Desert Rat (3)
The nomadic cavalry pitched their camp two kilometers from the rocky valley. They seemed to be debating what to do now that we'd seized the valley.
But if they figured out we had no archers, they'd launch an attack as surely as the sun rises.
We had bows, of course, but most of our soldiers were mounted infantry specialists who could barely handle them.
The nomads, on the other hand, were infamous horse archers masters of the Parthian shot.
They boasted accuracy and range rivaling trained foot archers even from horseback. If they circled the entrance peppering us with arrows, we'd be in real trouble.
I decided to deploy every ranged siege weapon at our disposal. Up on the valley rim stood two catapults—not many, but something.
I climbed up for a closer look and realized we'd have to make use of them.
As I inspected the catapults and the stones piled for ammo, something odd caught my eye.
"These stones are polished smooth?"
I had no idea why, but they'd been artificially rounded. What was the point?
Intrigued, I had my men load one into a catapult.
Clunk!
The arm released, slicing through the air. I pressed a hand to my forehead, watching its arc.
Thud!
It hit, kicking up a plume of dust. My jaw dropped.
Just rounding the stones like this extends the range that much? If the Ersians prepared these in bulk, wars would be a nightmare. How the hell did they figure this out?
Amazed by the catapult's reach, I couldn't hide my unease at this new weapon in their arsenal.
The Eastern legions clearly had no idea, so they'd suffered heavy losses.
As I examined the catapults, the distant nomads began to stir. I handed them off to my men and hurried down to the valley floor.
"Sir."
"They're coming. Line the prisoners up behind the stockade."
I issued the cold order.
We'd come lightly armored for desert fighting—thin mail that arrows pierced easily, no shields.
Holding the stockade entrance like this was impossible. So I had no choice but to use the prisoners as living shields.
An Ersian prince among the captives cried out at my command.
"Using prisoners as shields at the stockade? That's dishonorable!"
"Honor? Sure, it's important. But my empire's soldiers matter more."
I shot back icily and positioned the prisoners in front of the stockade. Our troops braced behind them, ready to hold the line.
Soon, a wave of nomadic cavalry surged toward the entrance.
"For Emperor Shapur!"
The nomads bellowed, their hooves thundering like earthquakes.
Our soldiers waited behind the stockade, tense for the assault.
As the first enemy riders closed to within hundreds of meters, the catapults atop the valley opened fire.
Boom!
A stone slammed down, spraying yellow dust.
The nomads split like serpents around it, demonstrating flawless maneuvers.
Impressive.
I licked my dry lips, facing the empire's eastern foes not from history books, but in the flesh.
No wonder our vaunted heavy infantry couldn't crush them in open battles.
This horsemanship was leagues beyond northern barbarians'. These were men born in the saddle.
As the enemy neared, I raised my hand.
"Range one hundred! Arrows!"
Rikius shouted.
Whish. Whoosh!
Our men loosed salvaged arrows. We weren't aiming to hit—just to show we could shoot back.
Most fell harmlessly into the sand, nowhere near the targets.
As the gap closed, the nomad vanguard raised bows.
"Arrow attack!"
No need for officers to yell; our troops ducked low.
Whish. Thwip. Thwip.
The nomads thundered past the stockade, unleashing volleys.
Arrows from their massive bows sliced through gaps, embedding in the Ersian prisoners we'd posted.
"Gah!"
"Argh!"
The captives screamed, but our soldiers pinned them firm against the stockade.
The nomads whipped by like lashes, raining arrows—but the human shields blunted their fire.
After several circuits, they discarded bows and drew swords.
Even elite horse archers had to close if arrows failed.
The nomads dismounted and charged the stockade. Our arrows flew, but they didn't flinch.
Still, if they come to us like that, we've got ways to use it.
Victory goes to the adaptable.
I watched them swarm, then ordered:
"Rikius! Take the Egyptian guards. Command the entrance fight. Can you handle it?"
"Yes, sir. And you?"
"I've got preparations. Hold them."
"Understood. You can count on me."
Rikius replied briskly.
"Good."
I clapped his shoulder hard and turned away.
Deeper in the valley, I ordered my Praetorians:
"Search every inch for the flour they looted. Once you find it, have the cave women and children haul it to the catapults. Report when ready."
"Yes, sir."
I sent them off, then had Atica veterans feed our warhorses hay and water. For the decisive moment, the mounts needed full bellies now.
I rubbed my hands, watching my men move. The nomads aren't fools. If they catch on, the plan fails.
Screams and clashing steel echoed from the entrance. I waited, praying preparations sped along.
How long? A bloodied soldier stumbled back from the fight, dropping to one knee.
"Sir, the stockade's faltering."
Already?
I realized I'd underrated their melee prowess—or forgotten our light gear.
Either way, they fought better than expected.
"Fourth Cavalry Century, reinforce the stockade on the double."
"Yes, sir."
The centurion dismounted, leading his men at a run. I clenched my fist to steady my nerves.
No time.
I figured the stockade had five minutes tops. If it broke, all was lost.
Sending every mounted man now might buy time—but it'd just hasten slaughter.
I trusted my subordinates and waited.
Then a Praetorian raced down from above, kneeling.
"Sir! We're ready."
Those words rang like reinforcements arriving.
Ready!
My eyes gleamed like an eagle spotting prey.
Shing.
I drew my sword and bellowed to the cavalry:
"Empire's eagles! Time to show our valor. Prepare for battle!"
"Yeah!"
Swords rasped free in unison.
"Praetorians! Tell the catapults: flour on the entrance!"
"Yes!"
I nudged my horse's flanks.
"For His Majesty and the empire, we hunt Ersia's rat pups. Charge!"
"Glory to His Majesty and the empire!"
"Waaah!"
The cavalry roared, thundering toward the entrance. Rikius and his men, locked in melee chaos, spotted us.
"Rikius! Clear a path!"
"Make way for the cavalry!"
They parted to the walls at our call, exposing stunned foes.
"Crush them!"
I cleaved a neck, shouting.
We trampled the dismounted nomads, charging straight.
"Victory and glory to the empire!"
Hundreds of nomads, caught off-guard by the sudden cavalry thrust, crumpled under hooves.
Those waiting their turn scrambled to mount. Catapults hurled flour sacks at them.
Boom!
Each impact boomed, exploding into blinding white clouds.
Disoriented, the nomads panicked, fleeing blindly.
No matter their Parthian mastery, a unit shattered by surprise was helpless.
We pursued the routed foe, slashing at will.
Some loosed desperate arrows, but Parthian shots shone in formation—not chaos.
Their resistance meant nothing.
Rikius and his men followed, butchering the cavalry's wake, where nomads lay broken.
The shock cavalry charge and flour fog routed them in minutes, inflicting catastrophic losses.
I chased to the wadi, then halted my men. They were panicking now, but these were elite horse archers.
If they rallied for mounted volleys, they'd whittle us down.
And we had no counter.
I halted, unswayed by triumph.
Truth be told, this exceeded my goals.
We'd smashed the rear threat, captured their secret base—with minimal forces. More was greed.
I sheathed my blade and wheeled my horse. My brave pursuers watched. Time for words.
"Our victory!"
"Waaah!"
"Glory to His Majesty!"
Cheers erupted.
I grinned, raising a fist amid the roar.
"Ain! Ain! Ain!"
"This triumph is yours—all who bled and sweated for the empire!"
They beamed at my praise, brandishing weapons, chanting my name.
Latecomer Rikius, panting, stabbed his sword into the sand.
"Did I miss it?"
I shook my head and dismounted.
"No, you held firm. Empire's proud eagle."
He knelt at the praise.
"Too kind, sir."
I clapped his shoulder lightly, then faced my bloodied guards who'd charged with me.
"You are the empire's true wall. Its guardians. I am proud to lead you."
"The honor is ours, confirming the wall of the empire's fame. Long live Imperator Ain!"
"Glory to Sir Ain!"
An officer knelt, shouting. The guards knelt, chanting my name.
I nodded to them.
And realized my mistake until now.
The Eastern legions might have softened, but individual soldiers still bore lions' hearts. I felt it now.
Those fighting with imperial pride deserved no 'weak' label. They retained the eagle's courage and ferocity.
I clapped shoulders and withdrew to the rocky valley to tally spoils.
(To be continued)