Bloodbath

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As both sides prepared for a brutal fight, I used the days leading up to it to make multiple trips between my refuge and the Legion's camp. For three days, I did nothing but fly back and forth, bringing as much mortar ammunition as possible. I knew this would be the perfect opportunity to use it, and every load I transported in the Vertibird was vital to ensure our advantage.

The Sundogs' camp was only a few kilometers from our position, perfectly vulnerable to a massive bombardment. All we needed was enough ammunition to saturate their defenses and prepare to unleash hell upon them. The 81 mm mortars, carefully distributed in our positions, were ready to rain fire on the Sundogs as soon as we had Lanius' green light.

With the Vertibird running at full capacity thanks to the cold fusion generator, fuel was no longer a concern. The technicians at my refuge worked tirelessly, loading munitions and preparing more rounds to keep the flow constant. Meanwhile, I coordinated with my men at the Legion's camp, ensuring all the mortars were operational and in position for when the moment arrived.

Lanius watched me, still with that air of distrust toward my approach. His warrior nature drove him to prefer direct brutality, hand-to-hand combat, while I proposed a more calculated strategy.

"So your plan is to defeat them from here, without even facing them directly," he repeated with a slight tone of disapproval as he watched my men prepare the mortars.

"Exactly, Legate," I replied calmly, pointing to the lined-up weapons. "From this position, we can bombard their camp before they even manage to advance. The profligates have made a mistake by positioning their camp so close to us. They're within range of our long-range mortars, and with a massive barrage of high-explosive rounds, we'll soften the ground for the legionaries' charge. Once weakened by the bombardment, the resistance your forces will face will be minimal."

Lanius was silent for a few seconds, contemplating the possibility. I knew he wasn't one to favor long-range tactics. For him, glory lay in the clash of swords, in the blood spilled in combat. But he wasn't a fool, and if there was something that could offer him a crushing victory without unnecessarily wearing down his men, he was willing to listen.

Lanius looked at me, evaluating my words with his typical coldness. Despite his reservations about my strategy, my promise of total devastation seemed to stir something in him.

"How much damage do you think you can inflict on the profligates from here?" Lanius asked, keeping his gaze fixed on me.

I smiled, confident in my plan. "I have over two thousand rounds, and I swear by Lord Caesar, I'm going to use every one of them. I'll cause a massacre so great that even the god Mars will be eager to witness the profligates being torn apart. I won't stop firing until the ground is a crater so deep it can be seen for kilometers."

The smile didn't leave my face. The impact would be monumental, we could destroy their camp from a safe distance. The mortars were already lined up, my men ready to fire as soon as the order was given.

Lanius slowly nodded, his mask of Mars giving him an even more imposing appearance. "Then, Gaius, do not invoke Lord Caesar's name in vain—make sure your promise is kept. Let the profligates know the true power of the Legion."

The Legion's forces outnumbered the Sundog tribals by a wide margin. We would strike first, while the bulk of the Legion positioned themselves in the triplex acies. The attack was to be launched in the early morning, ensuring that as many tribals as possible were caught off guard, maximizing terror.

My men, well-prepared and disciplined, were ready to unleash hell upon the Sundogs.

"Centurion Gaius," Drusus called out as he inspected the mortars, ensuring they were spaced adequately to prevent catastrophic explosions should one malfunction. "Everything is ready, just give the word, and we'll rain fire on the profligates."

The first rays of sunlight illuminated the battlefield, and that's when I saw it: a torch moving from right to left. It was Lanius' signal. The time had come.

"Very well, gentlemen… no mercy for the profligates!" I ordered, motioning to the ammunition. My men, trained for this moment, responded with speed and precision. With a single motion of my hand, they began loading the mortars.

The sound of the rounds being fired surrounded us. Within seconds, dozens of mortars thundered in unison, as if the very sky were exploding. My legionaries worked like a well-oiled machine—loading, firing, and cleaning the mortar tubes in perfectly synchronized cycles. There was no room for mistakes; they had practiced for hours to perfect this moment.

From a distance, I could see the red flashes far off, as explosions began to consume the enemy camp. Dust and debris clouds rose swiftly, obscuring the tribals' view as our projectiles rained down upon them.

Each shot was a death sentence for the Sundogs. The flashes continued, each one a fulfilled promise of total destruction. My men did not relent, firing at maximum speed, the deafening sound of the mortars filling the air as the ground trembled beneath our feet.

"Keep it up!" I shouted. "Don't stop firing until there's nothing left."

I could imagine the chaos on the other side—the screams of the profligates, their confusion as their vehicles exploded and their warriors fell, one after another, under our rain of destruction.

For endless minutes, the mortars roared without pause. Occasionally, we saw massive explosions in the distance, likely indicating that we had hit some fuel depot, lighting up the horizon with a fierce glow. Smoke billowed, and the echo of the blasts reverberated in our ears—a symphony of destruction that went on uninterrupted.

The legionaries around me maintained a steady rhythm, firing without rest, but slowly the massive stockpile of ammunition we had brought began to dwindle. The last round was loaded and fired, marking the end of our artillery barrage. Still, through my binoculars, I saw the explosions continue—residual echoes of the devastation we had unleashed.

The legionaries descended like a hurricane of destruction, organized into their three characteristic lines of the triplex acies. Every soldier knew their role in this grim dance, a lesson etched into them through blood and fire during their training. The vexillarius marched at the front, bearing the bull standard like a beacon for the men following behind, infusing them with almost superhuman strength. The rifles spat fire, perhaps shooting once or twice, and the real combat began when the legionaries threw down their firearms and unsheathed their machetes, gleaming in the first strike of the morning sun.

In the Sundogs' camp, chaos reigned. The defenders, caught off guard by the violent bombardment, desperately tried to organize, but the legionary tide was unstoppable. The swords and machetes of the legionaries struck with deadly precision, cutting tendons and shattering bones. A single slash to the side was enough to spill the guts of the tribals, who, despite their savage fury, could not match the brutal discipline of the Legion. The screams of the dying mingled with the dull sound of steel slicing through flesh and the clash of blades.

From my vantage point, I watched as a section of veterans flanked one of the Sundogs' defensive positions. The tribals, huddled behind destroyed vehicles, tried to fire their weapons in a desperate defense, but the legionaries quickly surrounded them. Machetes fell with force, slitting throats and severing limbs, while the Sundogs were reduced to a bloody mass.

Further away, a group of Sundogs attempted to flee toward the hills, but the prime legionaries, armed with their bolt-action rifles, took them down one by one, like hunters picking off helpless prey. The gaps in the enemy line widened with every passing minute, and the prime legionaries showed no mercy. In the narrow streets of the camp, the tribal resistance crumbled under the relentless advance of the Legion's ranks.

The terrain, already devastated by the mortar fire, became a swamp of blood and debris. The legionaries, fueled by their thirst for revenge, crushed any remaining resistance. There was no order to stop, only to advance, destroy, and claim.

The carnage in the Sundogs' camp continued without respite. The ground, blackened by previous explosions and stained with blood, bore witness to the Legion's relentless fury. Every step the legionaries took was marked by the crunch of bones underfoot, the metallic clang of swords striking against makeshift defenses, and the agonizing cries of the wounded and dying.

I could see survivors from the Sundogs trying to make a disorganized retreat. Many fled on foot, abandoning the wrecked vehicles that had once been their greatest advantage at the start of the battle.

The vexillarius continued to wave the bull standards, as if Caesar himself were watching over the battlefield. The wind, heavy with the smell of blood and gunpowder, made the banners flutter while more and more legionaries swept through the camp's last defenses. It didn't matter where I looked—the same fate awaited them tribals torn apart, legionaries advancing without pause, and a palpable sense of despair among the remaining Sundogs.

A small group of Sundogs had tried to entrench themselves in the ruins of a building, improvising a barricade with rubble and bodies. The veteran legionaries showed no mercy. They tossed improvised explosives to clear the way, and within seconds, flames and smoke engulfed what remained of the tribal resistance.

When the legionaries finally broke through the line and entered, the sound of swords cutting through bodies echoed like a funeral drum. The screams died out, and the once-bustling camp prepared for battle was now nothing more than a graveyard for the Sundogs.

I took a moment to lower my binoculars and assess the scene. The Sundogs, who had once faced the Legion with such ferocity, were completely defeated. There was no mercy in the legionaries' eyes, no truce. This wasn't just a victory; it was a message: the Legion does not forget, and it certainly does not forgive.

The battlefield was littered with bodies—some mutilated, others charred, and many torn apart by the explosions. The legionaries continued to advance among the debris and remains, finishing off any Sundog who still breathed. It wasn't just the brutality of the Legion that made this scene so striking, but the fact that the Sundogs, once feared for their ambushes and tactics, now lay in the dust like any other tribe crushed under Caesar's boot.

I looked at my men, still on the hill, watching everything unfold. It felt strange to think that while the Legion carried out the bloodiest part of its work, we had remained above, serving as the precise artillery that had paved the way for this massacre. My century stood firm, ready for whatever was needed, but our task was complete.

With the battle practically decided and the Sundogs defeated, I ordered my men to pack up the mortars, making sure not to leave anything behind. Every piece was essential for the next battle, and though the victory had been decisive, we always had to be prepared for whatever came next. The work was not over, and we knew well that the Legion never wasted anything.

We descended the hill swiftly, advancing toward the devastated camp. The atmosphere was heavy, thick with the stench of death, gunpowder, and smoke. The legionaries had already started gathering the surviving Sundogs. Those who hadn't been killed in the fight were now captives, soon to be turned into slaves—just another cog in Caesar's war machine.

My men joined the efforts, searching every corner of the camp for useful equipment. Weapons, ammunition, vehicle parts—anything that could be of value. The Sundogs' wagons, though mostly damaged, could be salvaged with the right repairs. "Every piece counts," I reminded my legionaries as they scoured the area.

On the other hand, we began placing slave collars on the captives. Some tribals were still breathing heavily, wounded but not enough to have died in battle. Those would be useful. The legionaries placed the collars without mercy, knowing that one way or another, the Sundogs would now serve the Legion—whether in construction, forced labor, or as future soldiers.

As the sun began to set, we ensured that no corner of the camp was left unchecked. Every man knew his task, and though the battle was over, the work of the Legion never truly ended. We knew this was just a small victory, as there were still many more tribes to conquer