For the Glory of Rome: Chronicles of an Isekai'd Legion
B2 Chapter 26: Some Call It Bravery

Tiberius wasn’t sure whether to curse Quintus for his stupidity or praise him for his bravery.

It was the Primus Pilus’s job to serve as a proper example for the rest of the men, to be a beacon of valor and excellence. But this? Launching himself in such a suicidal assault? This was not exactly in the job description. This went beyond even the dangers of being the first man atop a wall. But then, he supposed he could never, ever accuse Quintus of becoming soft.

The idea had come up, of course. It was one of many such tactics that had been considered for sieges in particular. But even with their newfound resilience, the idea was a bit of a hard sell. And attempting it in a scenario like this…

He watched with bated breath from the hastily-erected observation tower as his Primus Pilus rocketed through the air, the plumes of his helmet flattening in the wind. The archer dodged a volley of projectiles and twisted in midair, his eyes widening in surprise. His confusion stunned him just long enough to keep him from dodging Quintus’s shoulder as it struck his chest. The miniature ballista was flung from his grip on impact.

The centurion grabbed the [Scout] ’s arm in midair, grappling with him as they began to fall. Their descent was slightly less rapid than expected, likely a consequence of whatever skill the enemy had been using to keep himself aloft for such long stretches of time. But that certainly didn’t mean it was slow.

The pair tangled together, Quintus leveraging his decades of experience on the battlefield as his opponent writhed and squirmed in his grip like a snake. It was all the centurion could do to hold on and keep the point of that miniature ballista away from him. He didn’t even have a chance to draw his blade.

They crashed to the ground with a puff of dust rather than the bone-breaking impact that Tiberius would have expected. He watched just long enough to see more of the reserve troops rush toward the landing site with a distinctly un-Roman yell of triumph. Among them were a group of Legionnaires specializing in immobilization and taking down large beasts, nets and ropes in hand.

Tiberius turned his attention to the rest of the battlefield. That was one opponent handled. Though he had no illusions that the man was defeated, he wouldn’t be assaulting their lines for the moment. Besides, he trusted Quintus to handle himself.

One of his own scouts stepped forward with a smart salute. “Legatus. The auxiliaries have arrived. Their commander wants to know where you’d like them. Should they assist here or handle the remnants of the baron’s forces?”

Tiberius looked down at the frankly ridiculous sight of four adventurers facing off against over three thousand Roman Legionnaires. Their numbers were already large enough to be comical, though they certainly were leveraging them as well as they could. The question was, would five hundred more make a difference? Or would these fresh recruits just get in the way?

The Legatus shook his head. “No. Have the third cohort pull back to intercept and contain the fleeing soldiers.” He selected one of the harder-hit units to send after the other army. As draining as it was to march, he had no doubts it would be seen as a break compared to the chaotic combat before him. Especially considering how comparatively easy the baron’s rank and file had been to deal with.

His scout saluted in acknowledgement as Tiberius gestured to one of the hills surrounding the battlefield. “As for the auxiliaries… have them form up behind that hill with strung bows. Make sure they’re in position within—” he paused to think—“three minutes.”

The scout gulped but nodded. “Yessir.”

With that, the Legionnaire rushed away to find one of the communications specialists and began relaying the orders in a rush. Tiberius turned back to the battle and evaluated the state of things. Quintus and the [Scout] were still out of sight, so he turned his attention elsewhere.

The so-called “cultivators” from the second cohort lay unconscious on the ground, appearing for all the world as though they were asleep. He may have even assumed them dead if not for the lack of wounds and the obvious rising and falling of their chests. A group of men rushed them away from the battle as the [Elemental Mage] above tried to send darts of flame after them. The projectiles stuck in their raised shields, charring them but failing to set them fully alight.

He suspected that the men had simply overexerted themselves. Blocking that tremendous pillar of ice had certainly seemed like no small feat. Still, even though they were out of the battle now, the small group had proved more useful than he’d hoped. Perhaps he’d permit Septimus—or rather, Karma—to train additional men. If any were willing.

Even better, their sacrifice seemed to have paid off. The mage flew much lower now than before, the staff heavy in her arms as she swayed in midair. The slight paleness in her face and relative infrequency of her spells suggested that she posed a much lesser threat than before.

That left one more foe to address: the black-armored warrior that was seemingly impervious to their weapons and attacks. Even the few ballista bolts that had been sent his way simply glanced off or shattered against his wicked-looking plate. It seemed that he was altogether impervious to any physical damage they could send his way. All the while, he continued plowing through and injuring men with every swing of his mace.

“Officers,” Tiberius snapped. “I want ideas. How do we handle the warrior?”

Normally, the tribunes weren’t involved in tactical decisions like these. Their focus was more on the day-to-day operations of camp and the wellbeing of the men. However, Tiberius had good reason to seek their advice. Besides the individual centurions, the tribunes were the ones primarily keeping track of each man’s skills and specializations. If anyone would know the capabilities of the individuals that made up their forces, it would be them.

Besides, he was running out of ideas. He could use some fresh ones, even if they may not come from tacticians and battle-minded men.

The Legion officers followed their Legatus’s gaze before turning their attention back to the man himself. Maybe it was to show respect. Or maybe it was because most of them lacked the [Keen Eye] skill. Either way, the ideas began to flow.

“Perhaps we can try bashing him with a battering ram?” One officer suggested.

“Drown him. If we can maneuver him to a body of water, I doubt that heavy armor would make swimming easy.”

“Or we can burn him out of his armor. Either he removes it and becomes vulnerable or cooks alive inside of it.”

Tiberius nodded in thought. Most of these ideas would be impractical or downright impossible to pull off. Many represented a slight variation on the “hit him really hard” strategy that had been failing them up until this point.

“We should try to hit him with one of the full-powered ballistas—not the scaled-down ones,” another officer said.

He considered all of the options but shook his head. “I doubt he’ll give us a clear enough shot. These suggestions mostly involve the same kinds of physical forces we’ve been attempting to assault him with thus far. The ones that don’t would require us to corral him into a trap… something that will not be a simple task.”

The group fell silent as their minds worked. Finally, another officer spoke up—one of his tribunes. “Well… there is one other option. I wasn’t certain if they would be of use, but considering the success of the cultivators…”

Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

The young man swallowed as everyone’s attention shifted to him. Tiberius motioned for him to continue, and the young man wet his lips before speaking up.

“What if… since physical attacks aren’t working… what if we used witchcraft of our own?”

***

Quintus hit the ground with a solid thud. The damn [Scout] had managed to weasel on top of him at the last moment, sending Quintus down on his back. The impact wasn’t as hard as he’d feared, but it was enough to drive the air out of his lungs. He briefly wondered if that would have been the case if he’d taken [Breathing].

Banishing the idle thought from his mind, he seized the archer’s arm as he attempted to untangle it and plunge a dagger into Quintus’s side. He twisted it in a maneuver designed to render it immobile if not break the limb in two. But yet again, his opponent writhed about wildly and managed to slip free.

The result left him frustrated. The man clearly never learned how to grapple like Quintus had. Yet he was more deft than the centurion and perhaps even stronger as well. The difference in physical ability was large enough that even technique only brought them to a stalemate. Wrestling the [Scout] was like trying to wrestle a slippery eel greased in pig fat.

Yet all that evasiveness did little more than allow the enemy to stay on the defensive. He had little idea how to take advantage of the situation when he did get free, other than to stab at the centurion. It still didn’t allow Quintus a moment of respite, but it could have been much worse.

The man tried to maneuver his dagger into a better position as Quintus struggled to disarm him. He heard a muttered curse as the man’s arm was wrenched painfully backward. He was forced to release the blade, but still managed to free himself and punch with his bare fist instead. Quintus’s helmet absorbed the feeble blows the man managed to throw, impaired as they were by his lack of mobility. He was pretty sure the man would split his knuckles on its metal and hurt himself more than Quintus. The worst the centurion got was a slight ringing in his ears as each gong-like strike sent it vibrating around him.

Quintus would have liked to shift his grip to try some sort of chokehold, but it was all he could do to keep the squirming man contained. He kept kicking out the man’s legs whenever he so much as thought about standing, but he had to be careful. If the man figured out how to better leverage his strength, then Quintus could be in real trouble. There were plenty of ways for him to get his arms or legs snapped of he got too lax.

He slammed the heel of his caligae into the man’s unprotected shins. The [Scout] winced as the brass studs set into the sandal’s sole made contact, causing his leg to buckle. Quintus quickly rolled them over and did his best to pin the man down again, leveraging the weight of his armor as best he could. His arms locked tight around the man’s neck as he heard the tramp of Legionnaires running and even a few yells not too far away.

A wave of relief washed over Quintus. The centurion had been working nonstop to keep this man down. But soon, he’d get the support he so desperately needed to stop him once and for all.

The thought distracted Quintus for just a fraction of a second. But it was enough. Before he knew it, his arms were grasping nothing but air as the [Scout] slipped bonelessly from his grasp. Quintus felt a dagger plunge into his side. He gasped in pain as he rolled away.

When he turned back to face his foe, the archer was already halfway to his feet. He panted slightly, his face smudged with dirt as his dagger dripped fresh blood. He gave Quintus a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Damn. You sure are persistent, aren’t you?”

The man spun to face the first of the Legionnaires as they bore down on him. He spun and plunged his blade into a man’s neck in one smooth motion. The soldier crumpled to the ground even as the [Scout] spun to slash at another.

“Luckily, it seems like your friends aren’t quite as troublesome.”

Quintus felt the cold spear of the men’s deaths plunge into his gut—a sensation he’d become used to feeling intermittently throughout the battle. It had become easier to compartmentalize the spike of despair now that he’d become more accustomed to it. But seeing the man die right in front of him brought it right to the forefront of his mind.

Another pair of Legionnaires went down to the man’s slashes as Quintus scrambled to his feet. These men weren’t fighting in formation at all. Rather, they wielded nets studded with barbs and assorted traps, fighting like hunters attempting to corral some mighty beast.

It was clear that these men were also part of a specialist unit. However, they weren’t nearly as effective as the cultivators had been. As fast as they were, their foe was far too nimble to be easily caught, darting about and dodging beneath nets and ropes and anything else thrown his way. Quintus himself had only managed to take him down through a combination of surprise and sheer luck.

“Form up, you fools!” Quintus shouted as he raced forward. But even as the words left his mouth, another man went down. Without [Coordinated Bulwark] to help the men defend, they were dropping like flies. Even worse, the archer’s assault gave them no chance to form a wall in the first place. And he was heading right for his fallen ballista-weapon.

The Primus Pilus gritted his teeth and rushed forward. He felt [Warpath] activate, speeding his movements toward the enemy as [Sure Footing] allowed him to completely ignore the battlescarred terrain in front of him. This time, the [Scout] saw him coming and danced out of the way. But not far enough.

Quintus’s gladius slid from its sheath in one smooth motion as [Battlefield Intuition] warned him of an incoming attack. He ducked low before even registering the dagger that darted toward his head, its sharp blade slicing through the plumes of his helm. But before the archer had a chance to recover, Quintus slashed toward his leg with a blindingly fast arc of steel.

The [Scout] screamed. His cold smile contorted into a snarl as he darted back once more, only to stumble as his injured leg failed to hold his weight.

“And here I was going to let you live, just for curiosity’s sake. But no. Now I’m annoyed.”

The [Scout] ducked beneath another errant net and scooped up his weapon. Then, he leapt up into the air as best he could and aimed down at Quintus.

“... I’m done with this. Say good—”

His words were interrupted as a spear streaked through the air toward him. The foe managed to dodge the first one, albeit less gracefully than before given his injuries. The next dozen were a different story.

The long shafts of wood and steel slammed into the man’s gut one after another. He spat blood, spinning wildly in the air with the force of the impacts. Quintus looked over to see that more of the reserve troops had arrived to reinforce him and were rushing away what wounded had a chance at being saved.

“Primus! Stand back!”

The first centurion of the ninth cohort—their pilus posterior—stepped forward, raising his spear into the air like one might a hammer. In fact, Quintus thought he might’ve actually seen the ghostly outline of a hammer appear around the weapon. With a grunt of exertion, the man swung downward, the spear’s tip catching the still-reeling [Scout] and driving him into the ground like a tent stake. He slammed into the ground amongst the Legionnaires with a sickening crunch.

No one waited to see if their enemy was dead. The Legionnaires wasted no time moving in with swords drawn. A few seconds and a lot of stabbing later, all that remained of the archer was a mangled corpse with a tattered cloak lying beneath it.

Quintus pressed a hand against his side as another Legionnaire rushed toward him. The soldier began quickly tending to the wound and bandaging it even as one of the centurion’s legs nearly gave out beneath him. Sweat soaked through his clothes and dripped from his brow. He tried to take a deep breath, only for it to turn into a gasp of pain.

“Are you all right, sir?”

The ninth cohort’s pilus posterior hurried over. Quintus waved him off. “I’m fine. Don’t waste time. There is still a battle to be fought.”

“Yes, Primus!” The pilus posterior turned to his men. “Form up! We move on the mage next!”

With a thunder of footsteps, the Legionnaires were off to fight their next target. Quintus remained where he was as his wounds were tended to. Even the medic’s basic first aid left him able to breathe more easily than before. Truly, this world’s witchcraft was a strange thing.

“Thank you.” Quintus nodded at the man. “Rejoin your own cohort.”

“But—”

“I’ll be fine. Now go.”

After a moment’s hesitation, the medic nodded and hurried off. Quintus cracked his neck. He wasn’t fine by any means, but he could still fight. The real question was, who?