Rooster Helmet (3)
In the first skirmish, we lost. The damage wasn't severe, but our plan to press Pompeianus and gain a tactical edge in future engagements had been utterly shattered.
Of course, they were suffering unexpected losses from dysentery and disease as well, but a pity was still a pity.
With things as they stood, we had no choice but to hope for reinforcements from the other legions. Fortunately, by staking everything on a pitched battle in the open plains, the enemy had minimized the risk of our legions being picked off one by one.
The real problem was if their legions assembled first and came at us. Pompeianus had gambled on that single clash, but he'd failed to smash us outright.
Which meant the moment their two legions linked up, they'd likely strike our camp to rack up some kills. Unless they were fools, they wouldn't squander their numerical superiority.
That was my greatest worry.
After wrestling with it, I decided to poll my officers.
"Our legion aimed to pin Pompeianus in the opening battle, seize the initiative, and buy time for the other legions to arrive. But the plan failed, and we've handed the momentum to the enemy instead.
"If I were Pompeianus, I'd attack our camp the instant the 30th Legion joins him. If anyone has ideas on how to counter that, speak freely."
Boruman raised his hand. When I gave him leave to speak, the bearish man stroked his chin and opened his mouth.
"The 29th and 30th Legions will both be assaulting our palisades, so they won't commit heavily to cavalry.
"And they won't bother with that damn phalanx either. That means we prepare a textbook defense.
"We reinforce the watchtowers in our temporary camp and dig a moat. If we don't maximize our advantages, our numerical disadvantage will crush us."
Solid advice. Textbook stuff any officer could offer. I had no quarrel with it.
"Fill the moat with horse and human waste if possible. Soldiers might not fuss over cleanliness, but they won't eagerly leap into knee-deep filth.
"It won't stop battle-mad fanatics, but even scattering their ranks a bit would help."
Rubiot chimed in. A small touch, but one only an officer who'd long served at Sian and studied moat tactics could suggest.
I nodded at that, but then Jarlmal spoke up.
"The issue is when they bring up their siege engines. The wind's against us. If they deploy catapults, we'll be in trouble."
"So what do you propose?"
"Keep our cavalry outside the camp."
I was taken aback.
"That's a death sentence."
"Of course. But the 11th Cavalry and I are soldiers sworn to the empire. The empire gave rags like us—stray jackals—uniforms and honor.
"We're ready to perish for the eagle that granted us the lives of warriors."
Jarlmal was offering his life on a platter. Waiting outside the camp to snipe catapults was suicidal enough; actually charging them was beyond words.
"But, Commander Jarlmal—"
Jarlmal pressed his hand to his chest instead of replying. A silent plea to let him act as the empire's eagle demanded. A barbarian-born commander, whom the empire neither expected much from nor treated well, was volunteering for the most perilous post. All for our eagle standard.
I closed my eyes, then approached and gripped his thick forearm tight.
No more words were needed.
"Do as you will. The empire honors the rights of its brave soldiers."
"Thank you, sir."
I clapped Jarlmal's shoulder, then assigned tasks to the officers. The greatest crisis of this battle was now marching straight toward us.
Pompeianus wasn't just some blowhard riding on rumors. He'd surprised us with the phalanx, and now he proved his siegecraft just as swiftly. From afar, the 29th Legion's assembled catapults lumbered toward our camp.
Creak. Thunk.
When they loosed their first shot, I assumed it was stone.
But the impact against the palisade made a wet splat, like something bursting. A vile stench followed, and something nauseating splattered my clothes.
Dried horse dung coated in human shit.
Ingenious, in a grotesque way. The message was clear: we'd contaminated their water with waste to gift them disease, so they'd return the favor.
Maybe they planned to turn our ranks into a plague pit and leave us to rot. Even a temporary camp would suffer heavy losses in a siege.
Cold calculation. Brutally efficient.
No wonder the border he'd guarded with the 29th Legion had stayed quiet.
And now that lion was hunting me—hunting the 16th Legion.
I felt sweat slicking my palms.
But I'm the commander of the 16th Legion. I can't falter.
Feigning calm, I issued orders to Riti in a steady voice.
"Return fire."
"Fire!"
Riti, who'd been awaiting my word, commanded the catapult crews.
Creak. Thunk.
Our heavy catapults hurled massive stones in unison.
As expected.
I realized the wind was worse than I'd thought. Even heavy stones veered off over long range. Ours fell short, cratering the dirt well before the enemy infantry lines.
"Sir, we're out of range."
"Keep firing anyway."
I said it casually. For morale, we couldn't just take it lying down. Whether we hit or not was secondary.
They needed to see us fighting back. The helplessness of enduring a one-sided barrage could erode spirits faster than expected.
Riti kept up the futile salvos as ordered.
I stood firm on the watchtower, ignoring the dung barrages, and continued directing. The initial assault relied on catapults alone—nothing overwhelming.
But I knew the 30th Legion would join by tomorrow at latest. Any officer worth his salt knew the distances between legions dotted along the winding border like beads. Barring marching variances, arrival times were predictable.
Ideally, they'd show at dusk.
The imperial army could manage night ops, but they came with limits. Fresh off a sunset linkup, even more so.
If Jarlmal timed it right, he could shut down those cursed catapults.
All I could do was pray he pulled it off. Qualitatively, quantitatively, tactically—the enemy was a nightmare I couldn't easily counter.
During a lull in their fire, I had salt and boiled barley handed out. As our troops ate and rested, Lis of the 11th Cavalry galloped in from beyond the camp.
No soldier of Jarlmal—who had to stay hidden until the critical moment—would show without cause. I hurried down from the tower to meet him.
"Lis. What is it?"
Lis dismounted in haste and dropped to one knee.
"The 30th Legion's been spotted ten kilometers out. Two hours at most before they arrive."
"Two hours? Forced march, then. Understood."
I pieced together Pompeianus's strategy. The perfectionist legion commander had tried to bag us in the first clash.
But he'd planned for failure, ordering the 30th on a high-speed march. Hence their early arrival.
It accounted for any ambush attempts at linkup.
Maybe I was truly up against an imperial general worthy of Heigirt.
But that didn't mean despair or surrender. The empire's fate rested on my shoulders now.
Better to die under the eagle with my comrades than let that soldier-emperor ascend.
I steeled my resolve.
Even as night deepened, the enemy stayed vigilant. Frontier legions knew a lax watch could mean throats slit in the dark.
The 30th weary from forced march, the 29th from disease and day's standoff—yet no complacency.
Small wonder they eyed the throne.
Worlds apart from Anpianus, Heigirt's pawn. Facing such a general, my lips cracked dry.
Jarlmal. Don't push too hard. I need you.
I clenched my fist.
Braver than any lion, more loyal to the empire than any eagle—Jarlmal and his men deserved praise beyond any imperial soldier.
Thud-thud-thud-thud.
Hooves shook the earth. I knew instantly Jarlmal had committed. Not foolishness.
Fear that another day of dung barrages would cripple us before reinforcements—a desperate strike.
Jarlmal drew his sword and bellowed.
"The golden eagle we serve is one! Honorably, fiercely, furiously—we fight! Brothers, the hour to storm Valhalla is upon us! When the gods welcome you with smiles, you'll live in glory! Long live the Emperor!"
With that charged cry, Jarlmal charged the catapults like a raging tiger. I snapped orders to Boruman and Ershiang.
"Boruman! Take four centuries and sortie. Ershiang, cover them."
"Understood."
"We can't let the cavalry—let Jarlmal—fight alone against the horde."
I warned them sternly, then climbed the tower and seized the drumsticks myself.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
To my beat, our infantry formed a tight wedge, protruding semicircle before the camp. Ershiang's archers took position, nocking arrows.
Targets: any enemy horse or foot moving on our cavalry.
Jarlmal whipped his riders straight at the coiled catapults. Guards were posted, but they faltered against the bold frontal charge.
"The empire triumphs!"
Lis at the fore hacked an enemy's neck. They scrambled to form ranks, but with few troops around the engines, defense crumbled.
Jarlmal.
I figured the 11th Cavalry's valor—charging to their deaths for the empire—had cracked even Pompeianus's flawless guard. Amid roars and screams, riders dismounted, hammers smashing catapults.
The siege hammers shattered the assembled frames effortlessly. Wood splintered with sharp cracks.
They doused the wreckage in animal fat and lit it ablaze.
You are a true great eagle.
Outnumbered and battered, the 11th Cavalry smashed the last catapult. Who could've dreamed barbarian riders—deemed unreliable—would defy death to raid the engines?
As foes swarmed Jarlmal, I shouted at Boruman, advancing his wedge.
"Boruman! Hold! Stay cool-headed!"
"Sir! But Commander Jarlmal—!"
Once divided by barbarian and citizen blood, now they risked all for each other. A sentimental commander might've greenlit Boruman.
But I was forged to coldly sacrifice the few to save the many.
Without ruthlessness, none survive. My barbarian mentors from the field etched that in blood and loss.
Grinding my teeth, I watched Jarlmal's brave end.
Surrounded, the 11th Cavalry's standard rose one last time. Jarlmal's scream rent the air.
"The humble barbarian warrior Jarlmal stands before the great gods today. I die an honorable soldier of the empire! The 16th Legion triumphs forever!"
His death cry hushed our camp.
Jarlmal.
Our taciturn barbarian cavalry commander.
Yet fiercer than any in battle, the legion's steadfast spear. Such a man was gone.
Hot tears traced my cheeks.
That great eagle, his lone wolves—they'd embraced death for the empire, for our legion.
Arm to chest, I saluted the falling wolves in the empire's name. And vowed.
To crush Pompeianus. To defend the world they'd guarded. I wiped my eyes with my cloak's edge and ordered Ershiang and Boruman to withdraw.
(To be continued)