He stared through the binoculars again, watching as the Nortlanders tried everything to take down the mechaniphants. Ostrichines, the bipedal mechanical mounts that formed the fast, tireless cavalry of the Roman army, were riding outrigger for the mechaniphants, and the small teams of men and machines worked together to shut down any serious, concentrated attempt before it became a successful effort.
A flash of light and an explosion pulled Constantine’s binoculars east. The front-most mechaniphant had been destroyed. “How’d they do that?” he murmured to himself. Something predatory and graceful climbed up on top of the destroyed machine and released a spine-chilling howl. Constantine could feel it in his gut, even from over an imperial mile away. Mecha-wolves!
The wolf-like constructs raced into combat, their powerful jaws and claws ripping armor off the mechaniphants while nimbly dodging swinging tusks and articulated trunks. Constantine could see the life-and-death struggles between the mechaniphant’s crew and their attacker. Finally, another mecha-wolf climbed onto the back of the elephantine machine and swatted the crew out of their protected cupola before crushing the driver underfoot.
Constantine lowered his binoculars. This was not good. If the mechaniphants couldn’t stop the Nortland mecha-wolves, then the entire left flank attack would stall, and the battle could be lost. Even the heavy ballistae and heavy repeaters on the hill to their left seemed to pause for a moment, unsure about what to target.
A thought suddenly hit him. He grabbed the arm of a passing legionnaire. “Get up to those artillery pieces, and tell them to blanket the area right in front of the mechaniphants. We have to give them covering fire, make it suicide for any of those mecha-wolves to run through the heavy fire! I don’t care if there’s nothing there, the advance must continue.” The legionnaire nodded frantically, repeated the message, and ran off. Hurry, hurry, hurry! Constantine urged mentally.
A few minutes later, the artillery started up their fire again, this time doing just what their new commander wanted. With the first few mechaniphants destroyed, the remainder had paused to regroup. The artillery fire shot just short of them, trying to cover them as they prepared to resume the assault. The Nortlander infantry had fled before them, leaving the two sides’ war machines to duke it out.
Hmm, this time they’re in pairs instead of being strung out, Constantine observed as the mecha-wolves resumed their attack upon their larger mechanical brethren.
A raucous cheer rose from the Roman lines as an exceptionally lucky ballista shot speared a mecha-wolf in midair, hurling it sideways. The construct landed on its companion, crushing it. Decorum forgotten, Constantine cheered along with his men. The mechaniphants moved to attack again, this time targeting their lupine-esque opponents with almost unerring skill, pinning them between their larger frames or hitting them with heavy repeater fire from afar.
A shout from his right caught Constantine’s attention. A messenger was approaching rapidly on horseback. The man gave a quick salute, fist over his heart, then handed him a scroll. Constantine unfurled it and quickly scanned the message. He felt his heart beginning to pound in his chest.
He turned to his subordinate. “Mobilize all our reserves and take five cohorts from the line. Tell the rest of the men to hold firm and spread out to fill the gaps. We’ll pick up the men as we march east,” he ordered. If the instructions confused the man, he gave no evidence as he quickly turned to send out runners to the correct cohorts.
Constantine turned back to the messenger. “You’re sure about this?” The man nodded, out of breath. “Very well, take this message to the VII Germania. They’ll need to assist us immediately. Beg, plead, whatever you need to do. Understand? Go!” The messenger galloped off again, mud and snow flying from his mount’s hooves.
“Why are we mobilizing a quarter of our remaining strength and pulling out of line, sir?” his subordinate, Hadrius, asked.
“It appears our general’s scouts didn’t test the ice on the right flank as well as we thought. The Nortlanders are coming across in droves and have attacked the IV Britannia. They were caught completely by surprise. We’ve got to help.”
“Isn’t that the job of the reserves?” Hadrius asked.
Constantine fixed him with an icy stare. “Hadrius, if I thought the reserve could get there in time, I wouldn’t be pulling out a quarter of our strength now, would I? But they won’t because they’re the slowest marchers, and I know that Commander Murtes will take the road instead of marching cross-country. And that will take just too damn long.” His tone permitted no further queries. Constantine looked to the right, where at the copse of trees and low hillocks hid the battle now developing off to the east. “Now get the men moving.”
Chapter 13
Graecus
Commander Lianus Graecus had lost his helmet somewhere in the fighting. He leaned heavily on his shield, trying to gather his strength. In his heart, he knew what was about to happen.
The IV Britannia was about to die.
The Nortlanders had crossed the “thinly” iced river that Graecus had assumed would shield their position. His cohorts, strung out in an effort to monitor the enemy, had been attacked piecemeal, and great gaps had opened in his once solid line of soldiery.
He uttered several vehement curses at “General” Minnicus and his so-called scouts. Curse that man. If I live long enough to get my hands on him. . That imbecile probably doesn’t even know what’s happening. I wonder if his scouts even looked at this river.
The river, if it could be called that, had been nicknamed Little Viken because of its connection to the Viken River, a major west-east river that ran from the mountains of central Nortland to the sea.
“And he assured us it was frozen!” Graecus spat. His spittle was tinged red with blood. He could already feel the makings of a powerful bruise on his cheek, the result of a head butt some inventive Nortlander had tried to deliver. Graecus closed his eyes for a moment and saw in his mind’s eye the waves of barbarian tribesmen and berserkers crossing the river. He knew they were still down there, surging over its uncontested banks to overwhelm the entire right flank of the Roman army.
Although taken by surprise along both its flanks during the initial assault, the IV Britannia had held stubbornly, forcing the Nortlanders to overpower them with sheer numbers. Originally, the line of legionnaires had been assembled along the semi-frozen banks of the Little Viken, with the greatest concentration around the recently assembled bridge spanning the thin-iced river. The wooden bridge was wide enough to allow eight men to march abreast across the river, and represented both a possible attack route and a considerable death trap. Commander Graecus knew his business, and had positioned heavy repeaters and ballistae all along the river, even going so far as chopping down trees to build stable platforms and expand his firing lanes. The rest of the legion spread out from this strong central position.
Graecus had not anticipated needing to cover his flanks with a large force, and so his cohorts had been strung out along the river for about a mile and a half, which wound from southwest to northeast. His westernmost cohorts could communicate with the scout forces of the XIII Germania that occupied the ridge just over the river, while his easternmost ones were nearly into the great forestlands of Nortland.