“Sir!” a lookout called to him. “Movement in the trees!”
Commander Graecus climbed higher up the barricade to get a better view. His legionnaires nodded to him. He was not the best commander, and he knew it. But he was not one of those disciplinarian types, and he had earned the respect of his men the old-fashioned way-by fighting for them and making sure he did his best to get them glory, loot, and a safe return home. He pulled out his spyglass and focused on the trees. Sunlight glinted off metal weapons as the Nortlanders gathered again for a final assault. He could hear shouts from the eastern wall as well. They must be coordinating their efforts this time.
Graecus turned back to his men, who stared up at him, perched on top of the barricade, as he spoke to them one last time. “Boys, it won’t be long now until we’re stuck in good and deep. Just remember: fight smart, fight hard, fight for the man next to you and the buddy behind you. Fight for vengeance and glory. But most of all, FIGHT. FOR. ROME!”
His men cheered and shouted. A few chanted, and others picked it up: “Rome. Rome. Rome. ROME. ROME. ROME!”
The Nortlanders had moved onto the field during the commander’s brief speech, pausing just out of repeater range. Graecus moved carefully back down from the barricades and ordered his repeaters up into position. “Wait for it. .” His men tensed nervously. Heavy artillery creaked as it shifted position.
The Nortlanders marched into the open field as if guided by an unseen hand.
“Heavy artillery, open fire.” His ballista and heavy repeaters started their bloody work again, gouging great holes in the enemy line.
When the enemy had advanced another two hundred feet, running faster this time, Graecus gave his second order. “Repeaters, open fire. Prepare plumbatae.” Every last legionnaire who could throw the explosive-tipped plumbata had been assembled, and he was using up his entire stock in this one instance. No point in leaving anything in the supply wagons.
The smaller repeaters were less deadly, especially at greater range, but they were faster to reload. The amount of firepower was only limited by the time it took to reload the repeaters. The crossbow used the force from the launch of each bolt to slide the heavy-duty cord back down the stock to load another bolt via an ingenious device called the Agrippa repeater mechanism. Thanks to this, the field was now littered with dead.
Even so, the Nortlanders were barely two hundred feet away now. Graecus heard himself bellow, “Ready plumbatae!” He could literally feel the mass of men behind him moving in synchronized motion as they all prepared their weapons. One last time, they would cast defiance into the face of their enemy.
“Throw!”
Chapter 14
Octavia
Octavia heard the sounds of conflict as her horse and those of her bodyguard trotted within the square formation of her borrowed cohort. Tribune-make that Commander-Appius and Captain Alexandros had provided the ten mounted men forming her bodyguard; around them all quick-marched ninety crack legionnaires, most of whom had seen many winters of service in the name of the Emperor.
Leading them was veteran Centurion Piltus Orestis, a scarred battlefield survivor; canny, tough, and a strict disciplinarian. But he also led one of the IV Britannia’s best cohorts, if not the best, as he was wont to argue.
Octavia was certain that the man did not appreciate being sent off on an escort mission while his comrades in arms were dying to stall the surprise Nortland attack across the Little Viken. Conversely, she was certainly happy that she was not staying behind to fend off the invasion. She knew perfectly well that she would not be of use in a combat situation, and refused to play the role of heroine. For this, she thought, her bodyguard was extremely thankful.
The party moved quickly down the main road heading south, their goal to reach the protection of the VII Germania. The reserve was only about two miles away at a fast march, but Octavia was concerned about the sheer number of Nortland attackers who had flanked the III Britannia and were most likely blocking the road somewhere south.
Her escort had passed the last of the cohorts covering the southernmost point of Commander Graecus’ line about a half-hour ago, by her judgment, and the forest echoed with the sounds of battle. “Do you think the enemy are near to us, Centurion? I cannot seem to tell the distance, with all this forest cover,” she called to her escort leader.
The taciturn centurion, a permanent scowl evidently glued to his face, considered her question. Perhaps he’s just annoyed at the fact that he cannot ride a horse and yet is required to ride one in order to keep up and lead our escape, she thought, with just a small prick of pleasure at seeing the man adjust himself uncomfortably.
“They could be near or far, Senatora. If they’re close, we probably won’t live long enough to get away. If they’re far, we’ll try to get farther away.” Orestis turned away from her, killing any further attempt at conversation. She sighed and focused on the journey.
A rolling string of explosions suddenly erupted far behind her, accompanied by a marked intensity in the sounds of conflict. Orestis held up a gloved fist and the party paused; he turned his mount slowly to focus on the sounds. Legionnaires took advantage of the brief break to gulp water and wipe foreheads. Even in the cold winter air, the men sweated fiercely.
At least there isn’t a wind right now, which would really make this situation worse, Olivia thought. One of her bodyguards rode close to her, offering a thermos filled with tea that had somehow managed to remain lukewarm. Octavia nodded gratefully as the warm liquid helped to calm her grumbling belly and slake her thirst.
“Senatora! I think we need to move a bit faster. I’ve heard bugle calls sounding retreat. That is not a good sign,” the centurion called.
A sudden rustle at the edge of the road ahead of them caught most of the party’s attention. A Nortland scout actually fell into the roadway, apparently having tripped over some root or branch and then rolling over a steep embankment. The man dusted himself off and turned, staring wide-eyed at the party of Romans before him, who stared back, equally surprised at his sudden appearance.
The pause lasted only a few moments, until an under-officer shouted orders and legionnaires raced to catch the man. The fur-coated northerner turned to run, fear in his eyes. There’s no way the legionnaires will catch him, Octavia thought despondently as the scout rapidly lengthened the gap between him and his pursuers. He tried to scramble up a shallower part of the snow-covered bank, but slipped and fell again. With the legionnaires closing in, the scout turned and raced into the woods on the other side of the road. The legionnaires pursued, the sounds of crashing branches and yelling echoing back to the roadway for a few minutes. Then the noise trickled out.
A few minutes passed, and then the squad of legionnaires returned.
“Did you get him?” asked Orestis.
“Well, Fustus here thinks he winged him with his repeater,” the file leader said, shifting nervously. His men seemed anxious to be anywhere but under the death glare of their commanding officer.
“Is. He. Dead?” Orestis ground out the words one at a time. Even Octavia quailed inwardly at the sheer force of those words.
“We don’t know sir, he disappeared into the forest.”
Orestis turned away in frustration, hitting the pommel of his saddle in anger. “Column, prepare to march. And next time, men, don’t chase, just kill him,” Orestis said, his disgust at their failure to eliminate the scout very, very clear.