probably wouldn’t be the hard part, not with the way they were driving the enemy to rage. The timing, however, was going to take both skill and, likely, sacrifice.
Sneaking around a burning city while constantly jabbing angry revolutionaries with sharp sticks was dangerous business at the best of times. A good many of the Legion squads sent out didn’t return to report on their assignments, but in their deaths, Cassius and the others in command of the Garrison remnants knew that they’d likely managed to achieve at least partial success.
The fighting continued through the night, and most of them lost track of the time as they fought away from the water clocks of the Library and Garrison. But when the sky began to turn from deep black to dirty grey, enough took notice to spread the word.
Horns blew, echoing from one side of the city to the other, causing other horns to blow in response. The meaning of the sound was not entirely lost on the Zealots and their leaders; they knew it was communication, but it fit none of the known codes the Legion employed, and they were at a loss to identify its exact importance.
For the surviving members of the city Garrison and those of the Deiotariana Legion who had been left behind, it was the signal they’d been waiting for. Across the city, they made their last strikes, arrows falling on their enemy from the grey of the sky while swords flashed in the light of the burning buildings. Men fought and died, on both sides, but this time, when the engagement was over, the Zealots found that their enemy hadn’t been able to escape cleanly.
Down one street, men helped a limping comrade, barely moving faster than a jog as they tried to escape their pursuers. On another, a squad bumbled around a corner, coming face to face with a large group of Zealot armsmen and stared in almost comical shock for a moment before they turned and ran with the Zealots hard on their heels.
Scenes repeated from one side of the stricken city to the other. The Zealots found themselves finally able to capitalize on mistakes made by their Legion counterparts, and they gave chase. Each chase led a winding path but arrived at certain junction points in the city layout, combining the forces of the Zealots and giving them even more confidence as they roared after their hated enemy.
Well-trained leaders might have spotted the oddities in that, could have smelled out the trap, but the Zealots were short on experienced war leaders, and even had they been there, they would have found it remarkably difficult to control such an enraged mob.
Legion and Zealot alike descended on a single unremarkable side street near the south sector of the city, a street with four- and five-story buildings on either side and an aqueduct crossing the way. A street that was already populated by twenty Legion Pedes, an old man, a lady of Sparta…and eight Spartan warriors in full arms and armor standing shoulder to shoulder and shield to shield.
Chapter 7
“It’s time,” Dyna said urgently, eyes falling on the complicated contraption of wood and sinew ropes. “Are we ready? We must be ready!”
“Relax, Dyna, child,” the tired voice of Heron wheezed as he leaned against the stone wall. “We’re almost there. You! Hang that stone. Pull! Pull!”
The small group of men heaved on the rope they held, lifting a large stone that had been attached to a second rope. They got it into place, leaving Dyna to tie it off, then relaxed for a moment.
Relaxation was over when a runner arrived, panting as he gasped out his message. “They’re coming. Three streets down, they’ll be here soon.”
“Right, that’s it then,” Dyna said. “Master Heron, it’s time for you to leave.”
“We’re not quite done yet,” he objected.
“I’ll finish it.”
“Dyna, child, this is my play. I’ll see it through.”
“Pedes,” her voice cracked out, sharply and clearly not to be ignored. She pointed to two of the Legion and then at Heron.
Sneaking around a burning city while constantly jabbing angry revolutionaries with sharp sticks was dangerous business at the best of times. A good many of the Legion squads sent out didn’t return to report on their assignments, but in their deaths, Cassius and the others in command of the Garrison remnants knew that they’d likely managed to achieve at least partial success.
The fighting continued through the night, and most of them lost track of the time as they fought away from the water clocks of the Library and Garrison. But when the sky began to turn from deep black to dirty grey, enough took notice to spread the word.
Horns blew, echoing from one side of the city to the other, causing other horns to blow in response. The meaning of the sound was not entirely lost on the Zealots and their leaders; they knew it was communication, but it fit none of the known codes the Legion employed, and they were at a loss to identify its exact importance.
For the surviving members of the city Garrison and those of the Deiotariana Legion who had been left behind, it was the signal they’d been waiting for. Across the city, they made their last strikes, arrows falling on their enemy from the grey of the sky while swords flashed in the light of the burning buildings. Men fought and died, on both sides, but this time, when the engagement was over, the Zealots found that their enemy hadn’t been able to escape cleanly.
Down one street, men helped a limping comrade, barely moving faster than a jog as they tried to escape their pursuers. On another, a squad bumbled around a corner, coming face to face with a large group of Zealot armsmen and stared in almost comical shock for a moment before they turned and ran with the Zealots hard on their heels.
Scenes repeated from one side of the stricken city to the other. The Zealots found themselves finally able to capitalize on mistakes made by their Legion counterparts, and they gave chase. Each chase led a winding path but arrived at certain junction points in the city layout, combining the forces of the Zealots and giving them even more confidence as they roared after their hated enemy.
Well-trained leaders might have spotted the oddities in that, could have smelled out the trap, but the Zealots were short on experienced war leaders, and even had they been there, they would have found it remarkably difficult to control such an enraged mob.
Legion and Zealot alike descended on a single unremarkable side street near the south sector of the city, a street with four- and five-story buildings on either side and an aqueduct crossing the way. A street that was already populated by twenty Legion Pedes, an old man, a lady of Sparta…and eight Spartan warriors in full arms and armor standing shoulder to shoulder and shield to shield.
Chapter 7
“It’s time,” Dyna said urgently, eyes falling on the complicated contraption of wood and sinew ropes. “Are we ready? We must be ready!”
“Relax, Dyna, child,” the tired voice of Heron wheezed as he leaned against the stone wall. “We’re almost there. You! Hang that stone. Pull! Pull!”
The small group of men heaved on the rope they held, lifting a large stone that had been attached to a second rope. They got it into place, leaving Dyna to tie it off, then relaxed for a moment.
Relaxation was over when a runner arrived, panting as he gasped out his message. “They’re coming. Three streets down, they’ll be here soon.”
“Right, that’s it then,” Dyna said. “Master Heron, it’s time for you to leave.”
“We’re not quite done yet,” he objected.
“I’ll finish it.”
“Dyna, child, this is my play. I’ll see it through.”
“Pedes,” her voice cracked out, sharply and clearly not to be ignored. She pointed to two of the Legion and then at Heron.
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