“Luter, how far do you think we should cut the. . umm. . wick.”
The scout shrugged. “I’ve never used them, sir. My goal is to not be noticed. That thing will certainly attract plenty of attention.”
Constantine looked around at his men, almost comically. Most shrugged, or kept their heads down, trying to conserve heat while their commanding officer pondered weighty questions about timing.
Fine, he thought crossly, pulling his belt knife and trimming the wick down to about half a finger’s length. Why on earth couldn’t they make them the same way as they do our throwing spears? Why can’t they explode on contact? He gave a silent sigh and raised his eyes heavenward. Mighty Jupiter, father of all, please let this work! Feeling slightly better, he passed the order up and down the line: Wait for the explosion, then charge.
Constantine felt, rather than saw, a change come over his men. He sensed their anticipation, like predators on the hunt. Men readied their plumbatae, the short throwing spears with heavily weighted ends. In this case, his men were using the nonexplosive ends to magnify the effect of the single igniciulum on the ambushers.
“Remember! Don’t look at the explosion, wait until after it hits to look.” His men nodded at his whispered warning. The phosphorous would blind anyone who looked at it directly.
Finally, Constantine pulled a packet of matches from his belt pouch and lit the wick. The small flame danced merrily as it greedily consumed the waxy twisted paper. Constantine quickly stood, aimed his body right where he wanted it to go, and threw the igniculum.
The metal sphere flew through the air, miraculously missing several trees and sailing through branches. In most ways, it was a near perfect throw. The igniculum landed somewhere in the trench, and Constantine ducked back down behind the log, eyes squeezed shut.
After what felt like an eternity, the ground rumbled and snow fell from the trees. A roar echoed through the forest. If the column had been unaware of the ambush earlier, it was certainly aware something was up now.
Constantine pushed himself off the ground and climbed onto the log, brandishing his sword. “At them, men! For the Empire!”
His men ran across the snow-dusted ground, releasing wordless howls. Constantine leapt from the log and joined them.
The ditch had been only a hundred feet from their hiding place, and was now full of dazed and blinded Nortlanders. They fumbled around piteously. Several in the middle had been killed, and the snow was stained red with blood. In other places, steaming hunks of what had been the enemy smoked in the night air. Constantine nearly lost his dinner right there, but managed to choke back the bile in his mouth. Several other legionnaires were not as lucky.
From farther away came the sounds of fighting. Obviously, those men had not been as exposed to the blast. He heard shouting from across the road as Gwendyrn’s demi-cohort came rushing to join them. They quickly wrapped up the last few fighters, Gwendyrn himself hacking down the last swordsman with a brutal cleave of his spatha, a motion the sword had not been designed for, but still excelled at.
“Good job, Centurion Gwendyrn,” Constantine said as the Gaul approached, wiping blood from his face. Gwendyrn nodded wordlessly. “Let’s get these men back to the camp and see if they can’t tell us how they know when our convoys are coming in.” As if on cue, they heard the supply convoy approaching beyond the curve in the road.
“This will be a fun story to tell. .”
General Minnicus rubbed his clean-shaven face with his fingers as he carefully considered his assault plan. His officers were in better shape than many, but the fatigue, cold, and inconsistent rations were beginning to take their toll.
I wonder why he doesn’t appear to be on half rations, Constantine thought as he eyed the commanding general’s still impressive girth.
Minnicus placed a pudgy finger on the map, tracing one of the many smaller rivers in the central Nortland region around their capital. “This will be perfect, gentlemen. Here is where we shall smash their resistance and take Midgard for our own.” He looked around at his officers. “We’ve already taken their main supply base at Ostersund, and now that we’ve pushed them back to the west, we can take them easily.
“Our army is about forty-five miles west of Ostersund now, and we need to cross these rivers here. Our esteemed barbarian neighbors have gathered together a rather pathetic army in an attempt to prevent our crossing the rivers.” His smile seemed almost evil. “Too bad for them, we’ve already bridged and crossed these rivers here on our left and central fronts. The right front has also bridged their river, but I do not plan for them to cross.”
He looked around at his gathered commanders, seeing the quizzical expressions on some faces. Everyone knew that the right flank traditionally launched the initial attack. It had been so since antiquity, and had led to many decisive Roman victories.
“Instead, we’ll sweep our left flank wide around, supported by mechaniphants and ostrichine cavalry. The III Cimbrian shall lead that attack.”
The commander of the III Cimbrian, a short, grizzled man with his gray hair cut in typical legionnaire fashion, placed his fist to his heart in a salute. Commander Graecus of the IV Britannia looked pained by the apparent dishonor of being denied leading the attack. Graecus can be a prickly one, Constantine thought.
“The Black Boots will not fail. But won’t the snow slow us down?” Cimbrian Commander Paulos asked.
The general seemed to be in a tolerant mood; he smiled warmly at the question. “I’m glad you asked that, Paulos. We’ll have the mechaniphants in front of you to do ‘street cleaner’ duty, so to speak. They’ll carve channels that you can use to move and attack. I know you’ll have to leave them eventually, but those paths should make the going easier.” He said this with confidence, apparently impressed that such a brilliant idea had been his all along.
And let the enemy know exactly where to place their bow and artillery fire, Constantine thought grimly. Not that I see any other way to prevent the entire assault from foundering in the snow.
The general was still speaking. “And the XIII Germania will take the center position. Their job is to hold until the III Cimbrian can sweep aside our barbarian opponents. Obviously, with Legatus Legionis Commander Sula seriously wounded in a nighttime raid a few days ago, I needed to replace him as commander of the Thirteenth. He requested just one of his officers.” This was news. There was a pregnant pause, as the tribunes of the XIII Germania eyed the general with extreme interest.
“The commander recommended that Tribune Appius be given leadership of the Thirteenth. I shall abide by tradition in this case and allow input from our other commanders. Myself, I fully oppose this, as the tribune has limited experience in large-scale combat and no experience in full battles such as this one. But what say you?” The general eyed each legion commander with an appraising eye.
I wonder what he’s trying to do. Constantine’s heart was in his throat, he was so excited. My first real promotion that comes as a recommendation from my commanding officer. And he’s probably dying so it’s not like he is looking to curry favor, he thought cynically.
The legion commanders conferenced briefly amongst themselves, then turned back to the general. “We confirm his position. We believe that he should have the opportunity to prove his capabilities in this field of combat, and that his men will perform admirably.”