Chapter 162: The First Crossbows
The watchtower stood like a lone, stone tooth on a low hill overlooking the grey, swirling waters of the Danube. From its heights, a man could see for miles into the misty, forested lands of the Quadi on the far bank. For weeks, this had been a quiet post. Now, it was the tip of the spear.
Titus Pullo, Centurion of the Legio V Devota, stood on the tower's windy platform, the new weapon resting in his hands. It was a marvel of wood, steel, and ruthless ingenuity. Heavier than a standard manuballista, yet so perfectly balanced it felt like an extension of his own arm. He worked the steel lever on its side, his muscles bunching. With a smooth, satisfying series of clicks, the mechanism drew back the heavy bowstring, picked up a new bolt from the magazine on top, and settled it into the firing groove. The entire motion took less than three seconds. He sighted down the length of the weapon, aiming at a distant tree stump. It felt like holding captured lightning.
His men, a small detachment of fifty of his best legionaries, were scattered around the base of the tower, practicing with their own repeating crossbows. Their initial awe had given way to a deadly proficiency. They saw these weapons not as mere tools of war, but as divine gifts, personally delivered from the God-Emperor's own forge. Their faith made them tireless. They practiced until their shoulders ached and their hands were calloused, determined to be worthy of the holy instruments they had been given.
A rider arrived from the main camp downriver, carrying a dispatch sealed not with Alex's personal sigil, but with the mark of the Danube legion's command. It was a standard military order, a welcome return to a world Pullo understood. The new acting commander of the frontier, a grizzled old traditionalist named Vitruvius Pollio who had taken over while Maximus was in the east, had given him his first formal task of the new war.
"You will conduct a reconnaissance in force across the river," the order read. "Probe the enemy vanguard. Assess their numbers, their disposition, and their leadership structure. If possible, capture a prisoner for interrogation. Avoid protracted engagement."
Pullo felt a surge of grim satisfaction. He had received his own, secret instructions from Alex, passed through Maximus before the general had departed. They had been simple and clear: The time for the hunt is over. The time for the war has begun. You are a soldier of Rome first. Obey the orders of the Danube command. Be our eyes, and be our fire. But be disciplined.
Pullo understood. His zeal had been given a new, sharper focus. He was still a holy warrior, but he now knew his role was as a disciplined soldier in a larger, mortal army. He gathered his men. They would cross the river that night.
They used small, flat-bottomed boats, paddling across the wide, dark river under the thin light of a new moon. They moved with a stealth and silence that would have been alien to a standard Roman legion, a skill they had learned during their long, grim hunt in the mountains of Noricum. They were no longer just heavy infantry; they were becoming something else.
On the far bank, they melted into the dense forest. The air was cold, damp, and unnervingly quiet. There were no animal sounds, no birdsong. It was as if the entire forest was holding its breath. After an hour of moving through the trees, they found what they were looking for: the tracks of a large scouting party. And they were fresh.
Pullo led his men to a small, rocky outcropping that offered a good defensive position overlooking a narrow game trail. He set his men up in two ranks, a line of kneeling legionaries in the front, and a line of standing ones behind them. Fifty repeating crossbows were aimed down the trail, fifty steel bolts waiting silently in their grooves.
They did not have to wait long. A group of warriors emerged from the trees, moving down the trail with a coordinated, disciplined silence that immediately set every one of Pullo's nerves on edge. This was not a disorganized rabble of barbarians. This was a trained military unit. There were twenty of them, tall, gaunt men with grim faces and dead eyes. They were armed with crude, heavy-headed axes and long, iron-tipped spears, but they wore strange, dark leather armor that seemed to absorb the faint moonlight. And on the breastplate of each warrior was the faint, painted outline of a spiral with a broken triangle at its center.
Pullo recognized the symbol from the reports of the Noricum massacre. This was the enemy.