Chapter 73. The End of the Scheme (3)
The vanguard of the assault consisted of the New 11th Legion and 12th Legion, just as expected. Their intent to wear down our forces alone was plain as day.
If they planned to go all out from the start, they should have deployed all their legions in a wide formation and laid siege all at once. Sending just two new legions meant they were only trying to tire us out.
I felt the tension ease slightly, but I didn't let it show.
"Waaah!"
As the legionnaires roared and charged, our soldiers atop the walls loosed arrows.
Still, a legion is a legion.
Even though they'd hastily filled their ranks with slaves and paupers, the enemy's losses were surprisingly light. The reason was the solid equipment they'd been issued. The enemy soldiers stoically weathered the arrow storm and reached the base of the walls.
"Pour it down!"
Our men, waiting in readiness, dumped boiling water and oil. Each time, hellish chaos erupted below, but the enemy legionnaires kept surging toward the walls in droves.
"Enemy concentrating on Centuria 3. Infantry, reposition!"
The centurions spotted where the attacks were heaviest and briskly shifted troops.
In the midst of it, I pulled the equipment-clad paupers back from quiet sectors and threw in fresh troops from the reserves. You could entrust them with watch duty, sure—but they were worthless in actual combat.
We'll scrape through the first fight somehow.
The enemy didn't seem to expect to breach the walls in this initial clash; they just made a show of scaling here and there. The battle wrapped up in about an hour, leaving around a hundred corpses behind. Our casualties were lighter than anticipated, largely because the enemy hadn't pressed aggressively.
But the attacks didn't end there.
After a short interval, the Atillca Legion struck from a completely different point. We had to scramble to shift defenders to the new assault zone.
In the sweltering heat, running along the walls in heavy armor was pure torment for the troops.
I'd anticipated it, but classics were classics for a reason.
Sequential assaults—one of the key ways to overwhelm a smaller force with numbers—were more than enough to exhaust our defenders. I dashed along the walls with the men, sweat pouring off us.
I sweated so much that by the end, my helmet clung stickily to my head.
Damn bastards.
Still, if I were in command, I'd have done the same.
I pulled a pinch of salt from the pouch at my belt and popped it in my mouth.
"Excellency. West side this time."
The attackers from the west were obvious: the New Praetorian Legion. The thought of racing over to block them again drew a sigh from me.
Sequential combat.
In reality, the enemy's threat was far more brutal and relentless than I'd imagined. We spent half the day dashing nonstop to repel them, utterly drained by the end.
The idea of enduring this not for a day, but a week... I'd underestimated them.
Should I lighten the troops' gear?
Even taking more arrow hits, shedding weight would cut stamina drain. After some thought, I ordered the removal of wrist guards and other nonessential equipment.
The enemy, exhausted from pounding us all day, went quiet at night. Of course, they didn't forget to send torch-bearing troops probing near the walls to keep us on edge.
To counter, I posted pauper soldiers on the walls, creating the illusion that we were 'on high alert.'
I hoped the enemy would buy it, but I couldn't bank on luck alone.
In that case.
I decided we needed to poke them once, just to rattle their nerves.
Rattle, rattle.
The massive basket slung over the wall swayed precariously.
"Hey, keep it steady."
The advance troops inside called out.
"Got it steady."
I watched the men lowering the ropes, palms slick with sweat. I'd chosen a night raid—not a full assault on their camp, but a quick hit-and-run.
The goal: tire them out.
They were wearing us down; now we'd return the favor, disrupting their attack timing.
Thud.
Suddenly, one side of the rope slacked, jolting the basket wildly.
"Grab it!"
The troops seized the runaway rope, stabilizing the basket after a hairy moment.
The precarious descent finally touched ground. Operating in pitch black was tough every step of the way—no lights meant constant hazards. But torches would have drawn eyes for sure.
Only when the men planted feet on solid earth did I wipe my sweat.
Soon, they raised bows taller than themselves toward the enemy lines.
Good.
I watched them creep forward, bows ready. As they neared the enemy camp, a torch-bearing patrol swept by.
But like most greenhorns, they botched the job. Our men, hidden in shadow, waited for the patrol to pass, then struck flint.
Hiss!
I clenched my fist as the arrows ignited.
Whoosh. Whirrr.
The troops loosed and bolted back without a glance.
"Enemy! Night raid!"
Fire arrows out of nowhere threw their camp into uproar. Soldiers bursting from tents, sentries scrambling—total pandemonium. Spotting our fleeing men, they gave chase.
"There!"
As our troops entered range, I lit the walls with torches.
"Ready arrows!"
At the officers' orders, bows drew taut.
The enemy vanguard hit our range.
"Loose!"
Arrows rained like a storm; the leaders crumpled, spraying blood. Some raised shields in panic, others stumbled back.
A few doggedly pursued our men, but we were faster.
"Haul!"
We yanked the basket up the moment our troops boarded. A few enemies slashed at it, but it was already out of reach.
We pelted the fools swinging futilely below with stones. Driven off by arrows and rocks, they fled to their lines.
The first night raid was a success.
Gazing at their camp lit like midday, I figured they wouldn't sleep soundly tonight.
Velius. This is how the frontier barbarians fight.
Today's lesson: life where even nights offer no safe slumber.
But this was just the beginning.
I lowered a fresh basket from another wall section. This one carried mounted cavalry.
The rider hit the ground and charged their lines, bellowing.
"Night raid! Ain's army is attacking!"
He galloped near their camp, banging a gong.
Then he wheeled back like a shot, boarding the basket for return.
I kept up these harassing strikes to deny them sleep.
Unable to endure, Velius pulled back ten kilometers to a new camp. He'd realized he couldn't risk a daylight push if we kept gnawing at his troops' stamina nightly.
Not a total fool, then.
But retreating that far hurt morale badly.
And it meant longer marches to assault us—increasing their burden.
I was content with the night's gains. Day battles suddenly seemed winnable.
The fighting dragged on for three days. Velius no longer flinched at our night harassment.
But starting each clash with fatigued troops from pre-battle marches hampered their momentum.
Even Velius, directing the assaults, looked grim.
Still.
Our men are worn out too. Bad luck, and a single moment could turn the tide against us.
Velius was probably banking on that, pressing the siege.
"Excellency! Enemy legions are all in assault positions."
"Time to play their trump card."
His legions had conserved energy through sequential strikes; ours hadn't. A simultaneous push now could doom the city.
I'd figured they'd wait a full week. Was Velius that desperate?
I drew my sword and commanded.
"Cogol! The Praetorians are yours! Boruman! Bophiadus! You take the 11th and 12th. I'll handle the Atillca Legion!"
"Yes, Excellency!"
The officers saluted and spurred off to their posts. With Rikius, I eyed the Atillca Legion—the enemy's strongest.
Raw numbers: Atillca at 6,000; their combined Praetorians, 11th, and 12th overwhelming.
But factoring in Atillca's quality, this was the main thrust.
This is the crux.
I flung my cloak billowing and raised my hand high.
"Traitors' army approaches. Legions to battle stations!"
"For the Empire!"
Troops gripped shields, hugging the walls.
The enemy advanced slowly but with crushing pressure. The Atillca Legion—once under my command, the homeland's elite.
I didn't underestimate them.
Slow, but like an angry wave crashing in.
"Rikius!"
"Yes."
"Their main push will hit the gates. Block any from cresting them."
"Yes, sir!"
Rikius dropped to one knee and raced to the gates.
Then a chant rose from their ranks.
"Atillca is the spear guarding the Empire in thawed mountains and biting cold winds. We are the unyielding spear that crushes foes."
Chanting, they picked up speed. As their march quickened to quick time, our archers nocked arrows.
Whirr.
Thud. Thunk.
Arrows flew true, but Atillca veterans shielded flawlessly. Textbook legionnaires.
No time for admiration, though.
I gripped my sword amid the men, raising my voice.
"Don't shove when they climb ladders—the arrows below will target you. The instant their foot touches, smash with your shield! Hit hard enough to topple them in one go! If you slip, fall back without hesitation. Trust your brother beside you. We are the legion!"
"Oorah!"
The troops roared response.
Enemy infantry vanguard slammed ladders against the walls. Atillca men swarmed up like ants; our soldiers waited, shields ready.
"Throw!"
Even as they climbed, boiling oil, water, and stones rained down relentlessly.
In the fury, one enemy head popped over.
"Too early."
I ducked low and shield-bashed his face.
He screamed, plummeting into the seething mass below.
This'll be a real sweat-fest.
I licked dry lips, feeling sweat trickle under my helmet. The battle for the capital's fate had just begun.
(To be continued)