Legio IX Hispania (16) (Patreon)

There was little in all the world Marcus enjoyed less than assaulting a city. 

Even when there was no question in his mind whether the cause was just—even when his foe was wicked and the empire merciful, a voice of doubt always remained in his mind, insistent and unvarying. It told him what he ought to know already—that the decisions of war were made far from the people whose homes would burn and whose sons would die.

Dodge had even less warning of their approach than Appleloosa. One moment there was a clear morning scattered with clouds—the next, hundreds of marching footsteps and the trumpets of war. 

Even many human cities would resist rather than instantly surrender. None of those were filled with creatures larger than any man, with bodies covered in thick muscle and minds that boiled with constant rage.

From their roars of challenge and bold charge out the strange too-wide streets of black stone, the minotaurs and other beasts must surely have imagined themselves conquerors.

Marcus's legion soon disabused them of this notion, when the first barrage of trebuchet fire crossed the early morning sky and rained boiling oil on them from afar. His equitae drove through the wreckage that remained, trampling dozens and opening the way for the first cohort to advance.

There was no siege of Dodge, as that implied an opponent qualified to put up resistance. There was only fire, metal, and blood.

Two days of brutal combat later, it was over. Marcus walked through the center of Dodge astride his horse, rather than on her back. Better for his men to see him walking on his own feet—and better for the ponies of Dodge not to see him as the brutal conqueror who would crush them just as the minotaurs had done.

"Prisoners?" he asked, as Sorio jogged up to meet them. He slowed in his advance, removing the frilled helmet from his shoulder and tucking it under one arm. "How many?"

"At least ten thousand, sir," came the reply. "Most are non-combatants. The elderly and the young. As in Appleloosa, the sexes are evenly mixed. Their women are as likely to fight as their men. Few of fighting age either fled or surrendered."

"A people should know when they're conquered," said Quintus, trailing not far behind. His men had the grim task of surrounding the city and catching those who tried to flee. "They seem incapable of it, even when all strategy and reason would compel a retreat."

"They were the same in the wilderness," Lucius said, from just beside Marcus. Like Marcus, he retained full armor and uniform, just in case. Even one of these oversized enemies could easily kill a man, if he was unprepared. "They fight like they expect us to crumble and surrender. When we don't, they only respond with greater anger."

"Anger that has left us with a significant burden to solve," Sorio said. "Our stores can barely sustain our own numbers. I can't imagine how we will provide for so many prisoners."

"We won't," he answered, without hesitation. "Take the 4th cohort and the... 3rd. Separate the prisoners into small groups, allowing families to remain together if they choose. Tell them they're free to leave and go to whatever city. Give them a small amount of provisions for the journey and let them go. Those who stay will be expected to work."

"Tell them," Quintus repeated. "Legatus, we are not all so blessed. None have this gift of speech in animal tongues. Perhaps your divine allies would grant it to more of us."

He stopped. Quintus was right about one thing—they couldn't communicate with their new prisoners. His own labors were far too urgent.

Fortunately, he had help. He waved to another group trailing behind him—the ponies who had elected to join his company. Braeburn was among them, along with the smaller horse who had taken to wearing an oversized length of pink cloth in her mane. Nevermind how such a creature could even tie a bow.

"Braeburn, I need your help."

Quintus rolled his eyes. "Sir, you can't..."

He ignored the declaration. Marcus did not need a centurion's leave to make his command decisions. 

The ponies approached, with several others following close behind. He hadn't learned most of their names—but they all had them. Some were quite complex, hinting at the culture and family bonds that inspired them. Others were simple puns with little or no meaning at all.

"Legatus?" said Braeburn. Ever since the fight at the train station, this horse seemed as much afraid of him as he was grateful. Afraid enough to learn his title. "What can we do?"

"I need ponies to help release some prisoners. Go with these men—and tell each group of minotaurs you come to that they can choose to leave, if they wish. They will be given some food and allowed to go. If they do not go, they will be expected to work for their keep. It will be hard, but I will treat them better than they treated you."

The ponies shared a look. But what Marcus knew about reading a horse's expression didn't seem to carry over so well. Their feelings were so much more complex than an animal.

"We could try to trade them with the enemy," said Lucius. "Perhaps their king would trade for their lives. Or perhaps we could eat them. They do look like cattle, almost."

"We want to make surrender easy, and war hard," Marcus said. "If other cities hear we do that to their prisoners, they will fight far harder. I would like stories of our victory to spread. That we will offer them acceptable terms with their surrender." He turned back to the pony. "Can you give them our terms? Help my soldiers separate them into the group that wants to leave, and the one that will stay."

"We can do it," said the female with her ribbon. "Might need to get some other ponies to help. Lots of minotaurs lived up here. More than there were ponies."

"Find some volunteers," he said. "When they've passed my instructions, I want you two to come back to me. I'll be at the storehouse. My guards will let you through."

The two shared another look, then darted off the way they'd come.

Marcus's human advisors watched them go. Their faces were far clearer to him—disdain, skepticism, confusion, or simple disbelief. How many times would he demonstrate their intelligence before his legion accepted such a simple truth?

"It would be better to take them all as slaves," Quintus said. "But if we did, I'm not sure who would watch them all. Even their young can be quite dangerous."

"We can expect a counterattack," Lucius said. "The beasts fought relentlessly for their pride—many fell without purpose or gain. When they learn of this defeat, they may march against us immediately."

"I hope so," Marcus said. "If they charge out in reckless violence, then they aren't carefully marshaling their forces, learning to break our formations, or preparing to support themselves once they reach us. It will cost far fewer of the legion's lives that way."

Dodge was far larger than Appleloosa, with many buildings of brick and stone, with fine glass windows. Even Rome's best glassblowers would be in awe of what they saw here—perfect flat sheets, some larger than a horse, without warping or imperfection.

No Minotaur showed any sign of that craft—just as in Appleloosa, they were only occupiers, working the local population relentlessly while contributing little in return.

Now they were gone, but their victims remained. Ponies emerged from their tents and pens, or else spilled out on the streets when Marcus's men released them. 

Unlike the minotaurs, his troops had no reservations about horses moving among them. If anything, Marcus feared the reverse—that a few legionnaires might have clever ideas about seizing some “property” for themselves, and capture a few. 

He saw no sign then—just streets packed with the unfortunate creatures. Most were lean and poorly fed, or else showing other signs of neglect and abuse. They did not act as wild animals free of their cage, galloping from the streets and into the wilderness to find new lives. 

Strange as it was for Marcus to consider, Dodge was their home. These horses had built it, somehow. 

Magic. This power that Braeburn and the others claimed had been “stolen” from them. The same power that their king kept in storage here, a reserve for his own use at his will and pleasure. Maybe once they got their power back, he would see how animals had somehow built themselves a nation.

"There is also the matter of these," Sorio said, gesturing at the ponies watching from the sidewalks. "Few seem strong enough to work the fields. We will need to spread them thin to graze so many."

"This wasn't a city of farmers," he said. Whenever he spoke, ponies went alert, eyes fixed on him. But none dared approach past the wall of bodyguards that kept them apart. "These were craftsmen. Forgemasters, blacksmiths, woodworkers. I am told the forges here refined much metal... so much that I have a hard time believing it. But I did not study that craft."

"If you say so, sir. But what use is a horse in a woodshop? How many animals does a blacksmith need to drive the bellows of his forge? There are thousands of animals here, and none who own them."

"I would tell you the answer, scribe. But you would not believe. We will see together. I suspect many of these will soon join themselves with us. A legion requires wood, cement, and steel. We will find all of them here, and much more."

He stopped in Dodge's central square, where many of the ponies had begun to gather. They could not fail to notice the different treatment for their kind and the minotaurs—even at a distance, he heard their hope. They spoke to each other just as waiting men might do, wondering what manner of rescuers they had. 

With no communication he had seen, these ponies chose the same name for the legion that the horses of Appleloosa had, "Riders."

Absurd choice—most legionnaires knew as much for riding as they did of logic or history.

No fence contained them, and plenty had probably decided to flee from the city already. Most were too weak for that, and so they remained.

They fell silent as Marcus's group approached, backing away. Some bowed, while others just looked away, avoiding him the same as any other animal with a cruel master.

Marcus gestured to his bodyguards to remain where they were, then handed Latria's reins to one of the Tribunes. He walked forward alone, crossing the desolate square. Once there had been a garden here, with wooden furniture for climbing or some other animal purpose. Now it was ashes.

"Ponies of Dodge," he said, as clearly as he could. "My name is Marcus Petronius Romulus, Legatus of the 9th Legion of Rome. The goddess of this land has called us here to drive off your conquerors and return what was stolen from you."

As he spoke, the ponies stopped their fearful muttering and listened. Soon they were crowding close, though no one wanted to be the first to leave the burned park. Unnaturally intelligent or not, they still hid within their herd. 

"Is there any leader among you? Governor or prince, priest or general? Come forward so that we may speak."

The horses looked at each other, whispering in hushed tones. After a brief argument, someone shuffled out of the group. A winged mare, with bright mane and softer coat. Various scars covered her body, but she walked proud anyway, meeting his eyes. "The mayor is gone. I can speak for the ponies." 

She stopped a short distance from him, holding out her wing. "I'm Lighting Dust. Did the princess send you?"

"A strange goddess called us here," he answered. "We found this good land ransacked by barbarians, tramping your fields, and befouling your temples. Perhaps you would like them back."

"For what?" she snapped, almost instantly. "We saw what you did. All the... killing. Even the minotaurs didn't kill like you."

He shrugged. "A question of competence, not bloodlust." He stepped forward, lowering his voice so only the single horse could hear him.

Even after weeks in this new land, part of him still felt like a lowly actor in some scandalous performance. He was talking to a horse! But the goddess was watching. He would not disappoint her. "Rome does not bleed for charity, Lightning Dust. But we are not your old masters. I will not enslave you or your city. I would rather work together as friends, to drive these monsters from this land."

"Prove it," she whispered back. "I see no reason to trust you."

"I will give you one," he answered, stepping back. "There is something stored here, something that was stolen from you. It's high time we return it."