Daniel Ottalini - Antioch Burns

“It is all his fault anyways, siphoning the money meant for our defenses into his private bank accounts. I should have three times as many men, and twice as many cavalry,” he complained bitterly. There was a silent pause, as his officers steadfastly avoided any overt sign of agreement. The general was untouchable, but they were not. Anyone could be a spy of the governor, and this stranger was, as yet, an unknown quantity.

“At least we have gained a newly competent officer.” His voice returned to its normal volume as he gestured to his new Praefectus Alae .

Marius Quinctius Regillus had spent few moments reveling in his advancement to Praefectus Alae , or Prefect of a Cavalry Alae, roughly 500 men. Unfortunately, his current advancement was likely to be short lived. The governor of Antioch had ordered the IV Syrian to mobilize and strike at the Mongol army while it encamped north of the city. While the order made strategic sense, striking an enemy before they could invest the city entirely, it was tactically dumb, thought Regillus. Even he knew that attempting to assault a primarily mobile horde army with slow moving legion assault forces was a bad idea.

Leaning over the command table map in the center of the tent, the legate pointed out positions to his subordinates, giving precise, clipped orders. The elderly man was rather frail looking, even with the good forty pounds of armor he wore. His grey hair clung wisp-like to his head, giving him the vague appearance of a tonsured monk, albeit one with a stern visage and a crooked nose.

“Air Commander Kretarus, will you be able to provide us with any air cover before the allied fleet and promised reinforcements arrive?” asked the general. The compact and muscular air fleet officer slowly stood and bent over the table. He sneered at the outlined positions of the Mongolian camp, shown as small huts clustered between the river and the road.

“Even with just my two airships, the airwing can provide cover along the river. The Mongolians have never figured out a way to hit our airships. My great-uncle defeated them the first time they invaded Mesopotamia, and it appears they need a reminder lesson,” he stated, his pompous voice trying to turn a good political phrase. Mostly, it fell on flat ears. More likely, your great-uncle spent half his time gibbering inside the command deck of an airship as it dropped canisters of Greek fire onto the mindless mobs of retreating horsemen, Regillus thought cynically. He was familiar with Kretarus’ family, having been forced to rub elbows with them at several senatorial parties during his youth. Puffed up men with lots of medals on their uniforms, half of them created by their allies in the senate.

He watched the general’s non-response to the air-commander’s comment, and thought that, perhaps, the general felt the same. The older officer nodded once at Kretarus’ comments, then returned to the map. His wrinkled finger tapped the major road entering Antioch from the north.

Praefectus, I will be placing your men on the right flank as we advance up the road here.” The general positioned a small lead cavalry figure on to the map, next to several small legionnaire figurines. “You will be the heart of the covering force on the right flank. Your cataphractii will be supported by most of our light cavalry and a detachment of the garrison legion. Your duties are mostly to support our forces and prevent the Mongols from sweeping us against the river. Tribune Phrysis will have command of the flank, with you being second-in command. You two are the best light cavalry commanders I have. I will need you to keep the Mongolians off our backs.”

Regillus looked around the room to locate his superior. Tribune Phyrsis gave a short wave with his hand. The slightly older man had his long, dark hair tied in a ponytail. His helmet was nestled under one arm as his green eyes examined Regillus with a brief, intense look. Having evidently passed inspection, the tribune returned his focus to the command table. Regillus bent over the table to examine their position.

The metal surface of the table formed into a spine of mountains that ran south to north along the right part of the table. A long, narrow, flat road ran alongside the mountains, passing through the city of Antioch. Regillus marveled for a moment at seeing the city in miniature, with its fortified bastions and long wall span, as well as its intricate and beautiful bridges spanning the Orestes River.

“All right, gentlemen. We will need to keep this legion intact, and at fighting strength if we are to maintain the siege defensive works. Our attack will be more of a demonstration. I have no desire to match one legion against even part of a Mongol horde.”

“But Legate General, what will the governor say?” asked one of his subordinates.

“The governor will not take the field, and cannot remove me from command. I refuse to sacrifice my legion to let him play military officer,” Flavian stated firmly, broking no counter argument.

“That is all. We will marshal the men at dawn. Let our holy men make prayers to both the Christian god and the Old Gods. I have a feeling that divine intervention may be needed tomorrow. In the meantime, I shall see you at dawn. Goodnight gentlemen.” The assembled officers came to crisp attention, their salutes sharp. An aide lifted the tent flap and the general ducked out into the darkness. The tent emptied quickly, several officers murmuring to each other as they exited as well. Tribune Phyrsis caught Regillus’ eye and tilted his head to the side before slipping outside. Catching his point, Regillus glanced at the command table one last time before taking his leave.

The night was warm, but cooling fast, as might be expected for an early summer’s evening. The parade grounds of the Praesodium, or Garrison Fort, of Antioch were caked dry, the dirt having been pounded flat and hard by countless drilling feet. The tribune waited some distance away under one of the streetlamps. Regillus ambled over.

The tribune took out a pipe and tapped some smoking weed into it. Lighting a match, he slowly brought flame to pipe, before tossing the match into the air. It arced gracefully before extinguishing itself in a poof of dust.

“I am going to come out and say it, damn the consequences. Are you one of the governor’s lackeys?” the tribune asked. “I mean no disrespect, but I need to know this if we are going to be working together tomorrow.”

Although at first Regillus had felt stubborn anger at the question, he quickly relaxed.

“No, I've never met the governor, and only seen him from afar. I grew up with people who were always vying for small scraps of power. I would not willingly associate myself with anyone like that if I could avoid it. My family ‘taught’ me that.” He spoke from the heart, and hoped that the tribune believed him.

The man took a long puff on his pipe, releasing the smoke into the air. It drifted wanly in the non-existent breeze.

“I sure as Pluto hope you are telling the truth. I do not think that tomorrow will be as easy or bloodless as the general thinks. He has been in garrison too long. The IV is good, but they have not been tested in a while, and this may prove to be a very rude awakening. At least your cavalry should be more capable. Under no circumstances are you to go haring off after some Mongolian plot and leave my infantry out to dry, do you understand?”

“I thought you were a cavalry officer.”

“I am, praefectus , but I will be with the infantry tomorrow for the most part. Now, are you planning some foolhardly charge?”

“Of course not, sir. I have no desire to lead an insanely stupid charge against the Mongols,” Regillus replied. I have no pretensions of glory, nor am I an ambitious twit like the governor or Kretarus. That part went unsaid as Phrysis took another long drag on his pipe. He remained silent for a few moments. Regillus slapped away a buzzing insect.