The Falling Flag (1)
“What a pathetic sight I’ve become.”
I spotted Rubiot among the wounded soldiers, his hand wrapped in bandages after losing four fingers. The shield master once counted among the legion’s finest—his prowess was lost forever.
From his bitter tone, I felt acutely how even a small victory came at a steep price. In battles where lives hung in the balance, what fight was ever easy?
I didn’t know how to console Rubiot.
I left him to rest and sat by the fire when Kopidon, the 12th Legion’s cavalry commander, rode up. Spotting me, he dismounted with a flourish.
“You’re the fellow from the 16th Legion who fought like a lion last night, right?”
“The lions were my comrades, sir.”
He gave a wry smile.
“Honestly, when I heard the 16th had been routed, I didn’t think much of you. But after seeing last night’s battle, I’ve changed my mind. You’re fine soldiers—ones I could trust at my back.”
“You flatter me, sir.”
“No flattery. Anyway, you look glum. Lost more close comrades?”
“A brother-in-arms of ten years is crippled. If he fights again, there’s an eighty percent chance it’ll be his last.”
“Tough break. But isn’t that war? Kill or be killed.”
“I know.”
Kopidon clapped my shoulder lightly.
“Then don’t look like you’re the one dying. If a commander mopes, it unnerves the men. I don’t want to see a lion like you with that face.”
“Understood.”
He swung his cloak and mounted up.
“See you around.”
I nodded, and he rode off into the 12th Legion’s ranks.
He was right, a hundred times over. Rubiot was a dear friend, but I couldn’t mope over one wound. I bore the names of my fallen comrades, after all.
I forced a smile.
As morning broke, Rikius returned from verifying the night’s tally with some legion officers, his face bright.
“Commander, it’s a solid victory.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes, sir. Looks like we killed at least a thousand overnight. That’ll chill their blood.”
Yeah, it would. Losing a thousand cavalry was no small blow—even barbarians numb to death would think twice. That kind of force matched a decent-sized tribe.
“Our casualties?”
“Twenty dead or wounded.”
I nodded silently.
Twenty casualties in our unit alone, even in victory, wasn’t light.
Across the whole force, at least a hundred must’ve fallen or been hurt.
A hundred.
Compared to the enemy’s losses, it was barely ten percent. Considering we’d massacred them one-sidedly at the end, the exchange rate wasn’t great.
Still, given our numerical disadvantage and the legionaries’ overall inferiority, it wasn’t a poor showing.
I sent Rikius to fetch soup for the men.
Word was, the 12th Legion’s quartermasters had been surprisingly accommodating—thanks to our fierce stand last night.
As the men ate, Legion Commander Alpinus visited our unit. Citing Kopidon’s report, he offered a handshake. It caught me off guard.
“I misjudged you. My apologies. The 16th Legion wasn’t weak.”
I listened quietly.
“Cassius and your comrades were just unlucky. If we’d been in your shoes, we wouldn’t have fared better.”
“Yes, sir.”
That Cassius hadn’t been incompetent—and that this man acknowledged it—was enough.
The legion commander said we’d march after breakfast and even shared the schedule himself.
Treatment we couldn’t have dreamed of yesterday.
Bidding him farewell, I checked on the dead and wounded. Unbidden tears welled up. Their desperate fight had preserved the ill-fated 16th Legion’s honor—and Cassius’s.
Last night’s battle had cost dearly, but it was worth it.
Because of it, we’d earned respect and reclaimed our honor.
I resolved not to dwell on losses anymore.
By noon, we resumed the march. Thankfully, the night fight had cowed Anpianus—he sent no more cavalry. After half a day’s tense trek, we linked up with General Creper’s mobile field army.
True to its role as the empire’s defensive core, the field army gleamed with fine gear. Every soldier was well-fed and clad, exuding barbarian-rivaling bulk and spirit.
We watched Creper’s legion with envy tinged with resentment.
The troops shone, but the field army commander himself outdid them. Officially the Praetorian Guard prefect, his attire was so lavish it could pass for the emperor’s.
Fitting, for one meant to embody imperial dignity in the emperor’s stead.
Creper wore a peevish expression that aged him prematurely—frown lines making him look past fifty.
Alpinus greeted him familiarly, as old acquaintances might. Yet the contrast between frontier and capital climbers was stark.
While the generals conferred and the camp rose, we took positions five hundred meters out, notionally guarding against raids. It was Alpinus’s way of giving us rest.
By the time our vigil ended, camp was set. I answered the generals’ summons to the command briefing.
Supreme commander Creper laid out the plan:
Hold position for now, scout Anpianus’s moves. Once the enemy main force is located, advance and force battle at a suitable spot. Annihilate Anpianus and the barbarians in one clash.
Simple, but sound.
The enemy had superior mobility—they could bypass us anytime.
They’d have to abandon Anpianus’s infantry legion, but that was feasible. A change of heart among the barbarians under his banner, and it was done.
Staying put until we pinned them made sense.
Alpinus agreed, and we endured dull days in the temporary camp. Dull, but better than losing comrades.
I merged depleted units, reassigned officers, and reorganized the legion. Formally, we still flew the 16th’s standard.
I trained the reshuffled men to adapt, equipping them accordingly, while Creper’s scouts probed north for the barbarians.
Nearly a week glued to camp, focused on reorganization—then Creper summoned us.
Anpianus and the barbarians’ position was known.
His army coiled fifty kilometers northeast, in an abandoned imperial city. Villages had withered, leaving it naturally fortified. As a city, it offered shelter and defenses aplenty.
Creper marched at once. Even if they holed up, encircling the barren ruin would starve them out easily—no stockpiles there.
But that raised suspicions.
Anpianus might be a poor commander, but barbarian chieftains weren’t idiots. They’d honed survival against kin and empire alike.
Would they miss that calculus?
Creper blamed Anpianus’s poor control over the chieftains. Alpinus saw it differently. I caught a whiff of rot in the enemy’s moves too—a veteran’s instinct from fifteen years on the front.
Still, we held no disadvantage. That’s why Alpinus didn’t push back on Creper’s advance.
I drilled the men to stay vigilant, weapons ever in hand. Tension was vital, fatigue be damned. This foe was no pushover.
After a day’s swift combat march, the imperial army reached a low hill fifteen kilometers from the city.
Ideal to repel cavalry and survey the surroundings.
As camp rose, I eyed distant flickers on the horizon, pondering the enemy.
“Rikius.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Is Anpianus really that stupid? He knows we’re coming—why stay put?”
“Worried?”
“Yeah. Bad feeling.”
Rikius grinned.
“Don’t overthink it, Commander. Like you said, we’re the legion.”
“Right. We’re the legion.”
Legion.
That word’s bond and trust—no outsider could grasp it, especially in these desperate times.
I ruffled his hair and sought Cavalry Commander Kopidon. For the men to fight harder tomorrow, I’d lead from the front on a proper mount. I needed one of their saddles.
Late as it was, Kopidon welcomed me with a hearty laugh—legion custom: once brothers in battle, treated as such anywhere.
He offered a seat.
“Thank you, Commander.”
“Nonsense. Grateful you came before battle. What’s up?”
“Just this—I’d like a saddle. Ours differ from your cavalry’s.”
“Ah, we adopted them recently. Copied from barbarian trade goods.”
“They look solid. Any chance I could get one?”
“Quartermaster won’t oblige?”
“Already in debt for food, clothes, gear—asking for a saddle felt too much.”
“Brothers don’t quibble. Here—spare one.”
Kopidon laughed, fetching it from a bundle.
Up close, the wooden saddle looked uncomfortable.
Reading my face, he slung a thick arm over my shoulder.
“Looks rough, but great for balance. Try it—you’ll see. Watched our riders swing swords from them, right?”
“Clear as day.”
“That’s why. Lucky the barbarians don’t all ride these.”
He handed it over.
As I took it, Kopidon produced wine.
“Legion life: death anytime. Drink when you can. Join me?”
No refusing.
“Gladly.”
“That’s the spirit.”
He filled copper cups.
“To the empire. To brothers. To tomorrow’s barbarian screams.”
“And the legion’s victory.”
I clinked and drank.
Leaving his tent, a shooting star streaked the night sky. Soldiers murmured.
Ominous sign.
I felt it too, a little.
After breakfast, the imperial army marched.
With Creper in command, the black eagle of the Praetorian Guard led, imperial banners snapping beneath.
Fifteen thousand strong, they stepped as one across the plain—earth trembling, dust rising like a giant’s stride.
Yes, I’d been paranoid.
Empire’s elite field army, the frontier’s pride—the 12th Legion—plus the 16th’s survivors. No foe could match us. Defeat? Impossible.
The field army’s standard-bearer dashed ahead with signals for the commander.
I trusted that reaching the city would dispel all doubts like morning mist.
Then the advance signal halted. The bearer waved frantically, ordering the column to stop.
What now?
I pushed through murmuring ranks to the front. There, standard-bearers and battalion commanders conferred gravely with the generals’ aides.
I rode up.
“What’s happening?”
“Ah, Commander Ain. You should hear this. Scouts report Pita empty of enemies.”
“What? But last night—”
“Bluff. They found half-burned fires in Pita. Bastards.”
So a few troops lit fires to fake a presence.
But how? Even moving overnight, they couldn’t escape our sight—not with slow infantry.
A battalion commander had the answer.
“Infantry never garrisoned Pita. We got played.”
Where the hell did they go?
Dread gripped us all.
We reported to the commander. Creper and Alpinus paled slightly at the deception but stayed composed.
We took heart from their faces—though maybe they masked concern for us.
Creper figured the enemy retreated to resupply in Anpianus’s turf—the old 11th Legion zone.
Alpinus suspected a bypass toward the 16th’s sector, striking our rear. Opinions split, but Creper decided.
He ordered a renewed combat march.
Forty-five kilometers daily—grueling with full kit.
But legions marched endlessly; a day or two wouldn’t kill us.
As ordered, we force-marched north. After a full day, we found traces—just as Creper predicted.
Was Anpianus less dim than thought, or just outmatched?
We donned helmets, checked arms for the clash ahead.
Soon, we’d seize them for the decisive battle we craved.
That traitor Anpianus.
His head would roll.
Men hummed brighter than last night.
I approached Rubiot, walking ranks with just a sword.
“Battle’s near—you’ll be exposed. Join the line?”
“Yeah. I want to die swinging with my men. You get it.”
“I do.”
We bumped fists.
(To be continued)