Chapter 35. Rooster Helmet (5)
As we launched into a swift withdrawal, the Pompeianus forces—who'd seemed content to wait us out leisurely—suddenly stirred to life.
It was exactly the maneuver I'd anticipated, tailored to our retreat for a juncture with allies. They might even plan to let us link up before forcing a decisive battle, but who could say until the moment struck.
I instructed the officers to prepare for the enemy cavalry overtaking us and memorized potential fallback terrains for emergencies.
After a full day of grueling pursuit and evasion, we linked up with the 24th and 27th Legions at the Drvina River's edge. They'd raced nonstop from their posts.
As I'd expected, they'd left defensive garrisons behind, and even at full strength, they never quite filled their ranks. Combined, the three legions barely mustered eight thousand men—hopelessly outnumbered by the enemy.
Pulling the 25th Legion from its critical border fortress would spell disaster for the empire. We gathered to debate how to face Pompeianus.
These were hardened frontier commanders, each with their own strategies and insights.
But ordinary tactics for handling barbarians wouldn't touch Pompeianus. He was the empire's finest general. Simple ruses were useless against a man like that.
I proposed a perilous strategy to the legion commanders.
"Pompeianus is the lion the empire bred. Facing him head-on in pitched battle is far too risky. Charging a strong foe directly is no easy task. We must exploit his weaknesses."
"Exploit his weaknesses? What do you mean, Legion Commander Ain?"
27th Legion Commander Valius asked.
"Pompeianus surely aims to crush our border legions swiftly, march on the imperial heartland, and claim the throne. Only then would toppling Baccus hold meaning.
With barbarians already breaching the borders, he can't reorganize or redeploy without being branded an incompetent emperor, open to challenges. That's why he must hurry."
I admitted our weakness outright and pitched a plan I'd never dared consider before.
We'd wage a war of attrition, risking barbarian incursions to unnerve Pompeianus and make him desperate. Tactically, it was sound and correct.
But it ill suited the eagles of the legions. Still, I chose it because I knew I wasn't yet his equal.
The generals pondered my proposal in heavy silence.
They grasped its certainty the instant they heard it. Yet for veterans who'd guarded these borders for decades, suggesting we abandon them long-term was a bitter pill.
After long reflection, 24th Legion Commander Gratianus spoke.
"But Legion Commander Ain, we're fighting Pompeianus to defend the empire. If we open the borders to barbarians while we clash, what was the point of our blood spilled among brothers?"
He seemed to favor a quick clash to crown a victor who could secure the frontiers properly. Had I been confident of victory, I'd have urged the same.
Yet we fought for the empire's very survival. Yielding to a soldier-emperor today might not doom us tomorrow, but who could promise the day after?
And an empire torn by kin-slaying under a soldier-emperor's rule would lose all worth defending.
Better to hobble Pompeianus, drag this out, and bar his path to the throne.
We debated fiercely. All of equal rank, there were no superiors among us—only respect for elders and veterans, but equal voice for all.
After prolonged argument, we settled on delaying Pompeianus for one month. That was the compromise limit; beyond it, the commanders refused to neglect the borders, forcing my concession.
Strategy set, we marched west along the Drvina. Despite uniting our legions, we retreated instead of battling. Pompeianus paused, erecting camp to gauge our intent.
He likely thought we feigned retreat to lure him into favorable terrain for ambush—preserving the eagles' pride, it would have been our only play.
But we'd cast pride aside. For the golden eagle we'd sworn to, for the empire's peace.
At the rearguard of the marching legions, I watched Pompeianus's scouts still diligently probing our lines.
No matter how many times they saw it, they couldn't believe their eyes: imperial legions showing their backs to rebels, fleeing.
The fact stung me too.
I clenched my fist. Should I even now charge nobly like a warhorse, stake it all on honor?
I shoved down the intrusive thought and turned away.
We played cat-and-mouse along the Drvina, climbing and descending its banks. When he pushed south, we shadowed; when he wheeled, we fell back.
This tedious war of nerves echoed the delaying tactics of Consul Fabius, rival to ancient Carthage. If named, it was pressure warfare.
Pompeianus, enraged by our stance, sent envoys demanding "honorable battle." We dismissed them curtly.
"We have no more words for traitors."
Fuming at our reply, amid the push-pull, Pompeianus slowly redirected his legions' spearpoint north, abandoning his core advance.
We evaded his sharp thrust, retreating upriver once more.
For the first time, Pompeianus showed haste—no, anxiety. The self-proclaimed empire's savior couldn't stomach prolonging the war, piling damage on the realm.
Even absent that, rebels grow jittery with time; soldiers fret over unfulfilled promises.
Once the throne was at stake, Pompeianus and his men shifted from sworn comrades to mercenaries bound by gain.
His rush was no surprise.
His rebel legions boldly crossed the barbarian-infested Drvina to cut the road we'd patrolled for weeks. A daring military gamble.
We learned of the crossing two days later.
"Pompeianus crossed the river? Then he's closed to half a day's march."
Gratianus looked almost relieved.
Traversing barbarian woods would bloody his army too—our golden opportunity.
But I shook my head.
"Yet he's Pompeianus. Having overextended to fight us, he'll have counters ready. We must set traps in kind."
I urged caution on the generals. Scarred by losing men to underestimating him once, I'd learned to assess him more warily.
War's bitter gifts: experience, insight.
The commanders agreed. It was simple enough.
Just add "preparatory groundwork" to our battle prep—a hedge against surprises.
We positioned two legions at a shallow ford where the enemy would likely cross from the woods, holding one in reserve behind in the forest.
The deployment looked pitched-battle focused but emphasized defense.
If overwhelmed, we'd reinforce from the woods, shove them back across the ford, bleed their stamina in prolonged fight.
Of course, Pompeianus wouldn't oblige passively; we had more plans.
Half a day sharpening blades in wait, under cover of dark night, a massive force appeared across the Drvina.
We spotted them quickly but couldn't gauge numbers in the gloom.
I judged Pompeianus likely to split forces for attack. The others concurred. But divided at distance, unity falters—even for him.
With luck, we'd win without expending all.
Soon, enemy legionaries splashed into the shallows.
"Loose!"
Gratianus, ever hands-on in the field, took command. This fiery veteran wanted first blood; we yielded the ford out of respect.
Whir. Whirrr.
Arrows rained like downpour. They volleyed back. Moments after our men dashed in with heavy shields, steel clashed.
I watched beside Valius, both mounted. Darkness obscured the field, but splashing indicated hotspots.
We were yielding ground. Time to act.
I called Rikius.
"You summoned, sir?"
"We're giving way. Order the legion in the woods to prepare advance."
"Yes, sir."
Rikius wheeled smartly away. Valius remarked,
"Not crumbling badly yet—committing the legion so soon?"
"Let them plant feet on the bank, and we're handing them comfort. Better drain their strength fully."
Valius nodded. Knee- or thigh-deep water seemed harmless but sapped endurance subtly. The longer they waded, the better for us.
So Pompeianus will play his hidden card soon. If it's as deadly as feared, feign retreat, then counter.
We observed coolly.
Our 16th joined; the enemy's push into shallows slowed. Screams, shouts, steel rang fiercer.
I rubbed hands to the battlefield's savage symphony.
There's my first die cast, Pompeianus. Your throw now.
Tension mounted, ignorant of his ploy. Normally, he'd flank via nearby ford under battle's din. Closest was northwest.
Thus, assault from northwest, by mobile cavalry. And as if confirming, harsh whinnies and hooves thundered close.
Neighhh!
But cavalry emerged south—impossibly timely from that ford. It meant he'd split and hidden horse from the initial crossing.
Hahaha.
I admired his audacity, impeccable timing. A true genius; in better times, he'd have scourged barbarians, taming these black northern woods.
Saramal. His slayer was formidable.
But Pompeianus's brilliance doomed him. Lesser talent might've shunned risk, sensing our delay ploy. Irony: his mastery lured him into peril.
As enemy horse charged fiercely, I nodded to Valius.
He blew retreat on his horn.
"Fall back! Retreat!"
We bolted for the woods like ambushed rabble. Their cavalry pursued viciously.
"Argh!"
They lopped exposed infantry necks effortlessly, slicing our lines frontally. Their foot surged ashore too. Defeat loomed plain.
Yet we were primed. As our infantry plunged into woods, pursing cavalry's vanguard plummeted into pits. Unseeing in dark, waves followed.
Our foot took some falls too, but mounted shock alone crippled horse. Even unhurt, they'd lost cavalry edge.
With their impetus shattered, I drew steel.
This moment justified luring his haste.
"Cavalry, advance!"
No auxiliaries in our 16th, but 24th and 27th horse were intact. They roared tidal, surging the ford. Unforeseen reversal.
Enemy horse outnumbered ours; they'd prevail even disadvantaged. But greed for kills drew them deep, costing mounts—reversing odds.
Cavalry edges rarely flip easy.
Infantry alone must brace that shock.
Thud thud thud.
Tons of warhorses thundered at enemy foot.
Exhausted from river fight, they'd barely gained shore, array slow. Our veterans pounced.
"Gah!"
Horse trampled infantry. Crowded in narrows, they crumpled under cavalry wave.
Over a thousand crushed sans swordplay; even valiant 29th and 30th broke, fleeing.
No man courts such death, brave or not.
We hounded Pompeianus's rout, claiming four thousand heads. He was finished.
But.
This victory brought no joy. Self-mutilation, pathetic. Win or lose, barbarians reveled.
Gazing at crows blackening the dawn sky, I smiled bitterly.
(To be continued)