Legio IX Hispania (12) (Patreon)

Marcus was not the first to the "train station," but he was among the first who wasn't fleeing for his life.

Even those who saw the heart of Rome's industry rarely heard such noise. Not even the largest aqueduct pumps came anywhere close, or the most complex water wheels. But it would have to be loud to account for the incredible weight of metal rolling towards them.

Suddenly he knew what the rows of fine iron set into the floor in empty wilderness were meant for—they needed to be so strong to support such a mighty beast.

In size it was not much wider than a covered carriage, perhaps twelve feet or so. But in length, the great beast stretched like a centipede, bound at many joints.

"We should flee..." he whispered, legs tightening around the stallion bearing him. Not that he was in any danger of falling—Marcus was a master of riding, even bareback. But how could he see something so terrifying without being moved? Whatever might operated this war machine was truly something to be feared.

"There won't be very many of them aboard," Braeburn said. Despite his urgings, the pony continued forward. "Maybe a dozen? These trains transport new slaves, and sometimes take away part of the harvest. There aren't very many minotaurs aboard."

Marcus almost leapt from the horse—but if the former captive could keep charging into danger, what kind of legionnaire would he be if he fled? Not one fit to be the Legatus. "Even a dozen men with such a mighty weapon would be formidable—the front car is forged of solid iron!"

It wasn't just the incredible strength required to move such weight, but the wealth! Thousands of swords, hundreds of breastplates, maybe even more—all melted into a single machine? This nation must have once paved its streets with gold!

"It can't leave the tracks. That hissing—it's slowing down. The minotaurs will leave to make their inspection. If they see what's waiting for them, they may try to gallop away for reinforcements."

That last word did it, clicking Marcus's tactical training back into place. This was no different from any other engagement in their conflict, another strange tool wielded by an enemy he knew little about. The legion did not need to understand an enemy's every weapon to defeat them. The ancients knew how to fight, and left their wisdom to guide him. He only had to use it.

So many fled, this works to our advantage. The machine might have continued without stopping if it saw so many legionnaires.

It did make a challenge for his troops, even so. They would need to unite, then reach it quick enough to keep it from speeding away.

"Down that street there!" He nudged with one leg, leaning forward. "The first cohort stationed some men there on patrol duty. Hurry!"

He half-expected the strange stallion to resist him, perhaps insisting on his own tactics to fight the invaders. But no—Braeburn turned sharply, galloping with the same swiftness he expected in the best trained equite's horses.

Soon they came to a small row of tents, and a handful of watching legionnaires. Others rushed around inside the tents, strapping on their armor or grabbing weapons. To their credit, he saw no sign these men had fled. "Legionnaires!" he called, gesturing forward. "Send your slaves to summon all within reach! Follow the sound, follow the metal! We are under attack!"

"Through our fortifications?" asked a familiar voice. Lucius appeared from beside a campfire, already dressed in full armor. That man sure had a way to get where he was most needed. "How?"

Braeburn watched the conversation with confusion, only half-comprehending. Shame the goddess couldn't share her gift of words with everyone, instead of just him. At least he knew when to stop. "A great iron machine. A dozen strong minotaurs are inside. We must not let them take their machine away with knowledge of us. Do you have a bow?"

He had to ask a few legionnaires before one was found and offered to him, along with a quiver. Not Marcus's own—but it would have to do. "First cohort!" Lucius bellowed, his voice carrying over the whistling machine. "To me! Double time!"

Slaves and messengers scattered around them, all too eager to get away from the machine.

Legionnaires ran together, keeping almost perfect formation along the road. Without his command, Braeburn wheeled to follow. "Stay behind them!" he said. "The monsters will break on our shields."

At least one legionnaire turned to look back at him, just as the other passing observers along the road did. None were quite brave enough to demand of the Legatus why he was speaking to his horse.

The mighty iron beast now sat at rest beside the wooden platform. While motionless there, Marcus suddenly understood the purpose of that platform, and why it was so high—exactly the height of the doors running along the metal beast.

Doors opened near the front, and a small mob of armed minotaurs poured out, roaring into the air with their usual bestial calls.

Only they weren't just the baying of cattle anymore, stretched down to an imposing rumble. Now he understood them.

"What is the meaning of this, Dry Vigor? We ride all this way, and not a soul comes to greet us! You cannot possibly have fallen to the farmers."

"Halt!" Lucius yelled, just as loud. "Shields in front! Pikes behind!" He lifted a whistle to his lips, echoing the command with a few short, shrill blasts.

His men obeyed, as though putting on a performance for the intruders. All around their captured town, legionnaires appeared from streets and behind buildings, moving in scattered groups. Many of those men were unarmed or partially armored, holding only makeshift weapons. Other whistles echoed from further away, as scattered centurions cut through the chaos and mobilized their troops.

They were supposed to have more warning, not get attacked from within their own unprotected underbelly. Slower to rise or not, his men moved.

The minotaurs stopped, scattered awkwardly on the platform. Others lingered in the doorway, watching with visible confusion. Then their leader spoke again, striding forward off the platform. "Is this a joke? Dry, where did you find these hairless apes? And you trained them to dress and wave sticks around too—Tirek will be so pleased! Instead of solving the shortfall in your harvests, you created this farce!"

No minotaur answered. Lucius's men shifted nervously in place, shields filling the street almost perfectly. Hooves galloped in the distance now—his equitae, or whoever happened to be nearby. None were prepared for this fight.

Marcus urged his mount forward, to the edge of the legionnaires' formation. Braeburn obeyed, strangely silent now. His ears folded back, steps halting and unsteady.

This was terror—the same fear that waited for any untrained horse taken to battle. No matter how “brave” the horse breeder insisted their stock might be, none could be brought to the battlefield who was not trained. But did the same rule hold about supernatural beasts?

"I give you this opportunity to surrender!" Marcus called. His voice was much higher than the minotaurs, and not so loud. Officers rarely had to bellow orders like centurions. Even so, it cut clearly through the silent town center, over nervous humans and monsters alike. "Lay down your arms, and I will spare you."

"You will spare me?" The leader turned towards him, hopping down off the platform. He was an enormous specimen even for a minotaur—at least eight feet tall, with wickedly curved horns on his head, and a coat covered in scars. He wore an iron breastplate over his chest, and a leather skirt around his waist—not that different from a legionnaire, in some ways. Only his armor was dirty and scuffed, with patches of rust cankering near the corners. If one of his men appeared for inspection dressed like this, Marcus would've ordered him flogged.

"Flies and insects. Fifty bits to whoever brings me that fancy helmet!"

A roar went up from the train. Minotaur hooves stamped on the deck—then they charged.

Marcus had seen these tactics before, several times now. The legion had indeed been blessed by the nameless goddess that their enemies were such brutal barbarians—if minotaurs had battle discipline and proper equipment, they never would've stood a chance.

Instead of moving in together, the minotaurs crashed against their shields one at a time. Sometimes they had enough force to fling men back, opening gaps in the formation—but the first cohort had already adapted their tactics. Pikes came up, and most who tried to charge ended their  brief attack impaled on a legion weapon.

Their leader wasn't stupid, however untrained he might be. He began to retreat, watching as his attack broke against the shields instead of crashing through it. Then he turned. "Engineer! New orders!"

He's going to run. Marcus finally drew the bow, sighting his target with a decade of practice and skill. Then he loosed. The shot wasn't as accurate as he could've done from his own weapon, but the arrow still flew true—over the heads of legionnaires, between the last few struggling minotaurs, and directly into his enemy's naked back.

The minotaur fell, his words strangled into a roar.

Braeburn gasped, twisting around to look back at him. Shock plastered to the stallion's face, utterly bewildered. "How?"

"My father hired the finest Saracen archers to train me. He leapt to one side, landing on the dirt road. He settled the bow across his back, then walked past his mount. "Return to your kin, stallion. We will see to these."

Braeburn pawed behind him, as many a disobedient horse had done before. "Pardon, sir... but there may be ponies on that train. I'd like to lead them to our... camp."

Marcus nodded his approval, then continued between the lines of resting legionnaires. Already the medicus were rushing into the fray, stretchers ready to carry them away. Surviving enemy soldiers were sorted into two groups, those who had taken serious injuries and those who had not. The former were put down quickly, while the latter were shoved and battered into a line.

Several of those would not surrender, even as they were obviously overcome. These might have more hair than any Gaul, but they were cut from the same cloth: barbarians all.

"Lift your blades to the legion and die," he barked, short and harsh. "Surrender, and we may spare you."

The surviving monsters all turned to look at him, expression varying somewhere between fury and horror. "Tiny demons," said one. Another few flopped forward onto the ground and stopped fighting.

One lunged upward again, tossing aside the legionnaires—their leader. He raged forward, battering men and horses alike, attention focused suddenly on Marcus. "Die, demon!"

Marcus drew his gladius in an eyeblink, sliding sideways into a fighting stance. He should've known—one arrow wouldn't be enough to fell such a mighty creature. "Archers!" he yelled, voice booming over the clearing.

They jerked to alertness, at least a dozen from all sides. To his surprise, the charging monster halted, comprehension on his bestial face. He stretched to full height, towering over Marcus. "What matter of creature are you, small thing?" he growled. "These who fight with you—cannot threaten Tirek's rule."

Marcus kept his sword held high, high enough for the archers to see. "Many have said likewise to the legions of mighty Rome. Their bones are broken, their children are our slaves, and their fields are salted, never to grow again."

The creature laughed, but there was something of doubt in it now. He was nervous. "Are you threatening me?"

"Surrender, minotaur," said the pony, speaking from just behind him. "You already lost. You've never fought anything like these humans before."

"Is the Legatus talking to the beast?" someone muttered from just behind him—a medicus, leaning over a soldier with a freshly-broken bone.

He ignored the question, for now. "Tell me of this Tirek," he demanded. "How many legions does he command? How many cities does he rule?"

More laughter. "Now it makes demands of me. No torture will steal what I know, mouse."

"Very well." He lowered the sword, and fifty arrows pierced the minotaur. A few flew wild, whistling overhead. Most did not. A steaming corpse dropped to the dirt, spreading blood into the soil.

Marcus sheathed the gladius in a single snap of metal against leather. "Lucius? Where are you?"

The centurion stepped forward, frilled helmet now resting under one arm. "Here, Legatus."

"Order a work crew to drag the garbage to the pyre. Then summon my engineers to this... machine."

Finally he turned, meeting the pony's eyes. "You wished to speak to the captives aboard? I will free them."

The pony nodded—then he dropped low, and emptied his stomach into the dirt.