The command section castrum, or camp, was about half the size of a standard legionnaire fort and was defended by a double palisade rather than the single palisade that guarded the standard castrum. The short ride along the slushy streets ended in the central open forum, which was full of horses tethered to hitching posts, and various groups of bodyguards and messengers.
We must be the last ones here. Constantine thought as he dismounted. His nova caligae slid slightly on the muddy ground as he made his way into the large command tent. It dwarfed the standard-size canvas structures on either side, requiring two large center posts to support its grand shape.
Constantine was immediately grateful for the many braziers warming the tent’s interior. In the middle of the tent a small, chugging steam engine seemed to be heating a vast bowl of liquid.
“Ah, Commander Appius, welcome, welcome. Please, come join us here.” The general stood at the rear of the command tent with the other commanders, all clustered around a command table. “Grab a drink from the caldornax.” He gestured to the strange-looking machine. “It guarantees a piping hot drink or food whenever you want!” the general exclaimed.
Must be a recent invention. I didn’t even know these things existed. But “hot oven” is a great name for it. Constantine poured himself a cup of hot spiced wine and walked over to the table, appreciating the heat that seeped from the drink-warmed cup through his gauntlets to his hands. The first sip scalded his tongue, and also jolted him awake.
“Gentlemen, please apprise yourselves of the situation. As you can see, I have withdrawn the remnants of the IV Britannia to our reserve area. As of this moment, I have rated them non-combat ready. I have placed one of my officers in temporary command until I can sort out which of the remaining centurions has enough experience to lead the legion,” the general said in his gravelly voice, like a millstone churning away. It belied the quick political mind behind the voice. Probably lulls some people into distraction, too, Constantine thought.
Commander Murtes of the VII Germania piped up. “Sir, would it be more prudent to place one of your officers in command, rather than promote from within? Obviously, we need a steady hand at the helm.”
The general turned and smiled at him as though the idea had never crossed his mind. That’s an odd move for Murtes to make, Constantine thought as Minnicus “acquiesced” to the idea of leaving one of his flunkies in command. Of course, the command comprises about half a dozen banged-up, cobbled together cohorts. Nothing threatening.
“Now that this has been taken care of, I’d like to move on to our latest tactical assessment.” Minnicus nodded to one of his aides, and the man placed a map card into the terrain machine and wound a crank. The machine hummed slightly with each crank, and the flat table surface began to move. Large chunks of the map shot up, the thin cylinders of aluminum forming a tall mountain range that ran almost the entire length of the “northern” side of the board. The Viken River ran from the western side of the map and exited out to the southeast. Blobs of forests, lakes, and smaller rivers completed the shining metallic terrain.
Constantine drew an involuntary breath. This was much more detailed than the last command table he’d seen in action, back in basic training so long ago.
“Is this a newer version of the Mark II Command Table?” someone asked.
Minnicus smiled. “Yes, this is a Mark III. I just got it in our last supply shipment. Took three sets of wagons just to cart it up from the port! It continues to provide excellent in-depth terrain analysis using the same card system as before, but this time we can also modify the terrain. For instance, I’d like to have a closer view of section D4.” His aide fiddled with a series of dials, then pulled out a small lever. The effect was impressive. The outer edges of the table seemed to melt away as the mountains flowed into one peak, and the forests engulfed an entire portion of the map now. The Viken also dominated the entire southern border of the table, whereas before it had simply been a thin line running through wilderness.
Minnicus tapped the table. “Here is where we stand.” He placed five small Roman Eagles on the map. “The III Cimbrian, XIII Germania, and VII Germania.” He indicated each legion with a tap of a meaty finger. “Back here, our command section and the IV Britannia complete our formation.” The three forward legions were placed in a slightly concave formation, with the flanking legions being gently angled toward the center, slightly to the rear.
“Facing us is the Nortland army, mostly peasant drafts but also toughened by their raiders and mechanical units. Our recent attack by the III Cimbrian, in support of our own mechanical units, can be deemed a rousing success. We could have trapped the entire Nortland army outside the walls of Midgard if our right flank had not been overwhelmed.” Minnicus sounded. . disappointed in the loss of his potential glory.
Or loot, Constantine thought cynically.
“My scouts reliably estimate that we have killed or captured at least six thousand men. Most, I’m afraid, will not survive the night. But such a victory should be announced to all of Rome! I congratulate you. We have won a smashing victory over the barbarians!” Minnicus proclaimed.
Polite clapping was the only response to his short speech. Constantine glanced around at the other commanders and their juniors. Murtes was clapping the loudest. Paulos, commander of the III Cimbrian, seemed to have a half-sour smile etched permanently on his face. Or maybe it was a frown. The juniors seemed to mirror their commanding officers pretty completely. One face stood out to Constantine, though.
“Quintus Gravus,” Constantine whispered as he recognized the mysterious man from the strange meeting in the officers’ mess. It felt as though years had passed since that meeting, when it fact it had been mere weeks. The man seemed to have heard him, although not even the aide closest to Constantine turned at his whisper. Gravus stared levelly at him, then tipped his head slightly to the right and tapped the chronometer on his thin wrist. Meet outside, after this ends. Constantine nodded slightly to show he understood. I know he is familiar, where else have I seen him before?
As the clapping died down, Constantine finally spoke. “General, sir, what is our next move? Now is the time to push back at them. If we can pin them against the walls, we can decimate them with our artillery. Or should we prepare to besiege them? In which case we will probably need more men, but once we break their walls there will be nothing they can do.” Constantine saw other officers nodding at his appraisal of their options.
“It’s funny you say that, Commander. Now granted, you don’t have as much experience as the rest of us do in the field, but I like your ideas. Nevertheless, it is for me to decide when our primary objectives have been met. Our primary objective was to decisively punish the Nortlanders by bringing them to battle. We’ve also razed a large chunk of the countryside, and taken both an island and a major port from them. I believe our mission here is done, and it is time for us to withdraw.”
The room was silent except for the crackle of the braziers and the slight whistle from the caldornax. Obviously no one had expected this.