Daniel Ottalini - Antioch Burns

His words hung over the scouting party. Regillus checked his girdle and gear, before latching his helm back onto his head.

“Whatever you do, ride fast, ride hard, and do not stop for any reason.” His men nodded, faces grim with the realization that the only definite way to warn their city was to make it there alive.

They galloped through the burning town. Dead villagers lay sprawled about. Men, women, children, all had been put to the sword or bow. Those bastards, Regillus swore. His knuckles gripped his steed’s reins tightly, and he felt his throat tighten. Regardless of how many years he had been in the army, seeing death made his blood boil and his heart weep. Although he would have been ashamed to admit it, he was a sensitive soul. First his brother, then his father, and most recently the army had tried to beat it out of him, but every time, his compassionate heart was able to wait out the opposition.

Unfortunately in times like this, it made him question his decisions. Perhaps we could have intercepted these raiders if we hadn’t scouted ahead? We could have at least stalled the raiders or even turned them away. A small voice inside his head twisted the guilt dagger deeper. Shaking his head fiercely, Regillus pushed the thought away. There was nothing they could do now.

Vegiutus turned to puke over the side of his horse, the men behind him weaving away from the sick man’s revulsion. Looks like someone else has a similar problem .

“We must make haste,” Regillus said coldly, pushing away all the emotion he felt. His men now took the southern road, riding southwest toward the safety of Antioch’s walls. The vast bulk of Mount Silpious rose to their left. As the tiny watchtowers at the summit came into sight, Regillus felt his spirits rise. Perhaps we can make it after all. Less than fifteen minutes until we are at the gates. Someone at the towers must have noticed the villages burning…

Their mounts laboring now, the riders turned a blind corner at full speed, and found themselves amid a group of roughly thirty dismounted Mongolian raiders. Surprised at the sudden arrival of two score Roman cavalrymen in their midst, the Mongolians were uncharacteristically slow to react, staring dumbfounded at their sworn enemies.

“Use your repeaters!” Regillus cried out, fumbling to pull his from its holster on his saddle. By the time he had it cocked and ready, his own men were blocking his view and they had already raced through the enemy warband.

“Should we turn around and engage them, sir?” Vegiutus called to him.

“No! We make for the city. They’ll be on our tails by now, but we have got speed and some distance on them,” Regillus replied hopefully. A cry from the back silenced that hope. Long black streaks began to fill the sky as the Mongolians attempted to bring down their Roman targets.

“Shields on your backs!” Regillus ordered. “Make them work for it! Back ranks, return fire!” His order was passed back, and the men at the rear began using their repeaters to try and harry their pursuers’ advance.

We can fight or we can flee, but we can’t do both. Regillus thought, worried. He rapidly judged that his force would not be able to make it to the city walls before the hardier steppe ponies of the Mongolians surpassed their tiring Roman quarter horse opponents. Another scream behind him, followed by a sickening thud, forced the issue. He would not have his men slaughtered without the opportunity to fight back. Eyes searching desperately, the auxilia crested yet another hill. There! The winding dirt road passed through a village with a walled inn. A friendly sign offered food and rest to the weary traveler.

“Make for Janeria and that inn. We’ll light a signal fire. That should draw our cavalry forces,” he ordered in desperation. Spurring their horses into one last burst, the men thundered into the town. The townspeople saw the approaching Romans, then their pursuers. The peasants panicked, scattering like chickens before the auxilia riders. With moments to spare, the men rode into the walled compound, ducking under the low gate.

Regillus dismounted and quickly rushed to the gate. Several of his men joined him as they covered the gate with their repeaters.

“Get a signal fire lit! And see if this dirtball has a wireless or telegraph station!” he shouted at his second in command, who nodded hurriedly before shouldering his way into the inn, ignoring the protestations of the patrons in the yard.

“Clear out of here before the Mongols burst in and slaughter us. Get inside the inn. We’ll try to hold them off,” Regillus ordered grimly. He could hear the sounds of fighting just over the fieldstone wall that bordered the inn’s carriage yard. He gritted his teeth. I must stay focused on the mission. Running out there to save people is an easy way to wind up dead. His brain warred with his heart.

But I have to do something!

Several of his men had now cranked out their legion scuta . The heavy cavalry shield had undergone a retrofit in recent years to make it more transportable, and now strapped to the arm. Once there, you had to wind a crank, and the shield would telescope out, each pie-shaped piece sliding out from the arm grip and around the central boss. Although heavy, awkward, and slow to open, the shield worked perfectly, and even Regillus had to admit the idea was superb.

“Sir, we’ll cover you while you arm yourself,” one of his men said. It was only then that Regillus realized how very unprotected he was.

“Very well. See if we can barricade the gate. If we can, get up on the walls. Let’s thin out these raiders.”

The man nodded, and Regillus jogged back to his horse. He pulled his own scutum and popped out the crank. Once, twice, three times, and the shield was fully deployed. He locked the crank back into place. He then took his face guard and slid it into the small slot in his helmet. His face was fully protected now, with only a pair of eye and mouth slots unguarded. His world closed in as he strapped his masked galea into place. To an enemy, it was as though his opponent was a faceless, metal monster.

Feeling more protected, he holstered his hand-repeater and drew his spatha, the Roman replacement for the gladius feeling heavy in his hand. His fingers flexed around the leather-bound grip, and his thumb tested the sharp, curved slashing edge of the weapon.

Satisfied with his equipment, he returned to the gate, now blocked by an overturned produce cart. Several of his men were shoving barrels, fence posts, and any other odds and ends they could get their hands on against the barricade. The majority of his men had now found, or in some cases, created, firing platforms that allowed them to see over the walls.

“Don’t waste your fire, men. Only shoot at visible targets. We don’t know how long we’ll have to hold out,” he ordered his nervous men. He had been with his men, the 2 ndAuxiliary Cavalry detachment, nicknamed the Eagle Eyes, for two years now and had grown to identify their moods, and what he felt concerned him.

His men were preparing to die.

Frowning, Regillus looked for a centralized position to view the situation, and spotted it by the gateway. One of his men had placed some boards between two barrels, and was shooting his repeater from the sturdy wall top.

Regillus clambered up onto the boards. Ulysses Iona steadied him with a calloused hand, nodded a greeting to him, then spoke.

“Sir, we want to know. How are you going to get us out of this one?”

Such a blunt question would have insulted many other commanders, but it did not bother the officer. He had long learned that it was best to listen to, and address, the cause of his soldiers’ concerns.