed a few retreating men, stacking shields. Climbing atop, I bellowed to the legion.
“The 24th Legion arrives soon! Reform ranks! Cavalry, wheel behind infantry into single file! Hurry!”
My shout snapped dazed troops into line. Enemy cavalry, scenting easy pickings, hesitated. Even they balked at greenhorns rallying post-bloodbath.
Impossible—unless “reinforcements” loomed. Lie or not.
A few words of bullshit restored order. As Rubiot approached, I leaped down.
“Pompeianus is a master. Phalanx? Never saw it coming.”
“But you didn't panic.”
“Legion commander can't. Rally the men, withdraw slowly. We lost, but don't look broken. For now, settle for glimpsing his hand on the cheap.”
Rubiot saluted, then barked at the troops.
“You idiots! Get your heads straight. Lines are fucked!”
I turned from him, gripping the standard tight.
This time, I'd been careless. My men paid in blood. Priceless guardians of the empire.
Sorry.
I shut my eyes.
(To be continued)