The magnitude of destruction inflicted upon the IV Britannia was probably going to shake the expedition to the core. Nearly six thousand men, dead or wounded or missing, in the span of one afternoon. All because of some completely idiotic scouting and horrible positioning and maneuvering. That somewhere around twelve to thirteen thousand Nortland barbarians had died as well did nothing to assuage the loss of an entire legion. Constantine clenched his fist. As primus imperio, I will have vengeance on the person responsible for this disaster, I swear it.
And I know exactly where to start.
His aide, Hadrius Regis, intercepted the messenger and accepted a package. He opened it and his face paled. Constantine watched this, feeling the familiar sinking feeling in his heart.
“What news, Hadrius?”
The man turned and walked slowly to his commander. “I’m so sorry, sir.” He knelt and proffered the purple sash of a senator of Rome.
Constantine lifted it with shaking hands. It’s the cold, not my anger, he told himself over and over again. He gently folded the purple silk and tucked it into one of his many belt pouches-one he made sure was clean and empty. “Did you find a body?” he asked the messenger.
“No sir, but you’ll want to come and get a look at this.”
Constantine and his escort rode south, passing mounds of corpses, the red- and brown-garbed victims of the series of running battles that had consumed the entire right side of the army. The stillness of the forest had returned with the retreat of the Nortlanders. After their pyrrhic victory over the IV Britannia, the barbarians had been unprepared for the pincer assaults of the Germania legions. Struck from two different directions, the Nortland attackers had fled back to their own lines; those who were unable to escape had been slaughtered.
No one had felt the need to offer mercy.
The scout pulled up at a point only a mile or so from the main Viken River and the original reserve position. “We found it in these woods. But before we go there, look here.” The scout pointed to the remains of a small battle in the midst of a field.
“Why would the centurion fight here? This is horrible ground to defend. Too open,” Hadrius Regis stated.
“We think he was trying to protect the senatora. You see the tracks?” The scout dismounted and squatted next to a series of large footprints partially melted in the snow. “These look like the tracks of a mecha-wolf, and you can see here how they go right through the escort.” He walked around, pointing out further evidence of the mechanical war machines of the north. Here, a man with his entire head crushed by the swipe of a metal paw. There, a mangled piece of armor, probably from a lucky pilum or igniculum strike.
“Now sir, I think the mecha-wolves brought riders, because a lot of these wounds are typical of ones we’ve seen this far north. Plus, there are some Nortland casualties among the dead.” The man remounted his horse. “Follow me, sir,” he said again as he adjusted the reins and galloped forward, tossing up snow in his wake.
Constantine and his party followed the man into the woods. At first, Constantine could see little evidence of battle.
“You’ll want to dismount, sir, and see this yourself,” the scout said.
As he dismounted, Constantine asked the scout’s name.
“Legionnaire Auxilius Lucianus, sir. From Copendrium. Well, actually, from the farms outside.” The man smiled at his commander’s interest.
“Well, Legionnaire Auxilius, I feel the day you drop that ‘auxilius’ title and become a Roman citizen cannot be too far off. You’ve already demonstrated remarkable skill. Lead on.”
The man nodded. “I found this, here. It looks like somebody really put up a good fight.”
Constantine’s escort exclaimed loudly and several swore at the massive, leering head of a mecha-wolf looming above them in the forest gloom. It was caught between two branches, staring downward with its mouth half open. The rest of the body was behind it, legs splayed and chest driven open. Scorch marks and burnt wood gave testament to the power that had killed the war beast.
Lucianus gestured to his commander. “We found him here. He’s got the markings of a bodyguard. Looks like he took out the mecha-wolf singlehandedly.”
The dead bodyguard was missing most of his left side, but his trappings and medals identified him as a member of the Praetorian Guard, one of only a few assigned to the expedition. Of the handful assigned, they had been divided among the leading officers, General Minnicus, Air-Admiral Polentio, and the senatora. As he’d been a regular tribune at the outset of the expedition, Constantine had not been granted any.
You did your job. Thank you for giving your life for the senatora, Constantine thought to the dead man, then whispered a brief prayer to the gods on his behalf. Be at peace, we shall finish your job.
The scout’s voice broke his reverie. “Sir, here’s where we found the sash.”
Constantine followed the voice, his bodyguards loosely pacing him at a distance. The scout stood in a blood-splashed clearing. The remains of two other bodyguards sprawled in gruesome positions.
“Do you think she survived?” Constantine asked at once.
“Well, they didn’t leave her body. I would bet they captured her, only because they would have probably been more eager to display her death to us than just the death of her guards.”
Constantine nodded. He heard someone retching nosily behind him at the grisly scene. “We need to get their identifiers and bury them. Their families should know they died defending a senator of Rome.”
The scout used a stick to sort through the remains of the bodyguards’ naked, decapitated bodies, finally locating the metal rings used to identify name and hometown. “Got them, sir.”
“Then get me a shovel.”
Some time later, Constantine and his party returned to camp. He gave terse orders, then retired to his command post for a while. As his under-officers organized the withdrawal of the XIII Germania detachment, Constantine read through the dispatches that had come in during his absence. Most came from General Minnicus, at times demanding his return to his legion, at others ordering him to charge forth to “hunt the bastards down.“ Constantine tossed them aside. We’ll return to our posts and let Murtes and the VII Germania stay here among the dead and lost.
Within the hour, the XIII Germania had pulled out, and watched as the green and fresh troops of the VII filed in behind them. Just before he left, another messenger threaded his way into Constantine’s command section. “Sir, you asked us to look into the ice? About how it was not supposed to be frozen?” Constantine nodded gruffly. “Well, sir, it’s been painted.”
“What?” Constantine said in disbelief.
“Someone painted a ton of cracks on the ice. They look good from a distance, but if you actually go and put your weight out on one, it’s as solid as rock.”
“So. . in your assessment, could an army cross that river without harm?” Constantine asked.
“I think we already have the answer to that question, sir. Yes. And if I may say so, sir, somebody screwed up. Big time.”
Constantine dismissed the soldier and turned to leave, then paused with a sudden idea. “Wait, legionnaire. Come here.” He gave a brief flurry of instructions to the bewildered legionnaire, who nodded dumbly and walked away.
Hadrius Regis, who stood off to one side, asked, “Are you planning something, sir?”
Constantine lifted an eyebrow. “I’m always planning something. Now let’s get going.”
The short northern day was drawing to a close as the long shadows of Constantine and his command party approached the temporary headquarters of General Minnicus. The short ride from the XIII Germania’s fort to the smaller headquarters had only taken a quarter-hour, but Constantine could feel the chill through his thick layers of clothing and armor padding. The poor under-officer who waved him into the entry gate looked half frozen in his resplendent armor, and Constantine felt sorry for him.