The Legionary lowered the tip of his spear and indicated the dead assailant.

  “That’s just a scratch, Optio,” he exclaimed. “I let the other guy die for his cause.”

  “Rah,” shouted the infantrymen on either side of him.

  While the barrier prevented another attack from outside the perimeter, it didn’t stop the two assassins already inside the ring of shields.

  ***

  Although it provided barely any cover, one killer lay under the wagon pole with his head by the yoke. Relying on the wood and the harnesses for the draft horses to break up his form in the dark, the executioner remained still. Around him, the awake NCOs and the combat officer shifted to encourage individual Legionaries. Once the excitement faded, he would crawl, literally backwards, to the front of the wagon. Once there, he’d enter and murder the demon and her handmaidens.

  A pair of hobnailed boots stopped next to the yoke, and the wearer shouted, “Twenty-fifth, count off.”

  “One”

  “Two”

  The boots didn’t move. The counting grew fainter at the rear of the wagon but increased in volume as the men nearer the pole and yoke responded.

  “Seventy-eight”

  “Seventy-nine”

  “Eighty”

  One boot slid away, and the assassin smiled. He’d avoided detection. But when the sound of a steel blade being drawn reached him, he thought about moving. The thought only lasted an instant before he arched his back against the pain of a sword penetrating his spine.

  “It’s not a bear,” the Tesserarius proclaimed while drawing his gladius from the man’s back. “It’s another one of Turtle’s playmates.”

  “Is he dead, Corporal?” a Legionary inquired.

  “I am proud to announce,” the Tesserarius replied, “he unwillingly died for his cause.”

  “Rah,” the forward section of the defensive line shouted.

  Neither the Centuries securing the livestock and the other wagons, nor their officers were willing to leave their defensive line. They had no way of knowing who the Twenty-fifth was fighting. However, the victory cheers told them the Legionaries were winning.

  ***

  At the rear of the bridal wagon, the fourth assassin waited. He’s located a maze in the Century’s pile of tents and extra gear and crawled in between a gap. From the cries of Rah, he realized his three companions in the venture were gone.

  Not afraid to die, but leery of falling short, he recalled Aluth’s words for encouragement.

  “What else is a joining between a Bastetani Priestess and our beloved Prince, but a soft invasion of Celtiberi lands?”

  He listened for the Legion officer and NCOs to make another round. When the Centurion moved off, the murderer scrambled out of the labyrinth. In a crouch, he ran for the rear of the wagon. Leaping, he gripped the top of the tailgate while drawing his long knife.

  “Assassin?” a soft voice called to him from under the wagon.

  He would have ignored the voice and completed his mission. Except a length of cold steel in his gut held him in place.

  “Slayer,” he growled. A shove drove the blade up to the hilt, and the failed murderer moaned. Although he knew the answer, the assassin inquired. “What now?”

  The voice answered, “you die for your cause.”

  The serpent dagger twisted as it rotated upward, piercing the man’s heart. Releasing his grip, the assassin fell from the tailgate. Quickly, the black clad figure ran to his head, grabbed the arms, and pulled the body to the pile of gear. In a final act of butchery, the wavy, double-edged dagger was jerked downward and across the dead man’s stomach. Then, as silently as the figure emerged, Slayer slipped back into the bridal wagon.

  ***

  Normally, after a violent engagement, Legionaries suffered a letdown. It was especially true when dawn chased away the shadowy night. But three bodies told the tale of their brush with danger, and it motivated them.

  “Standdown,” Arathia ordered. “If they want to try their merda in the daylight, we’ll welcome them with bare steel. Rah?”

  A surge of “Rah” came back to him.

  “Centurion,” the Optio called from the rear of the wagon. “We’ve another corpse, but no one is claiming the kill.”

  Fearing the deceased was an animal handler or a wagon driver who stumbled into the wrong camp, Arathia jogged towards his NCO. The death of a servant wouldn’t end a career, but it would dilute the pride his Century was experiencing.

  When he arrived, the Optio informed him, “He’s a Celtiberi, sir. You can tell by his height and the light-colored hair.”

  Arathia held his NCO in high regard. And never more so than at that moment. While the Centurion squinted at a disemboweled gut and cords of intestines spilled on the ground, his Optio managed to notice other details.

  “Who is he?” Arathia inquired. He pulled his eyes away from the gore and examined the ground for footprints.

  “Not one of our drivers or mule handlers,” the NCO informed him. “From the way he’s dressed, and the long knife, I’d say he’s one of the assassins.”

  “Then who killed him?”

  “That sir, is an excellent question.”

  ***

  News of a nocturnal attack reached the command staff. Not long after receiving word, General Scipio, Optio Decimia, ten Legionaries from First Century, and Senior Centurion Thiphilia reached the area controlled by the Twenty-fifth. Immediately they were drawn to the rear of the wagon by the presence of the Centurion and his NCOs.

  “What happened here?” Cornelius inquired.

  He pointed at the mutilated corpse.

  “Sir, he’s one of four murderers we intercepted last night,” Arathia stated. “Two were killed on the defensive line by my infantrymen. Another was discovered under the harnesses by my Tesserarius and sent to Hades before he could do any harm.”

  Sidia Decimia moved to the body and began probing the gash.

  “And this one?” Cornelius asked.

  Sidia twisted to face Cornelius and whispered, “the assassin was killed by our assassin.”

  Overhearing the declaration, the Senior Centurion bristled.

  “How can you say that?” Thiphilia demanded. “The Legionaries of the Twenty-fifth did a magnificent job last night. Perhaps, in the fog of battle, one of them struck down the killer but can’t remember doing the deed.”

  Sidia clamped his mouth shut and locked his eyes on his General. Ever aware of his status among the men, Cornelius Scipio lifted his arms into the air.

  “After an intensive investigation, I’ve decided the Twenty-fifth Century shall be awarded a unit citation,” Cornelius announced. “For gallantry while on special assignment, the men of the Century valiantly defended people under my care against an assault in the night. Killing four, they drove off the rest in as brutal a manner as one would expect from Republic infantrymen. In doing so, they showed bravery, skill, and discipline while upholding the honor of the Steed of Aeneas Legion. Let their praise be voiced far and wide by order of Cornelius Scipio, General of Iberian Legions, the Prorogatio of Iberia.”

  Following his speech, Cornelius handed Arathia a pouch of coins.

  “For your Century’s funeral fund, or a feast when we return to New Carthage,” he explained with a salute. “For now, toss the bodies on the side of the trail so we can get the detachment moving.”

  “Yes, sir,” Arathia acknowledged. After handing the pouch to his Tesserarius, the Centurion exclaimed. “They tried and they died. And the Twenty-fifth? We survived. Drop them on the side of the trail as a warning to others, then gear up. Our day is just starting. Rah?”

  Joining the eighty Legionaries, and the two NCOs, Cornelius and his party added their voices to the resounding “Rah.”

  After the General and his company left, Centurion Arathia looked at the ground for footprints. But the multitude of hobnailed boots had marred the area, destroying any trace of the fourth assassin’s real killer.

  “Are we leaving soon?” Ylli asked from the rear of the wagon.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Arathia confirmed.

  ***

  At midday, the vanguard of skirmishers from Wings Legion, Tribune Justus Furia, and the Oretani scouts reached the top of the mountain. As each stepped onto level ground for the first time in days, they beheld a wonder. Below, a river with wide banks ran through a lush green valley. The land offered almost flat trails, fresh water, and space for a marching camp and safety at night. Yet, the bottomland wasn’t the most spectacular feature of the basin. At the end of the valley, the trail vanished between slopes glowing orange red in the sunlight.

  “Celtiberi territory,” one scout stated.

  “Where?” Justus Furia asked.

  “At the start of the red limestone walls,” the Oretani told him. “We’ll leave you there. The Celtiberi aren’t fond of visitors.”

  “We’re visitors,” staff officer Furia remarked.

  “Like I said, Tribune, they aren’t fond of visitors.”

  As if a mosaic in a fine Roman villa, the high bare rocks set atop the evergreen trees on the lower elevations seemed more art than nature. The vibrant colors and contrasts fascinated Furia. Distracted, he tripped on a rock and dropped to a knee.

  To cover for the Tribune, First Centurion Turibas rushed to his side, and knelt on a knee, as if praying. Then he pulled Furia to his feet.

  “Did you hear about the citation, sir?” Turibas asked, as if they were discussing the vista.

  “I heard a Century had contact,” Furia proposed, “but nothing about an award. What happened?”

  “The Century killed four and the rest ran away,” Turibas answered. “No one knows why the Celtiberi would attack us.”

  Remembering the scout’s words, Furia instructed, “Send a messenger back to General Scipio. Have him forward the engineers to lay out a marching camp.”

  “Yes, sir,” the First Centurion stated. After the courier left, he added. “The citation is for bravery by order of Cornelius Scipio, General of Iberian Legions, the Prorogatio of Iberia. Pretty impressive.”

  “Too bad it’s not a royal decree,” Justus Furia whispered.

  ***

  By early afternoon, the rear of the detachment dropped through the pass and marched into the valley. The movement was so quick, the stockade walls and defensive ditches were only partially constructed.

  “Give me a half maniple across the valley,” Cornelius directed.

  Senior Tribune Zeno of Steed Legion pointed at the head of the valley and also at the rear.

  “Might I suggest another half maniple behind us,” he offered.

  “Seal the valley,” Cornelius agreed. “But leave the Twenty-fifth with the

  Bridal wagon. At least until the walls are up.”

  ***

  The six Centuries of the first maniple jogged by the Legionaries constructing the camp. Two hundred feet down the valley, the columns split with two hundred and forty infantrymen going to the left and an equal number going right.

  They formed two rows with six combat officers spaced behind the defensive lines. The single Tribune for the right side of first maniple galloped from his Eight Century on the left to his Thirteenth Century on the far right.

  After the quick inspection, he reined around, and trotted back the way he came. Each of his six Centurions received a salute as their staff officer rode by.

  In a mirror image of the first maniple, the third maniple stretched across the valley to the rear of the camp.

  “The valley is sealed, sir,” Colonel Quaeso reported.

  Cornelius twisted and looked back at the wall of shields and Legionaries. Then he shifted, peered beyond the camp, and declared, “Your spears are appreciated, Colonel.”

  The comment puzzled Titus Quaeso before he noticed the high pass at the end of the valley.

  Streaming down through the red limestone gap were columns of Celtiberi heavy cavalry. Their lances held high, allowing the sunlight to reflect off of a thousand steel tips. And each of their tough mountain horses pranced in anticipation of battle.

  Chapter 12 – Swallowed My Pride

  Justus Furia also noticed the aggressive greeting party.

  “Centurion Usico, pull two Centuries off the construction work and take them to first maniple,” the Tribune instructed. “I’ll check with the General for more specifics.”

  “Yes, sir,” the standard bearer for Wings Legion acknowledged.

  In the few moments it took Furia to reach Cornelius, Usico had mounted, waved the standard, and gathered one hundred and sixty light infantrymen.

  “General Scipio, I’ve sent two Centuries to the battle line,” Furia informed Cornelius.

  The two Centuries ran to the rear of first maniple, and clustered on the riverbank in the center of the valley.

  “Keep them behind the heavies for now,” Cornelius advised. “I don’t want to initiate a battle if all the Celtiberi want is to intimidate us.”

  Furia sent a Junior Tribune with instructions for the Velites to hold behind the Legionaries.

  “If that’s all they want, sir,” Steed’s Senior Centurion suggested, “it wouldn’t hurt to open a gap in our lines.”

  “What are you thinking?” Cornelius asked.

  “Give them an advantage,” Thiphilia explained. Despite the scoffs and snickers from the command staff, Thiphilia continued. “Open an easy route through our lines.”

  “You mean offer their horsemen the riverbed,” Cornelius said, his eyes opening wide with understanding. “And let our Velites use javelins to keep them in the water. That’s a dangerous test, Senior Centurion.”

  “It’s better than trampled light infantryman, and our front line of shields dodging hooves while battling lances,” Thiphilia stated.

  “Take your standard bearer and make a show of keeping Legionaries out of the water,” Cornelius ordered the senior combat officer. “The infantrymen will appreciate it. Let’s see if the Celtiberi do.”

  Ceionia unstrapped the Steed of Aeneas standard and allowed it to dangle in the windless air of the afternoon. Only when the standard bearer and the Senior Centurion galloped towards first maniple did the cloth lift, and the banner flutter against the pole.

  “That should get their attention,” Cornelius mentioned.

  “Sir, not to be argumentative,” Battle Commander Quaeso remarked, “but half a maniple of heavies, two Centuries of light, and our two hundred mounted, isn’t attention getting. At least not against a thousand heavy cavalrymen. Let me send second maniple forward.”

  While the Legionaries were stacked two deep in order to span the valley, the heavy cavalry mounts facing the infantrymen were in files six deep. By sheer mass, the Celtiberi had already won the battle of intimidation. But they hadn’t won the war, as the war hadn’t started.

  “Not yet,” Cornelius responded. “We need the second to finish the stockade walls. Plus, I’m curious about what the Celtiberi have in mind.”

  “If they get it in their minds, sir,” Zeno warned, “they could ride over the first and be on you quick.”

  “Senior Tribune, if that’s all they wanted, we’d be elbows deep in blades and bodies by now,” Cornelius told him. “I think they’re waiting for something.”

  “Maybe an excuse to attack, like a flight of javelins from our skirmishers,” First Centurion Rosato guessed. “Or an advantage, like that one.”

  A gap opened between the Tenth Century and the Eleventh. Legionnaires moved out of the stream and up onto the dry land of the embankments. Left behind was a gaping hole in the center of the Legion line.

  “There it is,” Cornelius pointed out. The opening may have been a wet, river rock strown pathway, but it would allow riders to get behind the Legion’s shield wall. “Will they take it?”

  From the ranks of Celtiberi riders, a few trotted out and approached the stream. More joined them but none charged down the watercourse.

  “What’s missing, Battle Commander?” Cornelius questioned.

  Hyped up and focused on which Centuries to move to the attack line first, Titus Quaeso missed the meaning of the inquiry.

  “Excuse me, General?”

  “Look at the cavalry,” Cornelius urged. “What’s missing?”

  “They haven’t taken advantage of the breach,” Quaeso guessed.

  “That’s obvious. I’m asking, where is their command staff?”

  A reply came when a trumpet blared from the gap. Riders in bright armor with banners flying overhead came galloping through the opening in the red limestone.

  “I’m going forward to talk with them. You stay here,” Cornelius instructed. “If I’m attacked and go down, Colonel, you’re in command. Make the Celtiberi pay. Then get my men safely out of this valley.”

  The officers in the command staff were impressed by Scipio’s lack of concern for his own safety. And while the Centurions and Tribunes appreciated the bravado by a General of the Republic, the Legionaries in the group came to a different conclusion. They would repeat Cornelius’ order to get his men safely out of the valley. His words would be repeated often along with an oath of fidelity to General Scipio.

  “We’ll be there with you, sir,” Rosato proclaimed.

  “No, First Centurion. Keep First Century around the Colonel. Just give me three veterans,” Cornelius said. “I’ve already got Steed’s and Wings’ banners and Optio Decimia.”

  “That’s not a very impressive entourage, General,” Senior Tribune Zeno remarked. “You’re very courageous to put yourself in harm’s way. But shouldn’t you take a bigger party to display your status?”

  “Aristotle taught that courage is a virtue,” Cornelius responded. “It’s a virtue that moderates our instincts. On one hand it directs us towards recklessness, and on the other, cowardice. In the end, the Greek philosopher believed the courageous person feared only things that were worth fearing. Do you really think a handful of junior staff officers, several Tribunes, a cluster of Centurions, and a hundred veteran infantrymen will elevate me in the eyes of a thousand Celtiberi riders and their commanders?”