The first indication that something was wrong came when a standard patrol failed to report in from the right flank. Graecus sent out a second, more heavily equipped patrol. Within an hour, they were back in camp, along with the remnants of five of his right flank cohorts. By then, it was already too late to counter the enemy incursions. The Nortlanders had already gained the southern bank of the Little Viken and were right on the heels of his heavily damaged cohorts.
The first half-hour of battle had been close, but surprise and numbers were on the Nortlanders’ side. They had pushed the Romans back all the way to the bridge, and his western flank was now under heavy attack, with the Nortlanders gaining the southern bank in half a dozen places.
Graecus had formed his line at a right angle. The cornerpiece of his defense was the recently dubbed “Fort Graecus”-a hastily built stronghold that blocked both the bridge and the riverbank. From this position his cohorts spread southward, trying to cover the length of the road that supplied them with reinforcements and supplies. His remaining cohorts were spread along the river to the west, trying to stop the mass of barbarians from surrounding his beleaguered legion.
Graecus stood on the dirt parapet of the fort that bore his name. His aide-de-camp and temporary standard-bearer, Kurlis Tritonis, stood next to him, his armor dented and bloodied, but still in one piece. Damned teenager still has energy, and here I am feeling every one of my forty-six years.
“Kurlis, do you think any of our messages have gotten through?”
“I’d say there’s a good chance, sir. We did send most of them while we were sure of the road.”
“And you took care of the senatora?” Regardless of the outcome here, Graecus did not want to be responsible for the death of a Roman senator. Female or not, she’s still one of the sharpest politicians I’ve ever met. And I’ve met many.
“Yes, sir, I sent her south about an hour ago with her bodyguards and an entire cohort. They’re under orders to get her to safety no matter what. I’m sure they’ll make it, sir.”
“You’re forever optimistic, Signifer. Now, if you please, raise our Eagle high so that the enemy may know where to spend their lives.” His aide hoisted the gilded golden eagle, sign of the legions of Rome for nearly two thousand years, up into the air. His legionnaires cheered as the howl of the Nortlanders rang again from the snow-covered forests, and their enemy charged into battle.
It was a full frontal assault. Withering fire from the Roman repeaters scythed down swathes of warriors. Ballistae chucked pots of Greek fire into the milling mass of men, and the landscape before the Roman positions steamed like fog on a fall day.
But onward the enemy came. They had assembled basic siege equipment, mantels to provide cover and ladders to scale the hastily built walls of the fort. Graecus urged his men to target the ladder carriers while the artillery knocked out the large siege shields that were being slowly, inexorably, pushed forward toward his position. A ballista scored a lucky hit and a mantel shredded under the force of a direct blast of gunpowder. Men went flying in all directions as the mantel’s hide-covered wood became a deadly weapon in its own right, bursting into a flurry of splinters as large as a man’s arm.
Graecus’ gaze swept over the once pristine field, now littered with decapitated men and broken bodies. If we hadn’t cut down those trees in the first place, they’d be all over us. But the fight seemed to have gone out of the Nortlanders. The few warriors who had reached the wall were quickly dispatched, and the rest fled back into the safety of the woods. Graecus released a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. Despite the cold, he wiped the sweat from his forehead with the cuff of his tunic sleeve. Finally, a chance to-
“Sir. .”
He looked up to see the horror and frustration on his aide’s face as he handed over a message scroll.
“Yes?”
“A runner reports that they’ve broken through farther south. They’ve got some mecha-wolves in amongst our 12th and 17th Cohorts,” Tritonis reported, his tone grim and his face pinched.
The commander closed his eyes for a moment as he recalled the centurions of those cohorts. Decarus and Limones; they would not have gone down without a fight. Graecus opened his eyes. “Have all cohorts north of them peel right and form a rearguard. Fall back on my position. Is the wireless still working?”
“Yes sir, but our steam generator is almost out of fuel. We’ll have it for maybe a few more minutes at most,” Tritonis said apologetically.
“We can’t burn all this wood?” his commander asked incredulously, gesturing to the piles of chopped wood serving as a fort.
“No sir, something about fouling up the inner workings. I’m not sure of the details.” Tritonis gave a halfhearted shrug.
“Well then, send this message-do it yourself, personally, then return here. I don’t anticipate that we’ll have much time once the Nortlanders get through the rearguard.”
Saluting, Tritonis handed the Eagle standard over to one of the commander’s bodyguards and carefully accepted the envelope Graecus held out. “I’ll be back shortly, sir.”
While Tritonis was gone, Graecus set about reinforcing his southern positions. He ordered his strung out western cohorts to fall back as well. I figure I’ve got at least fifteen hundred men left. Although it was less than a quarter of his initial strength at the beginning of the day, it was still a deadly force.
Sure enough, the Nortland forces had enveloped the entire right flank of Graecus’ legion. His rearguard fought desperately, holding for as long as possible; when the carefully structured line collapsed, combat dissolved into a swirling melee, with Romans fighting back to back against the mass of Nortland attackers. The rearguard died hard.
But they still died.
With the few minutes provided by the death throes of his rearguard, Graecus scrambled to secure his now open flank. He threw his tired western cohorts into a hasty defensive line. “Grab whatever you can, build the defenses high. I want them to pay for every foot of ground!” Graecus exhorted his men as they overturned wagons, piled supplies, and dragged branches, rocks, even cooking pots and pans into ramshackle barricades. I wonder if Vulcan, god of craft and machine, has ever looked upon as insane a construct as ours, Graecus thought fleetingly as he raced to supervise the last of the defenses as they were manhandled into place.
By the gods, I hope this is good enough to stop what is coming, Graecus prayed. Deep down, he knew that it would not be enough.
He surveyed his surroundings one last time, giving orders to tweak the positions of his few remaining heavy artillery pieces. If only we still had our mechaniphants, we could do some real damage.
“You’re right there, sir. I’d love to see what one of those machines could do to these hordes we’re facing,” Tritonis said, climbing up to his position. Graecus hadn’t realized he had spoken aloud. “Sorry sir,” Tritonis added, sensing the brief, awkward pause. “Thought you might want to know that we did receive messages on the wireless just before it died. Elements of the XIII Germania and the VII Germania are en route this very second.” His voice contained traces of hope. Graecus figured it was best to let it survive. He knew that the relief columns would not be here for another hour, at the earliest. And they would be tired, outnumbered, and just as likely to be wiped out by the huge influx of Nortland war bands roaming both sides of the Little Viken now.