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Chapter 42: This Land Was Your Land, This Land Is My Land.
🕑 Added 2025-03-14 04:53:53 +0000 UTCChapter 42: This Land Was Your Land, This Land Is My Land.
The Legion marched toward the mining town. Row upon row of Legionnaires moved in lockstep, their shields in a turtle formation—the front row vertical and each subsequent row holding the scutums above their heads. The arrangement provided protection against projectiles from above, covering both themselves and the person in front of them in a series of overlapping defenses like the scales of some great beast.
The defenders began to rain down arrows at their approach—a disproportionate number, considering the quantity of men manning the wall, many of them flashing with the telltale glow of skill use. The Legionnaires adopted a testudo formation to protect from the projectiles, and most simply skittered off the formation or lodged in the shields. Their advance hardly slowed at all as each century slotted into its place in the assault. The tramp of feet against earth echoed across the plains as the Legion drew inexorably nearer, preparing for the next phase of the assault.
Once they got into range, a few of the centuries momentarily lowered their shields and reared back. A hail of pilum soared skyward, arcing over the walls and forcing every man defending them to either duck or receive a spear through the gut.
Unfortunately for them, the decision was largely taken out of their hands.
The wall's defenders were unprepared for the sheer speed and force of the flying spears. The pilum streaked forward, immediately taking out a large chunk of the defending force in the first volley.
Still, it wasn't effortless. The defenders that didn't fall in the assault took advantage of the move to take aim at the pilum throwers. Several Legionnaires were felled by a lucky shot through a gap in their shields. They were quickly pulled back through the ranks to where they were out of range and potentially could be saved after the battle wrapped up.
Tiberius watched the battle from afar. So far, no one had died—he was certain of that, as he had yet to feel that awful sense of dread again. However, it was only a matter of time. Such were the realities of war.
It was a sacrifice he had to make. They needed the mines. They needed its metal, the income it would provide, and a base from which to control the surrounding area and the sources of food that they'd seized on the way over. Not to mention that taking them was the only way that they'd be able to replenish their relatively meager stock of pilum. If they didn't take these mines, their goal of expanding Rome would die in its cradle—they could forget about civilizing the barbarians of this world. And so, Tiberius would be callous, spending his men's lives where they were needed.
But that didn't mean he would spend them carelessly. They had to pick their battles, given how difficult it would be to replace each man in this foreign land. One more reason why failure was not an option.
He watched as the distant figures of his men reached the walls, their details as sharp as if they were right in front of him. Tiberius hadn't entirely been sure whether the [Keen Eye] skill would be worth picking up, initially. But now? The fact that he could make out the details of the battlefield from such a distance made it entirely worthwhile. That, along with their improved communications abilities, gave him a frankly unheard of level of information more quickly than he ever could have hoped.
Tiberius focused on the base of the town's stone fortifications. They were sturdy—and much taller than Habersville's original fortifications, at least. The trick Quintus had used before of springboarding men over the walls wouldn't work here. Not for the majority of their forces, at least.
Ladders emerged from within the Legion's formations where they'd been hidden. They were quickly brought to the front and placed against the walls. In moments, Legionnaires from the third cohort began swarming up the lengths of rough-cut wood. Others supported their brethren's advance from the ground with another wave of pilum and sling stones flung skyward, preventing defenders from getting close enough to push the ladders back.
When the first man reached the top of the ladder, Tiberius felt the first death. An arrow took the soldier in the eye, sending him tumbling back. He bounced off the shoulder of the man directly beneath him before crashing to the ground in a limp heap.
Once again, that icy stab of grief pierced Tiberius's gut, and he could see a few men flinch as they presumably felt the same. But it didn't interrupt the assault. His men were too well trained for that. The next man continued up the ladder with renewed speed, and instead to the top of the ladder, he leapt off near the top and dove onto the side of another portion of the wall. The soldier took a defender in the gut with his sword and turned to meet the next. He was quickly followed by three more Legionnaires as they began to clear the area. In moments, the cohort was swarming over the walls like a colony of ants.
The maneuver was reckless, of course. But men were known to take such risks to be the first atop the wall. The corona muralis awarded to the forerunner of any such assault could change a man's life, and the trajectory of his entire lineage. With potential like that, it was only natural that men would compete over it. Tiberius would have to ensure that its rewards and prestige were still granted here to encourage such displays.
More men from the third cohort fell in the ensuing assault. Each time, Tiberius noticed a handful more men begin moving with renewed vigor, seemingly fueled by the battle rage that had been reported after Sextus's death. Under its influence, men practically jumped over the walls with their bare strength alone. Some didn't even need ladders—they simply ran up the wall, springing off of it and catching the top before hoisting themselves up with superhuman power.
The power did not affect everyone to that extent, just a small subset of troops. Regardless, it was a welcome, if morbid boon. It seemed that the death of a comrade was not wasted in the slightest.
Tiberius turned away from the battle as the defenders were quickly overwhelmed. The gates creaked open as the first cohort took them, allowing Legionnaires to stream inside in a tide of red and polished metal. He was far enough away that he couldn't quite hear the terrified screams of the townspeople as they made their way inside. Still, he could imagine them well enough from experience. Perhaps they wouldn't be faced with undue resistance in the face of their overwhelming numbers, as had been the case in Habersville. That would certainly simplify things.
He had given orders to attempt not to harm the miners—the Legion would need workers, after all, and those who knew the trade were more effective than those who didn't. The influx of fresh workers was the lifeblood of the Empire, something that Tiberius knew as well as any senator. Not to mention that leaving his own men to work the mines would be simply inefficient. Someone had to stay and guard them, obviously, but that was a task they were still more suited for than swinging a pick.
Before the final reports even came through, Tiberius's command post was already being packed up. He strode back toward the camp. The worst of the threat had already passed and he felt confident in his men's ability to finish things up here. In the meantime, he needed to make a few final preparations.
This was his first official conquest as the new emperor. It wouldn't do to make anything less than a grand entrance.
As he moved toward his tent to ready himself, Tiberius cast his thoughts to the future. Perhaps he would take the cognomen Novarus once he had conquered the kingdom. That would be fitting.
***
Quintus led the first cohort in the most difficult part of the battle. He had assumed correctly that the gates would be the most heavily guarded and had positioned himself and his own men accordingly. Taking the brunt of the assault was a responsibility they were uniquely prepared to shoulder. But it also had other benefits.
He felt that they had been getting soft recently, fighting monsters and relatively simple predators like the shadow panthers. While dangerous, their threats mostly came from the creatures' speed, natural ability, and sheer strength. It wasn't at all the same as facing a human blade to blade—physically or mentally.
Knowing that you were setting out to take not the life of some animal, but another man… it was different. Doubly so because of the assurance that he was also trying to take yours. Even the intelligence and cunning of a panther were nothing compared to the viciousness of an enemy soldier, one locked in a life-or-death struggle where his home and family were on the line.
It was something that every soldier had to deal with. A reality of their profession. But one that they were at risk of forgetting amidst all of the hunting they'd been doing. Quintus knew just how lethal it could be for a man to forget such things, to fail to take their work and their training seriously—just as the ones defending this town seemed to have. And now, their negligence was coming home to roost.
The gate was guarded by a contingent of archers. Instead of the few who were trying to futilely pick off men amidst the sea of Romans, this area boasted nearly twenty. The hail of arrows they sent forth was seemingly endless—given the speed and quantity of projectiles being launched, it was clear that there were skills at work here. Several of them even glowed and punched deep into his men's shields.
Luckily, their scutums had been reinforced by the Legion's craftsmen—those who had taken skills to specialize in such things. The new smiths had been working day and night to give basic upgrades to all of their shields ever since they'd figured out how. Even then, they hadn't managed to outfit everyone before the campaign began. Only the centurions and some frontline fighters were afforded the improved equipment. Still, it was better than nothing. They provided enough reinforcement that even the empowered arrows would usually pass through a forearm at most. Only sometimes would they penetrate deeper to slam into the armor or helmet of a soldier where he advanced beneath his shield.
So far, they'd managed to keep all of his men alive. There were injuries, of course, but those men too injured to fight were quickly pulled out of the action. Quintus had organized a series of teams that pulled them out of the fighting and triaged any wounds.
That tactical change had been a controversial one. After all, they were soldiers, not children to be babied over every cut and scratch. They were prepared to face death every time they went into battle. But Quintus had remained rather adamant despite the pushback.
Their current situation meant that they didn't have a good way to efficiently resupply their forces. They were the only Romans in this world. Sure, they had already begun to conscript auxiliaries and train them, but they were not Legionnaires. They likely never would be—even if they did serve the 25 years of service required to earn citizenship. Even if Tiberius decided to change the citizenship requirement of becoming a Legionnaire, getting them whipped into shape would take time.
There was also the matter of how each death affected morale. Quintus and the others all felt that dread at the death of a comrade all too acutely. Even if there were some benefits that came with each fallen Legionnaire, there was too much risk of those feelings intensifying and serving to distract them—especially after repeated deaths. Besides, given how the witchcraft of this world could reduce mortality rates, he was even less inclined to lose good soldiers over simple pride.
The first cohort reached the gate in a flash. Arrows continued to rain down in an increasingly frantic stream as they approached. However, the twenty measly archers could do little more than try and slow the thousand-odd men of the double-strength unit before them. The front lines of Legionnaires took shelter against the wall and began unwinding spools of rope from their waists.
The gate itself was guarded by a portcullis, which would have been relatively effective to defend against a direct assault. Perhaps not a battering ram, but they had not seen fit to construct and transport any during this campaign. Instead, Quintus decided to take the expedient approach and scale the wall once again.
Ladders clattered against the stone of the wall, catching on the crenellations above in droves. Quintus felt his own settle into place and began rushing upward. The defenders attempted to throw them off as more and more came up. However, for every one they managed to rebuff, five more appeared as Legionnaires began to climb after their Primus Pilus. A number of archers attempted to lean over the walls and shoot down at the ascending soldiers, only to take sling stones in the head and chest.
Quintus couldn't help but smile. Whoever had designed these walls had clearly not thought that humans would be doing the attacking, or else there would have been some sort of ledge or murder holes that prevented this tactic. In fact, there were various strategic defenses that Quintus could think of off the top of his head that would prevent them from just climbing up the portcullis like they were. But perhaps that was not the intent. Something like that chimera beast they had fought, or even the giant spider, may not have been hindered by such defenses. And the wall did a good job of keeping out many of the lesser predators, so he couldn't really blame them.
Still, it was odd to see walls made for such purposes. Although he could say that it was definitely much better constructed than the one around Habersville—significantly taller, made of stone, and with a proper gate to boot. Perhaps their renovations here wouldn't require so much of an overhaul. Then again, that would depend on how good the foundations were.
He crested the top of the wall before anyone else, slashing at the stomach of one defender as his feet touched the stone. The man screamed. As he crumpled, Quintus had to duck behind his shield, barely deflecting an arrow fired at point-blank range as he provided cover for the men behind to flow up and around him. Soon, more than a dozen Legionnaires filled the wall and began to charge toward the defenders.
"Don't! Please, spare me!"
The guards saw the writing on the wall. Quintus saw as many of them began throwing down their bows and swords at their feet, holding their hands up in a clear gesture of surrender. Where the sheer numerical disadvantage hadn't seemed to dissuade them from fighting back, the looming prospect of death at the Legion's hands seemed to change their minds—mostly. They still had to cut down a number of more stubborn fighters.
Quintus nodded toward the terrified guards. "Secure them. Everyone else, we take the gate."
Luckily for the guards, Tiberius had ordered for prisoners to be taken and captured where able. Normally they would not be shown such mercy, but they currently had a dire shortage of workers and laborers for Rome. Best not to waste any able-bodied men if it could be avoided. Although that also required that they didn't get themselves hurt or killed with ill-advised delusions of rebellion so soon. The Legatus had no desire to rule an empire of ashes.
They were bound in rope and disarmed with practiced efficiency. Quintus made sure that they were guarded and watched as the assault continued. Quintus's men quickly raised the portcullis and opened the gate, allowing the rest of the first cohort to swarm inside the settlement. As they secured the area and dealt with any other threats, he ordered the prisoners and noncombatants to be rounded up and moved to the central square. Now, all he had to do was make sure the place was prepared for Legatus Tiberius's arrival.
The Primus Pilus allowed himself a small smile. No, that wasn't entirely accurate. Tiberius would always be the Legatus to the men, of course. But to these people? To the subjects of this newly conquered territory? He was the emperor.
Comments
ReadingObsessed
For those who glossed over it: cognomen is a third name. A bit like a distinctive title/ nickname for your branch of the family. It would be as simple as Rufus (the red haired) or something showing an academic distinction.
Dave_S
Thanks for the chapter!
Clothman
True. But it seems written, with a bit of poetic license, to smudge over some things for easier plot consistency and easier access to a wider audience. Most are probably not so well informed on Rome or Latin grammar. Maybe this was an editing decision to streamline for flow, as well. But it's cool some are pointing these details out.
Moses Lambert
Plural of pilum is pila. and instead [of climbing to] the top of the ladder, he leapt off near the top
