Those Who Desire Freedom (5)
We began our march boldly, making no effort to conceal our movements. As a result, Claudius's forces spotted us coming.
But knowing and responding are two different things. Even after seeing us move, Claudius hesitated on how to counter. Should he block our link-up with the 13th Legion, or turn back toward Londinium? He couldn't decide.
While he dithered, I pitched camp near Alon Lake. Then I sent an envoy to the 13th Legion. If the enemy was handing us time on a platter, there was no reason to refuse.
But dismissing this as mere indecision feels off somehow.
I stared at the map, lost in thought.
The 13th Legion had originally been stationed to check the descent of Hiberia and northern barbarians into Briton.
If the barbarians timed their push to match a southern advance, this "hesitation" would actually be a trap—a deliberate wait to lure us in.
That was the scenario Brikin had raised in yesterday's council, now coming to life.
Still, perfectly synchronized barbarian movements across hundreds of kilometers are impossible without a monster like Heigirt calling the shots. Even then, gaps would open up. So I can worry about it once it happens.
I pushed Hiberia and the north from my mind.
That left Claudius as the sole threat.
While he wavered, the 13th Legion obeyed my orders, marching out from their base to join our ranks. Our forces swelled from seven thousand to eight thousand five hundred.
With nearly three thousand five hundred barbarian cavalry alone, we could stand toe-to-toe with Claudius in open battle.
To turn his caution into impatience, I ordered another scorched-earth raid. Cavalry torched villages and croplands—barbarian tactics, but the empire couldn't afford a prolonged rebellion.
I wanted Claudius to charge us fast.
Our two days of provocation worked. Finally, he heaved his heavy ass into motion, slowly leading his host north toward Alon Lake.
Only then did I exhale in relief.
His sluggish pace had spawned endless suspicions. Was he plotting something? Every dark thought circled my head.
Still, I had to judge based on rational suspicions and reports, so I kept calm in front of my men.
As the enemy advanced north, Cogol erected stockades along the lakeshore. Barbarian cavalry cleared ambush spots and paths. Rikius smeared dried horse dung on the approach routes and prepped incendiary arrows.
On the second day of their march, we spotted thick black smoke rising far to the north. Seeing it, I knew the possibility I'd ignored had become reality.
Beacon fires meant northern or Hiberia barbarians had invaded.
The timing was exquisitely perfect.
Only then did I grasp how they'd coordinated. The clue lay with the 13th Legion.
As a native Briton legion, it had plenty of local recruits. Some had deserted, hiding in the base until the legion marched far enough. Then they lit the signal, summoning the barbarians.
Caught off guard. Now Claudius and the northern barbarians will hit us from both sides, a day apart. Retreat.
I considered smashing them separately, but it was too risky.
Fighting on ground not of our choosing made it worse. I needed to end this war without heavy losses.
For Briton's future governance, too.
My commanders, prepping for battle, looked startled at the withdrawal order. Some wondered why not just meet the enemy head-on here. We could, but the cost would be too high.
I chose retreat.
Imperial soil was precious, but irreplaceable troops were priceless. With men, we could reclaim land.
I prioritized preserving our forces.
That said...
Claudius, you bastard. Playing the fool while setting such a vicious trap. Flanking pincer from the unexpected north. Sounded like a mere native noble scion—must have real military experience.
Otherwise, this strategy didn't add up. Or he was a genius who could grasp war from books alone.
Experience will be his weakness, though. Amateurs handling big armies always show flaws.
I pinned my hopes there.
Our army retreated swiftly toward Londinium. To match our pace, they'd need forced marches too.
"Have Usiper chieftain harass their flanks."
"Understood."
I sent Usiper to tie up their feet.
The two-day pursuit ended in the northwestern marshes of Londinium. I camped on a hillock there, stationing cavalry south of the swamp. They couldn't bypass us without a fight.
We'll hold them here.
I resolved to settle it on this ground.
Half a day later, tens of thousands of Britons and barbarians appeared across the marsh. Easily over forty thousand strong. Few cavalry, but the infantry horde was terrifying. Small mercy: long march meant no siege engines.
I had troops raise stockades and brace for assault.
Seeing our readiness, Claudius loosely encircled us—testing our reaction.
Wiser than a blind charge.
Time for a fitting reply.
I loaded assembled catapults with loaves of bread.
"Fire."
A thudding rumble.
Loaves for a dozen men's meal arced into enemy lines. I repeated a dozen times, flaunting our ample supplies. And it was true.
We hadn't stripped Londinium bare, but scorched-earth ops yielded plenty.
We weren't starving in a standoff.
Enemy ranks buzzed at the bread barrage—stoned by loaves, not stones.
Message delivered: sieges won't starve us. Come at us head-on.
Claudius stayed silent on the bread for a while.
Then he sent an envoy under white flag.
"Sir, rebels have sent an emissary."
"I'll meet him outside."
Instead of letting him past the stockade, I rode out. Protocol said receive inside, but no need to show our hand.
As I mounted my warhorse, Rikius and guards followed, surrounding the envoy. They checked for arms. Only then did he dismount and approach.
He stiffly raised his chin before me. I nodded at Rikius.
Thwack.
"Show respect to the governor."
A sudden kick to the thigh buckled his knee. He glared up, furious.
"What is this?!"
"Teaching a provincial how to address the governor. I'm the emperor's proxy; you're a mere subject. Think you stand eye-to-eye with me?"
"I speak for Prince Claudius."
"He's a provincial too. Traitor, if you want a title. What? Want traitor treatment?"
He bit his lip.
This was psychological warfare. Courtesy between foes? Pointless.
"Speak your piece."
He scowled.
"Prince Claudius demands imperial withdrawal from Briton and recognition of independence. In exchange, safe evacuation of imperial troops and civilians, plus future aid for the empire's northern borders."
"Withdrawal and independence? Think we'll swallow that nonsense?"
"We number over forty thousand. Even with your vaunted cavalry, you can't beat us easily."
"True, it'd take effort to sever forty thousand necks. But remember: recently at Drvina, and on the mainland, I killed over twenty thousand with half this force. Forty thousand changes nothing."
"Bluff all you want; I won't buy it."
I glanced around amused. Officers chuckled.
I fixed him coldly.
"I'm Governor Ain of Bellgorod. I'll bluff when your heads are on pikes. Remember that."
I shooed him off.
Insult delivered to Claudius. Even if he stomached it, his "alliance" command had hotheads who'd balk. Soon, hardliners would push reckless attacks.
Unless Claudius reined them masterfully—then no easy win.
From a watchtower on the stockade, I gazed at enemy lines.
Early night, rebels crept toward us silently. But squelching mud and splashing water betrayed them.
"Loose!"
Waiting archers volleyed.
Thunks.
Arrows struck true, but minimal damage. I tossed torches their way, spotting their counter.
Flat hides over wooden shields.
Smarter than expected. Arrows pierced well, but not layered leather-wood blockers. Best quick improv from nearby woods.
Crossing the marsh will still doom them against us.
I arrayed troops. Heavy infantry core—tough nut for frontal assault.
Drained by swamp, scaling stockades? Impenetrable wall.
I drew sword, bellowed.
"Proud eagles of the empire! Shepherd scum who tend sheep dare test us, who braved the frontier winds!
Show them clear: wolf-hunting tricks only bring heads to offer! Long live the emperor!"
"The empire triumphs!"
We roared victory, clashing with the black tide. Their numbers awed under chill moonlight, hearts faltering at times.
Yet we held ironclad, slaughtering. Foes swarmed like ants, screaming as they fell.
After two hours' fury, they retreated, leaving corpse mountains. I wiped sweat-slick brow with cloak, sheathed sword in stockade.
"Signal the cavalry?"
Rikius asked.
"No. They're holding back. It's a lure."
I stated firmly.
Barbarians often feigned defeat with numbers, drawing foes to chosen ground. I'd fallen for it once—big losses.
"Tell cavalry to stand by."
"Yes, sir."
I clapped Rikius's shoulder, turned from stockade. I'd humiliated their envoy, but Claudius was no pushover.
Still, we must win this.
I entered my tent amid troops kneeling in salute.
(To be continued)