“Uh. . um. . sir, in regards to our main objective, we still have not overwhelmingly defeated the Nortland army, and they remain a dangerous force. Trying to withdraw in winter in the face of opposition could result in heavy casualties.” Commander Paulos was trying to be diplomatic, but Constantine could hear the worry in his voice.
Minnicus waved a dismissive hand. “That will not be a problem. Our boys have already taken the fight to those fur-wearing idiots, and they are so cowed, they hide in the shadows of their capital’s walls. They will not be coming after us,” Minnicus sneered.
“Sir, but what about Senatora Pelia?” Constantine said. “Surely we need to enter negotiations to repatriate a member of our government.”
Minnicus’ beady eyes stared at Constantine. “That is a matter for our government leaders to decide, not the military. And since the only officially appointed member of our government is currently not here,” he paused as if in irony, “we cannot enter negotiations in good faith. We must make the best of this situation and assume we cannot possibly get her back.”
Constantine refrained from protest. This was like a chess game. Each move gave him other options. “I’m a member of the government. As the primus imperio of the Roman Empire I am a leading member,” he said quietly.
Commander Paulos was quick to offer support. “He can enter into negotiations and create binding agreements. He certainly has both credibility and the right to do so.”
Minnicus frowned at him, then harrumphed. “No, Commander, you may not enter into negotiations because you are not here as a member of the government, only as the commander of the XIII Germania.”
“General, as the heir to the throne-”
Minnicus cut him off. “You have no power here. The Imperial government has no power here. The only power here is my legions and my commands, and the enemy. And you, Commander, are coming perilously close to violating your oath of leadership that you took to the legions. I am the commanding officer, and I will be OBEYED!” His voice climbed to a high-pitched yell.
It took all of Constantine’s willpower not to laugh at the man. He squared his shoulders, looking at Paulos, who nodded uncertainly at him, then at Murtes, who had settled on a stool off to the side, his mouth twisted down in a frown. I have to win him over somehow! “General, I’m not sure if your orders are worth obeying,” he said. “Hadrius, bring it in.”
His aide ducked out of the tent, then returned followed by two of his men bearing a package. Constantine gestured toward a convenient trunk. “Place it here. Gentlemen, I would like to reveal to you the method by which the Nortlanders so surprised our men this afternoon.” He pulled back the cloth. “This is a piece of ice hacked from the river. If you look at how thick it is, you will see it is very substantial. However, if you look at the top. .” He paused as the other commanders gathered around. General Minnicus was whispering quietly to a staff officer, and seemed to be ignoring the event playing out under his own roof.
“By the gods, it looks chipped and cracked!” Paulos exclaimed.
Murtes nodded, eyes widening in sudden understanding. “You took this from the middle of the river?” the commander asked, his fawning demeanor replaced by a no-nonsense tone.
Constantine nodded. Looks like all he needed was solid proof of our general’s stupidity. He motioned to his men to back off. They stood behind their commander, ramrod straight at parade attention. Their motion underscored the mood of the room. Now all three legion commanders were looking at General Minnicus.
“General, did your scouts mention any of this?” Paulos asked.
“Whatever happened, there will be an investigation, I assure you. But it will be done when we have returned to Sundsvall, after we have time to reorganize after our victory here,” Minnicus said smoothly, with no hesitation in calling the destruction of an entire legion a “victory.” Constantine felt his hand grasping the hilt of his spatha. “And so, we shall make preparations to leave. Tonight. We will return to Sundsvall in triumph,” Minnicus finished rather lamely.
Constantine turned to look again at the assembled leadership staff around the table. It was obvious that the other men in the room who were not members of the general’s staff were not in support of this idea. “This farce has gone on long enough. We will not retreat or fall back. We will enter into negotiations with the Nortlanders to have the senatora returned to us. Alive. And in the meantime we shall lay siege to Midgard. That is my plan. What say you?” The primus imperio was in full swing now, his enthusiasm infectious and his plan, for the moment, the best one they had.
The general slammed his fist down on the command table. The 3D terrain wobbled, some parts shifting as the machine’s engine was thrown off beat. “No. There will be no negotiation. Guards! Seize these men! They are traitors to the Roman Empire,” he shouted. His bodyguards drew their swords, while Constantine’s men responded in kind, backing up their commanding officer. Murtes and Paulos backed away, their guards outside and unable to assist.
Constantine did a quick assessment of the situation. He slashed a hole in the tent wall. “Quick, get to your men and stand firm. And get someone to the Thirteenth if I don’t get out. We have numbers, we’ll hold while you escape,” Constantine said without a moment’s hesitation.
Both Murtes and Paulos looked gratefully his way. “We won’t forget this. Minnicus will pay,” Paulos told him flatly.
Murtes simply nodded, pulling a lethal-looking pair of mini-crossbows from his belt pouch. He handed them to Constantine. “I expect them back,” Murtes stated with a grin.
Constantine nodded, then turned back to the tent as they clambered through the canvas. The front of the tent was slowly filling with legionnaires, his guards slowing them as best they could. Outside, shouts and screams punctuated the sounds of swordplay.
Tucking the mini-crossbows into his belt, Constantine pulled his spatha. “Who dares raise their sword against the heir to the throne?” he challenged in his most regal voice. The men before him quailed. His guards moved back to form a wedge with Constantine at the tip.
“What are you waiting for?” General Minnicus growled. “Attack them! Seize the traitors to the throne! There’s only six of them and thirty of you! Get them!”
The first few legionnaires seemed unwilling to to attack, until one of Minnicus’ bodyguards shouldered his way to the front and swung his spatha ham-handedly at the prince. Constantine dodged easily, and his return slice sent blood spraying onto the delicately polished silverware and over the blue carpet. “I have no wish to spill any Roman blood. Goodness knows there’s been enough lost today,” he called. “Put down your weapons and let us leave in peace.”
The men in the tent continued to waver, until finally a gap opened between the ranks of legionnaires. Constantine nodded at the men in thanks, and with his guards making a tight circle around their charge, they strode to the doorway and out of the tent.
Before him lay a scene of slaughter. It was obvious that the escorts of all three commanders had put up a bloody fight against Minnicus’ enforcers. From the shadows beyond the torchlight, hard-bitten men emerged, weapons and armor covered in blood and gore. They pulled several shambling prisoners with them, tied by rough ropes to the halters of horses. They wore the uniforms of both Murtes’ and Paulos’ commands. Minnicus appeared beside them
“Did you think I hadn’t planned for this, primus imperio? You have much to learn in the ways of politics. First rule of politics: never try to usurp the enemy in their own fort.” Minnicus cackled as the prisoners were pushed to the mud before him and his men. “Put your weapons down. You’re surrounded and there is no hope of surviving. Your little speech might have worked well back in the tent, but these men are mine. They’re not some conscripts from the countryside.”