Chapter One- The Battle of Arrows
Cold, that is the first thing that comes to Romulus' mind as he stares at the never ending gloom that seems to be pervading the entirety of the night. Being a Roman, and a general at that to boot, he is no stranger to the harsh weather. The winter nights of Britannia are cold, especially during the winter season. The cold there goes deep into your bones and the frost seems to seep into the very soul.
Shaking the thoughts out of his mind, Romulus' instead focuses his attention on his men. Rank upon rank they stood there like statues in the gloom; very different from their first reaction when they realize that they are fighting with a slave army that apparently revolted from their masters. Romans have a very particular view when it comes to rebelling slaves. Most of the time it doesn't end well, both for the slave and their owner. Thankfully their faith is stronger than their common sense, so here they are, fighting with a slave army and many others side by side.
Speaking of the others, Romulus' turns his attention to the "allies" that the gods want him and the twelfth Legion are fighting with. If he's going to be honest, he is not very impressed with them. In his view, it looks like somebody have gathered elements of different armies and threw them together in one giant big mashup of an army and facing the same direction. It takes all his self-control not to refer to them as savages in his mind. A lot of them looked a lot like savages.
The ones that attract attention the most are the horsemen wearing brown furs with curvish swords they call "arahks". They looked roguish, unpleasant and seems to look like they are wearing permanent scowls on their faces. By the gods, they also smell. This close to them, Romulus' has to put up a cloth cover on the lower part of his face to at least reduce the aroma of wet fur and sweat. They are the most numerous however out of the entire army they are helping. Fifty thousand strong, light cavalry all and as savage as one can get. They are the ace apparently in the ground.
Then there are the slave soldiers. Romulus has to suppress a shudder as he once more stares at them, seven thousand plus strong standing in lines almost the same as his legion. While he might not like them for being former slaves, the soldier side of Romulus though gives them respect. Unlike the Dothraki horsemen, these soldiers are professional and disciplined. They are the very definition of skirmishers, lightly armored, long spears and basic swords, they would be an asset on the battle as long as they maintain their discipline.
These two forces comprise the main central line of the "Army of the Living" and they are the ones his twelfth legion would be fighting with shoulder to shoulder. One undisciplined and dangerous with great numbers on their side; the other highly disciplined and methodical. Romulus could live with that. It is the western and eastern flanks that Romulus' is deeply concerned about.
To put it simply he does not trust them to hold the line when the time comes. In the afterlife before he is sent here, the gods has shown it to him and his legion…..the army of the dead. Two hundred thousand strong in earnest and growing even more as it continues its march. That's not counting the dead animals that march with it. Romans have faced worse odds and won, but seriously fighting an enemy that numerous who doesn't need to eat, sleep, rest, cannot be killed except a hack to the head or the special weapons and lacking any form of self-preservation is an enemy that even he, a seasoned Roman general have doubts to come in grips with.
That brings him back to his worries on his "allies" at the flanks.
Composed by a mixture of Northmen, wildlings and Knights of the Vale (he has no idea what a Knight even is other than they're better equipped compared to the rest), they are supposed to be the support for the main line who will hold back the enemy as best as they can. Romulus doesn't trust them, not one bit at that not to break when the fighting starts. The idiots doesn't even have drawn up battle lines or positions. They're simply milling there like morons in a mixture of fur, leather and metal plate armor. Why are soldiers in full metal plate on foot? One push is all that is needed and they'll be on the mud unable to get up as their enemies hack them to death. Their morale is also obviously low. Majority of them looked like they are having a permanent constipation and he has seen more than one peeing through their breeches as they shake like quivering leaves as they tried to keep up the appearance of standing in formation.
"So all in all this is the proud army of the living," Romulus throught wryly to himself. Fifty thousand horse riding barbarians, eight thousand slave soldiers, seven thousand five hundred combination of Northmen, Night's Watch, Knights of the Vale and Wildlings alongside his five thousand legionnaires of the Twelfth Legion and another two thousand and five hundred in reserve of the Eleventh who died with them before reincarnated here, and two dragons fighting with them here too. This army against two hundred thousand undead at least.
He has no idea how to win this one.
The sound of a horse galloping makes Romuls turn to his best friend and second-in-command dismounting from his horse before approaching him with a salute.
"General,"
"Tribune Quintus Dias, how goes the preparation?" asks Romulus gesturing for a small seat beside him where the rest of the more senior officers of the two legions are sitting and trying to make small talk.
"As well as it could be General," sighs Quintus as he takes the seat removing the helmet showing off a shaved head like the rest of the members of the Legion. "I have managed to convince this Snow person and the Dragon Queen to leave our siege weapons inside the city. Outriders have also slowly returned with news that they have potmarcked the entire area with pitches and ditches, scouts have remained behind in the open ready to light them once the battle starts. At least this way we won't be fighting blind in the darkness. Inventories also good and we have enough spares for this battle at least,"
"Good, good, and the men?" asks Romulus looking at Quintus Dias who receives a piece of bread and a bowl of broth on which he dipped it in before taking a bite and looking at the rank and rank of Roman Legionnaires either sitting at the ground and not at parade formation currently. It's a good thing too. No need to have them stand at attention in the gloom wracking their knees in nervousness while they wait for any sign of their enemies.
"What do you think? Lean and hungry of course," answers Quintus with a smirk. "It's a good distraction too before the upcoming battle. Gods only know that they won't be able to keep it once our foes show up. Not to mention that the enemy we would be fighting today is unlike anything we have ever fought before. Do you think we are up to it?"
Romulus only shrugs as he focuses his attention to the flutists playing a horrible tune among the Roman ranks making the soldiers nearest cringe in distraction as the noise pervaded their senses. It also relaxes them without them even knowing it from the tension of the upcoming fight. Very different from the rest of the ranks of the "Army of the Living" who looked like they are about ready to faint in nervousness or fear as they stand in formation.
"We have formed our battle lines, we have prepared our plans, what's rest is for the gods to decide and for us to fulfill our duty to the end," shrugs Romulus.
"But are we really allowing these people to continue with their idiocy?" asks Quintus with a bit of exasperation echoed by the rest of the officers. "Their plans won't work. You have seen as the rest of us do, the Army of the Dead. They outnumber us by a large margin and regular tactics like the one they're employing would be crushed. You know that, I know that, every officer in our army knows that,"
"We can't actually dictate them you know Tribune," Romulus answers looking at the two "ladies" of Winterfell who are eyeing them suspiciously. "We arrived here out of nowhere and pledging our assistance to their cause. With our numbers almost half of their original forces, it is a miracle they do not bar us on this battle seeing that we're strangers they never have met before,"
"More like they can't afford to refuse us our help," snorts Quintus. "You know as well as I do that they would need every able bodied man for this battle to even have a chance of winning against the dead,"
Romulus only smiled at the response. "That too. I believe that it is the only incentive they have that they didn't try to chuck us out,"
The two simply laugh together in amusement. They have been among many battles and both know that soon, they would get very precious laughs like this; especially with a foe they have never fought before. Don't misunderstand, Romulus have every inch of the trust on his men to follow his orders to the letter, but they absolutely have no experience on fighting an enemy like this. He has no idea what their tactics are, how they fight, how they organize their lines. That more than anything causes him concern. He might as well take the rule book of the current fighting tactics that they know and throw it away for this battle. Fighting an unknown enemy that doesn't fear death would be unconventional on the highest must improvise along the way and he prayed to all the gods he knows that he won't botch this up. Any mistake from him and his men would be the ones paying the price in blood and life.
Two blows of a ram's horn rising in the distance brought Romulus and the rest of his officers into attention as they turn their heads westward at the direction of the gloom of the forest. Both veterans, no words are needed as they stood up from where they are sitting and donning on their helmets before looking at each other as the usual silent understanding bypassed each other's eyes.
Raising his forearm, Romulus clasped hands with his friend and battle-brother.
"Strength and honor Quintus,"
"Strength and honor general," the other replied bowing once before turning and mounting the horse being readied by one of his servants looking once back before riding off to the Roman lines who are slowly being roused by their Centurions.
"Tell me general, do we have a chance of winning this?" Maximus, the general of the eleventh standing beside him.
"Other than a miracle, I don't think we can. But we can at least give them a fight worthy of any Roman legion," shrugs off Romulus earning him a nod from the other general.
"If that's the best we can do, at least we died serving the will of the gods. There is no greater honor than that,"
"Indeed,"
It is said that the worst part of any battle is the silence before the fight, the deep breathe before the plunge, the peace before the chaos. Romulus finds it oddly ironic. He has been into many wars, he has participated on too many battles to count, however that tightening on his stomach, that odd twist of nervousness that writhes itself like a hungry python have always been present in his side ever since the first time he pulls out a sword. It is the witness of his fear and trepidation and not even the boundaries of distance, life, death and reincarnation have separated it from him.
Five thousand men of his legion before that have remained catatonic in their seats on the ground now stand shoulder to shoulder in unmoving statues showing their discipline and professionalism as soldiers. Romans each of them are and not one show their fear as they face the darkness, remaining true to their doctrine as the best military force known to mankind and beyond. Not even the threat of the dead have shadowed that.
Their allies are not so disciplined on the other hand. The odd mixture of soldiers are milling among each other in an uneven mass looking absolutely out of their natural state of courage. Even the fearsome barbarians on horses are looking fidgety atop their horses as they murmured to each other. Only the Unsullied compares to his Legion in their discipline and ranks making Romulus grudgingly admit that the slave soldiers do themselves credit in the theatre of war.
Small flickers of flame immediately starts to appear on the horizon making the watchers murmur as more and more dots of flames appear heading towards them before stopping twenty meters to their lines. It is followed by the sound of neighs and whining of the horses as by pairs riders ride back through the Roman lines.
This is Romulus' plan. He has been on attendance with Jon Snow's battle plan meeting alongside with the rest of his allies. He knows that the enemy that they are facing other than being undead can control the very weather itself. No need to add the fear of the unknown to their enemy's arsenal if he can help it. Thus the fires that would enable them to see the battlefield in front of them. Despite the enormity of the army that they are about to face; there is no greater fear for a man than the one that dwells deep in his mind which is the unknown. Better they see and fear than speculate and be afraid.
"Sir, sir, enemies are spotted sir, crossing the tree line! They are like ants sir, there are so many of them," the last pair of scouts he has dispatched reported, their faces looking nervous as they presented their report.
"I see," Romulus simply nods at the scout before waving him off away makin him bow once more before urging his horse to gallop to the rest of the Roman cavalry standing at the back. Maximus takes this time to stand beside Romulus as the two stared in the distance where they could see a vague outline of a black mass slowly approaching.
"Those savages, cannot attack that many..and live," the other general mentions looking worriedly at their allied cavalry who seems to be facing a red cloaked woman who is holding the "curved knife" AKA arakh of the one at the front.
"I know," Romulus simply grunts as he wonders what kind of devilry this Red Woman is doing as without warning fires erupted on the weapons of the Dothraki making the entire horde holler and cheer as they are weaponized or is it firanized? )with the fire and all.
"It is not our call to make," he simply grunts as the Mormont old guy draws his sword alongside the rest of the savages in preparation to charge. "Either we like it or not, this is their battle and their plans. Let them be suicidal if they want to, but keep our cavalry intact. Once the dead are finished with these yowling excuse of a cavalry, we execute our plans,"
Maximus simply nods as the two generals watch the Dothraki horde start their charge towards the enemy. The dead haven't yet reached the nearest fire marker and it seems despite their numbers (which is worrying already), haven't yet fully cleared the treeline and showing the entire power of their army.
He has to admit, there is a certain kind of inspiring feeling watching cavalry charge. The sound of horses whinnying by the thousands, the yells of men riding them, the footfalls moving like thunder as a charge becomes full tilt gaining momentum on every second. Facing a cavalry charge is any army's worst nightmare. Sure there are countermeasures for such an event, but even then once cannot deny the morale a perfect cavalry charge can do. Able to devastate enemy lines like pincers, a cavalry charge can breake even the strongest morale and weaken an enemy army's resolve enough for the infantry to advance and mop up the rest of the enemy rabble.
In this battle however, that advantage that a cavalry charge offers is its very weakness. Romulus himself has no idea who planned this battle, but whoever it is, is obviously an idiot plain and simple.
The Dothraki are the perfect people to be used for cavalry. Overly enthusiastic, wild, barbaric and have a confidence that would rival even that of a praetorian. Once the Dothraki starts a charge, their mindsets are set to the fact that no foe whatsoever can stand in the way of the hooves of their horses. They are the perfect vanguard.
At least against a conventional army.
Against the dead who does not need morale or resolve to simply keep on going even as you hack them to pieces. These Dothraki are at a disadvantage. Lightly armored and unused against a foe that does not bend or break against the might of thousands of horses, only a disaster is waiting to happen.
"Messenger," calls Romulus to one of his aides with the very purpose of relaying his orders standing near him. "Tell those slave soldiers to keep on firing their damned artillery. Every shot counts against the dead and the more they destroy before the Dothraki is finished, the better,"
"Yes general!" the aide saluted before scampering off.
"Do you really think the horsemen would fail Romulus?" asks Maximus as the impressive light swords of the Dothraki gleam like fires as they clashed with the dead head-on, the sounds of battle vaguely sounding on the distance.
"I don't think they will fail general, I know they will," answers Romulus simply as he watches the blips of fire on the distance wink out one by one. The aide must also have gotten through the heads of the slave soldiers as their catapults continue to fire illuminating the shadows of the foes they are about to face (which is daunting to say the least).
The battle….if battle it can be called lasts only for a few minutes before the last wink of arakh disappears on the gloom of the night. From the distance they could see small pockets of Dothraki with the one they call Jorah on the lead, trying to make it back to their lines. If not for the pockets of fire left behind by the Roman Scouts beforehand, they would have been unable to see the milling horde of dead running after the survivors of the "epic charge" killing any stragglers that they could get their hands on.
"Signal archers, prepare to fire on my mark. General Maximus, head back to the castle and lead your men. It would be our turn soon," orders Romulus as he sees the dead advance like a black tide breaking here and there as the occasional fireball from the five catapults of the Unsullies make contact.
"Be safe Romulus, strength and honor!" salutes Maximus with the same reply from the general of the twelfth before riding off back to the gate.
"Signal archers! Prepare to fire once they get to the four hundredth meter mark!" orders Romulus to the five men in front of him. "Remember that the catapults rely on you men, so make sure that the timing's correct,"
"Yes general!" the five replies eyeing the dark horde approach slowly….slowly….slowly… there!
"FOUR HUNDRED!" yells the leading man as the fire measurement gets snuffed by dead feet prompting four of the men to let loose four flaming arrows high in the air.
"Four hundred!"
"Four hundred!" the yell answers from throat to throat towards the men manning the trebuchets inside Winterfell.
"Four hundred!…..FIRE!" the sound of ropes snapping and wood vibrating on metal hinges fills the entire castle courtyard as every single trebuchet fires in unison, their deadly payload rolling on the ground before catching fire as they are then lifted high flying in the air….and straight towards the front of the milling black horde scattering vanguard at once as unison fire rips bone, sinew and muscle at the impact of the explosion alone.
Cheers immediately went up the ranks seeing their enemies' decimated in groves. Even Romulus smirks as the dead vanguard is sent reeling for moments before their charge renews taking the time to avoid the fire scattered that destroyed their fellow undead. Every barrage causes severe damage to the dead. Sure it may not stop their advance, but it does thin their ranks to the point that it prevents them from amassing like a tidal wave that could crash over you and bury you over.
"THREE HUNDRED!"
"Three hundred!"
"Three hundred!" the call once more goes from throat to throat and the men manning the catapults on the inside immediately rakes into action as the short ranged artillery kicks in releasing their own version of hellfire to the approaching undead.
Put it this way. While the trebuchets are more long ranged and powerful, catapults are short-ranged and not that explosion-worthy like the trebucher. However what it lacks in power, it makes up for fast reload speed and accuracy. What Romulus is aiming though is the fast reload above all.
Dead flies in different direction as the fast reaching artillery tears through their lines like fire on sandpaper ripping great swaths on their lines isolating pockets of charging undead from their main body. All according to plan.
The dead's greatest weapon is their unrelentingness against any foe that they might face. Something that the living don't have. They are stronger, much more agile and feel no fear. But the living, the living have their minds and Romulus is one of the brightest. That unrelentingness of the dead is their ace, but it can also be their downfall. Rip them to small groups and a mass charge that could decimate vanguards would be small pockets of confused dead men that a well-made line can hold against in an open field.
Something that the Romans are essentially good at.
"Archers! Here they come! One-Fifty!" shouts Romulus urging his horse forward where the two lines of support archer units can see him.
"One-Fifty! Archers knock your arrows! Draw! LOOSE!"
Seven hundred men shoots in the same time, flaming arrows flying in the air alongside the artillery and crashes directly on their targets milling in confusion as their charge at the vanguard is considered moot.
"Reload! Reload!" the cry goes out as the archers reload in unison, training kicking in as every movement is precise and counted, no action wasted as they repeated the call and shots ripping through the dead until only milling groups composed of dozens now howl in frenzy directly at the lines of the living.