Daniel Ottalini - Antioch Burns

Etruscas lowered his spyglass.

“Is the general about to lead a cavalry charge, sir?”

“Yes, and we better start making preparations to cover it from our flank.” Regillus quickly sketched out some orders, and had several of his cohorts already moving before the semaphore system operator sent a messenger over.

“It’s as you said, sir. The tribune is ordering us forward.”

“Indeed, he has no choice. Without our flankers, the charge will be surrounded and cut off inside a half hour. With them, he might last out the hour. That is, until we are overrun and our forces trapped against our own walls or the mountains,” Regillus stated harshly.

“All to satisfy the honor and tradition of our leadership.” He filled his voice with scorn. All the anger and frustration he had felt, the years of suffering under his parents’ and brothers’ torment came welling up. The young officer clenched his fist. Why can’t we learn to change how we fight? To change how we deal with this? How many more young men must die to satisfy old men’s need for honor?

It was a thought that had been considered by generations of younger men; before age and experience turned them into the very thing they had so rebelled against in their youth.

“Sir?” Etruscas interrupted. “The Mongols are moving against the flank as well.”

Tearing his attention away from the drama unfolding in the center, he focused on the situation at hand.

“Order skirmishers forward, infantry in Omega formation.” Ranks of pila -armed legionnaires marched forward; opening their ranks to allow men armed with repeater crossbows through. Enemy outriders were already beginning their harassing fire, no doubt attempting to infuriate the Roman flank commander into making rash moves. Regillus turned to stare back at the tribune, safely ensconced behind his infantry forces to the rear.

Phyrsis finally mounted his horse, his aide waving a signal flag at Regillus’ forward command party. Adrenaline pounding in his veins, Regillus gripped the reins and spurred his horse. The rest of the Roman line advanced at a slow march, his light cavalry forces pushing around the flanks to support the infantry’s advance. Mongol skirmishers raced back and forth, spattering the legionnaires with arrows. The infantry marched on, studiously ignoring the light missile fire.

As they approached a rise in the road, Regillus ordered a stop.

“Eliminate those riders,” he ordered. “I don’t want anyone fighting us for the hilltop. I want to own it.” The message was quickly passed down, and a rank of repeater crossbows stepped forward from the line. As they trotted towards the skirmishers, the tribesmen pulled their horses around and took aim at the crossbowmen. The legionnaires went down on one knee and took aim. Other legionnaires stood by to cover the crossbowmen with their shields when they needed to reload. Their bolts, shorter ranged than the horsebows or long bows, packed a punch, and it was not long before several empty steppe ponies were galloping for the rear, soon joined by their still mounted comrades.

“Good, continue the advance as the tribune ordered.” Etruscas grunted an affirmative. As the infantry took the hill, Regillus pulled his cavalry forces to the west, aiming to support the movements of the center. To the west, Legate General Flavian’s legionnaires advanced as well, cohorts opening large gaps in the line as the cavalry poured through. Opposite them, the Mongols continued to mill around, their light cavalry creating a scene of apprehension and confusion at the advance of the heavy cataphractii cavalry.

Regillus gritted his teeth. It was going to be a long day.

“Hold the line!” Regillus screamed, using the flat of his sword to beat at the men trying to flee back into the city. The clamor of battle surrounded the small salient of Romans holding the northern gate. Ballistae and scorpion fire tore down from the forty-foot high walls, shredding rank upon rank of Mongol cavalrymen.

It mattered little, for the enemy’s forces were seemingly endless. They had replaced the losses from the previous day’s battle in record time, throwing fresh troops against the exhausted Roman defenders. The half circle of legionnaires and dismounted cataphractarii fought shoulder to shoulder, stalling the attackers long enough to allow as many fleeing troops into the city as possible. Just inside the gate, the city militia had finally assembled, their formation shaky as they watched the carnage unfolding outside the gates.

“Preafectus! Fall back and take charge of the men inside the city. We’ll keep them busy out here! The gates cannot fall. Do you understand? The gates cannot fall!” Tribune Phyrsis croaked at him. Stabbing his sword into the ground, the officer took the last swig from his canteen.

“I will use the last of our cataphractarii to buy you some time. Shut the gates.”

“But, sir! We have to save everyone we can!”

“I have faith in your leadership. No one will listen to a former cavalryman. But they might listen to you because of your family.” He looked at Regillus. “Shut the gods cursed gates, Praefectus, that’s an order. You cannot save us all. You have a family. I do not. You have your orders, legionnaire. Defend the city .”

Sheathing his sword, Regillus came to a salute, as crisp as he could make it. Fist to chest, he felt his heart swell with pride. This was a man worth his respect. The tribune mounted his horse, which headed a wedge of fifty cataphractarii forming up in the long tunnel of the gatehouse. He grasped his konton, the heavy lance handed to him by a wounded legionnaire.

“Save Antiochia, Praefectus. You are the only remaining officer from the IV Syrian alive. The survivors will need someone to keep them fighting until the other legions can arrive.”

Nodding numbly, Regillus returned to the line of men holding back the Mongolian infantry. Pulling his sword, he positioned himself next to the eagle standard of the IV Syrian, the rallying point that was the focus of the salient.

“Stand ready to fall back to the gate!” he shouted, fighting to be heard over the roar of combat. Regillus turned to look at Phyrsis. The armored warhorses stamped and pawed at the ground. Finally, Phyrsis lifted his clasped fist. Cornices blew, and the cavalry rode down the tunnel, gaining speed as they raced along the cobblestones.

“Wait for it… form gap now!” Regillus shouted to the men. The ragged Roman line split in two, and the Mongolian infantry blasted into the gap, just in time to be met by the powerful wedge of heavily armed lancers. Men were spitted upon the long spears, the heavily barbed warhorses trampling the attackers beneath them. Reeling in shock, the lightly armed enemy panicked, throwing down weapons and turning their backs on the rampaging cataphractarii .

“Fall back! To the gate!” Regillus turned and ran, urging the other Roman defenders back as well. The pressure on the line had eased, and the Romans moved quickly, ignoring their exhaustion. Small knots of Romans continued to battle, oblivious to his orders or unable to break free of their attackers.

He was in the tunnel now. The remaining legionnaires and dismounted cataphractarii formed a rough line across the opening, wide enough to accommodate three wagons. Regillus turned to watch the last charge of Tribune Phrysis. The initial impact of the charge had thrown back the first wave of Mongolian infantry, scattering them and causing them to flee. But the enemy simply sent forward more men, sacrificing ten soldiers to bring down one cataphractarii . They swarmed, stabbing with their short spears, wearing down the lancers.