The first sign of General Scipio’s return were the Velites. Ranging far ahead of the main body, the light infantrymen strolled in front of Tribune Furia. Just behind the Tribune, Wings Standard Bearer Usico and First Centurion Turibas rode in front of the Legionaries of First Century. Much farther back, General Scipio rode with the heavy infantry of Steed Legion.

  Seeing the walls of New Carthage, every man in the detachment increased his pace. Waiting for them were hot meals, beds under roofs, and evenings on the town.

  As much as the infantrymen and their officers were thrilled to see the city between the bays, none were more excited than Justus Furia. The trip had provided him with another set of crimes by Scipio and he was in a hurry to send the condemning letter. Perhaps, the latest report to his contact would get him recalled. The thought of leaving the barbarians of Iberia behind and returning to Rome carried Furia to the causeway.

  Jace Kasia waited beside the roadway. Interestingly, Senior Tribune Kasia wore a Colonel’s medal. And on his helmet, the red comb ran from front to back. For a heartbeat, Furia considered starting a chain of letters listing Kasia’s crimes. Although intriguing, Tribune Furia feared starting that scroll, as the act would delay his departure from Iberia.

  ***

  “Tribune Furia, First Centurion Turibas, and Centurion Usico, guide our men to the Wings area,” Jace Kasia instructed. “Give Senior Centurion Ceradin a list of wounded or dead, then go clean up. He’ll handle the return inspections.”

  “Where will you be, sir?” Furia inquired.

  “With General Scipio, I assume,” Jace told him. “If not, I’ll be in the headquarters office waiting for his summons.”

  When the infantry of Steed Legion came abreast of Jace, he saluted General Scipio. If he had any doubt as to Cornelius’ state of mind concerning the hostages and the brothers from the Ilergetes tribe, the General answered the question.

  “Ride with me, Colonel Kasia,” Cornelius invited. Then before leaving the march, he addressed Steed’s commanders. “Gentleman, thank you for your help. We’ll meet for dinner tomorrow to discuss the future. For now, express my gratitude to the Legionaries of Steed Legion for a job well done.”

  Cornelius nudged his horse out of the ranks followed by Sidia. Jace joined them and the three circled around and were soon cantering along the south bay road. None of Steed’s First Century followed. The guard duty had passed to the five Legionaries from Wing’s First Century.

  “A thing I miss from my days as a Tribune,” Cornelius mentioned, “is the ability to go for a ride alone with my thoughts.”

  “The thoughts you had while praying for Legions to command, sir?” Jace inquired.

  Cornelius looked at the sky and inhaled.

  “The exact ideas I am trying to put into action as a General,” he admitted. After a humorless laugh, he described. “There once was an old man. Poor and barefooted, he went to the woods every day and collected sticks to sell as firewood. One day, bent and exhausted, he dropped the bundle and sat on it. Dejected, feeling at wits end, and having nothing to live for, he exclaimed, Master Death come and end my misery. To his horror, in a flash a terrible apparition appeared. You called for Death, the ghoul said. What can I do for you, old man? Terrified by the result of his hasty statement, the old man changed his mind. He said, the bundle is heavy. Can you help me pick up the branches, and load them on my back? The moral to this story, Jace, is to be careful what you wish for. You just might get it.”

  “That’s very profound of you, sir,” Jace offered.

  “That’s Aesop, not me. He was a Greek slave, a storyteller, and a wise man,” Cornelius clarified. “And now that I have my Legions, I must be careful what I wish for. Because I might get a battle with Hannibal before I’m ready. But you, Colonel Kasia, can I assume you’re about to report on a successful mission?”

  “King Indibilis needs his daughters to secure support for his throne. And his brother, War Chief Mandonius, requires the companionship and counsel of his wife to sleep at night,” Jace reported on the value of the hostages. “However, General, before you turn over Budarica and Betina to the King and return Ama to the tribe’s War Chief, I have a suggestion.”

  “I’ll go with any advice you have,” Cornelius relented. “Afterall, you were in their camp.”

  “That’s one way to put it, sir,” Jace granted. “Before you give up the hostages in a storm of ink while trying to forge a treaty, understand this. The brothers, or rather the Ilergetes tribe, only respect strength.”

  “You’re saying just returning valuable hostages isn’t enough?”

  “A treaty under those circumstances, General Scipio, will last until you turn your back on them,” Jace warned. “Let history be your guide. Ten years ago, your father defeated a war party and captured Indibilis. After a year, the future King made promises and was released.”

  “And Indibilis returned the favor of freedom by attacking and murdering my father,” Cornelius summed up the history lesson. “Your point is well taken.”

  “You could always bleed and burn the hostages,” Jace suggested. “No one in Rome, and very few in Iberia, would blame you.”

  “I’ve just swallowed my pride to maintain peace in the east,” Cornelius stated. “It makes no sense to create a vengeful enemy in the north to satisfy a burning in my gut. It’s a fire, I’m afraid, that wouldn’t be extinguished by cutting the throats of a woman and a pair of girls.”

  “Then we’ll need to formulate a plan to get their attention,” Jace said.

  “And actions, General Scipio, to make them fear crossing you in the future,” Sidia advised.

  They reached a four-man artillery installation. Sporting a fresh coat of oil, the beams of the onager glowed as if the weapon was a piece of fine furniture. Plus, a new cable hung slack, ready to take the tension required to launch a large stone. Standing next to their catapult, the four artillerymen held a brace while saluting.

  “That, Legionaries, is a beautiful machine,” Cornelius praised the onager. He returned the salute, wheeled his horse around, and added. “With professionals like you on the defensive line, I have renewed faith in the survival of our Republic. Thank you.”

  As General Scipio, Colonel Kasia, and the others rode back towards New Carthage, the artillerymen buried their mouths on their forearms.

  “Did you hear that?” one got out by suppressing an urge to yell. “Do you hear what the General said about us?”

  “We are professionals,” another repeated for the crew, “the General said so.”

  Far away, Cornelius glanced at Jace.

  “Did I go overboard?” he inquired.

  “No, sir. Your sentiment was what an isolated onager crew needed to hear.”

  “That’s good. Sometimes I think my commitment to the strategy of being popular causes my comments to get flowery.”

  “There’s nothing extravagant about giving credit to a crew that’s done a good job,” Jace told him.

  ***

  Near dark, a Legion officer strolled through the southern gate. On the dock, he searched for a specific merchant ship. Once located, he hopped onboard and greeted the Captain.

  “We’re near the end of this charade,” Justus Furia whispered while handing the skipper a scroll. “Another month and we’ll be done. I can’t wait to be away from here.”

  “Speak for yourself,” the Captain countered. “This is the best assignment I’ve had in years.”

  “How can you say that?” Furia demanded. “Iberia is a place of savages.”

  “With the addition of the seventeen captured ships-of-war, General Scipio has forty-seven warships patrolling the coast,” the merchant Captain answered. “In the Adriatic Sea, I have to contend with Illyrian pirates. Everywhere else, I’m a target for Carthaginian ships-of-war. But along the coast of Iberia and around to the Republic, my ship is as safe as if it’s docked at Ostia.”

  Furia reached out and tapped the scroll with a finger.

  “Don’t forget your job is to deliver the message, as quickly as possible,” he threatened. “Fail in that and you’ll be lucky to land a job as a deckhand on a trader off the coast of Illyria.”

  “I know my job. But understand I can’t go anywhere until they load my cargo tomorrow. I’ll row out on the morning tide the next day,” the Captain described. “Now go before people start asking questions.”

  Justus Furia leaped to the pier and strolled through the gate and back into the city.

  ***

  The next evening, Cornelius indicated Jace.

  “Colonel Kasia and his cavalry will accompany me,” he explained, “but not the rest of Wings of Nortus. The Legion is needed for the defense of New Carthage. Colonel Nabars will come along with Trumpet of Aeneas Legion.”

  “What of Steed Legion, sir,” Titus Quaeso inquired.

  “You, Battle Commander Quaeso, are charged with the protection of New Carthage in my absence.”

  “Sir, who will be in charge of the onagers and bolt throwers,” Tribune Furia asked.

  “I understand we had some issues the last time we left a Senior Centurion in command,” Cornelius answered. He glanced for a moment at Centurion Metie before saying. “I’ve decided the defensive weapons and light infantry rate a staff officer. So, I’m promoting you to senior staff officer, Senior Tribune Furia. Congratulations.”

  “But I need to go with you,” Furia blurted out.

  “Commendable. However, you’ll best serve the mission from here. Now gentlemen, let’s eat. Tonight, we feast because we march the day after tomorrow.”

  Furia leaned over and asked Jace, “Colonel Kaisa, is their anyway to get me on the staff for the campaign?”

  “I understand you want to be involved in the glorious parts,” Jace said. “Trust me, Iberia is far from settled. They’ll be more battles for you in the near future.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” Furia mumbled into his stew.

  Mistaking the remark for a complaint about being left behind, Jace told him, “The plan is to march to Ilergetes territory and exchange Ama and the girls for a peace treaty. So, you’ll avoid marching and sleeping in the mud just to stand in the rain outside a treaty tent. Count yourself blessed of the God Caerus. And be grateful for receiving his luck and his gift of favorable moments while sleeping in a bed at night.”

  Discussions continued late into the night. In his anger about not being included in the mission, Senior Tribune Furia fumed silently throughout the meal. As with anyone holding an emotionally charged internal dialogue, Furia missed the nuances of the conversations. They included an overemphasis on how peaceful the handoff of the hostages would be while lacking details on just what General Scipio expected from a treaty with the Ilergetes tribe.

  ***

  When the feast ended, Justus Furia rushed to his quarters and lit a beeswax candle. By the light of the tiny flame, he wrote an addendum to his first message.

  “Obviously timid, Cornelius Scipio, as well as being undemanding of his allies, habitually frees those who fought against him and the Republic. And due to his soft nature, Scipio handed over hostages that would give the Iberian Legions an advantage in men, food, and access across tribal lands. Disorganized and overly friendly, his latest misadventure has him blindly handing over a wife and two daughters to the Ilergetes tribe for nothing more than empty promises. I feel my job in Iberia is complete. I await orders to return home to Rome.”

  Once finished with the storm of ink, Furia marched to the southern gate.

  “Open it,” he demanded.

  “Yes, sir, Tribune Furia,” the Veles acknowledged.

  “Keep it open,” Furia ordered while waving a piece of parchment. Light from a torch reflected off the message. “I’ll be right back.”

  The staff officer went through the gate. And as good as his word, he came back from the docks a short while later, but without the piece of parchment.

  “Have a good evening, sir,” the guard said to Furia’s back.

  The Senior Tribute was quickly lost in the dark streets of New Carthage. For a brief moment, the sentry had the information to stop the spying. But three drunk sailors approached, and the guard forgot about the parchment to deal with the men.

  ***

  On the appointed morning, Wings Legion trotted out ahead of the march. Once away from New Carthage, Jace Kasia and his cavalrymen dispersed to a wide front.

  Later that day, an officer from Wings Legion eased up besides Jace.

  “Colonel, shouldn’t you be riding with the General?” Sinebe inquired.

  “General Scipio didn’t leave me much to command on this campaign,” Jace replied. “But he did allow me two hundred Legion cavalrymen. And for that I am grateful. Because you and the others give me a reason to stay away from the General and his staff.”

  “I can’t argue with that, sir,” the Centurion of Cavalry told him.

  They rode together in silence, both scanning the riders on their flanks. A pleasant day with dry ground and lots of grass, the environment made for relaxed movements of man and horse.

  “For the start of a long march, Colonel,” the officer proposed, “it’s too perfect to last.”

  “Centurion Sinebe, are you always this optimistic?” Jace teased.

  “After years of riding for my tribe, a few for the Carthaginians, and now six years as a Legion cavalryman,” the officer confessed, “I always expect the worst.”

  “Then you rode with one of the Scipio brothers,” Jace offered.

  “Yes, sir, General Gnaeus Scipio. He was a leader who knew how to command men,” Sinebe reminisced. “Until those no good Celtiberi infantrymen deserted us.”

  “With you being Iberian, I wondered how you felt about fighting certain tribes. Now I know about the Celtiberi. What are your thoughts on the Ilergetes?”

  Delaying, as if to collect his thoughts, it was a few heartbeats before Sinebe asked, “Colonel, what do you call people who stir up conflict, create drama, and then enjoy watching agitated people cut each other’s throats?”

  “I guess you could call them backstabbers,” Jace remarked.

  “No, sir, they would be Ilergetes. Does that answer your question about my feelings?”

  “I believe it does,” Jace stated.

  A breath later, the calm was shattered.

  “Trouble,” Sinebe declared.

  The cavalry officer kicked his mount into motion and guided it off to the left. Jace was an instant behind. They headed for a scout who was driving his horse in a headlong rush back to Wings’ command.

  Converging quickly, they reined in as the scout arrived.

  “Cavalry,” the breathless scout informed them.

  “A war band,” Jace asked. “What tribe, could you tell?”

  “Not a small war party, there are a thousand of them if not more,” the scout reported. “Lots of big men on mountain horses, followed by supply wagons. They look like they mean to stay.”

  “What tribe?” Sinebe questioned.

  “As near as I can tell, sir,” the scout stated, “they’re Celtiberi heavy cavalry.”

  Sinebe spit as if to get a bad taste out of his mouth.

  “Orders, sir?” he asked.

  “Pull our riders back to Trumpet’s light infantry,” Jace instructed. “The scout and I’ll go directly to the General.”

  “Celtiberi, sir,” Sinebe advised. “Here’s a chance for General Scipio to get some revenge for his uncle.”

  “I don’t think he’s looking for revenge.”

  “He should be, Colonel. I know I’d like to sink my blade into a few of them.”

  “Pull us back,” Jace reminded the cavalry officer. “Don’t lose men to your passion.”

  “There are two hundred of us and over a thousand of them,” Sinebe commented. “We’re pulling back.”

  Chapter 17 – The Low Price of Peace

  Legionaries didn’t run when they shifted into a defensive formation. They shuffled, jogged, sprinted for short distances, and generally hurried, but they didn’t run. Mainly because from columns of march, the maniples unfolded like wings. Once extended, the infantrymen closed the distances between rows until they create three distinct assault lines.

  Twelve Centurions prowled behind the First Maniple watching for guidance from their left and right Tribunes. The staff officers in turn watched for signals from the Senior Tribune of Trumpet Legion. And the senior staff officer coordinated with the Battle Commander, who was looking to the General for orders.

  “Cavalry, even heavy cavalry, would be foolish to charge a prepared assault line,” Nabars pointed out. “But their arrival has us stopped in the road. Any advice, General Scipio?”

  “Let’s allow the Celtiberi to dictate the terms of battle for today,” Cornelius offered. “If they delay, when they camp for the night, we’ll march in and change the terms.”

  “Senior Tribune Matie, have the maniples hold positions,” Nabars instructed. “Get extra javelins to the third lines. If the cavalry comes at us, I want them to pay a steep price for their stupidity.”

  “Yes, sir,” Metie acknowledged. He pointed at a ring of junior staff officers. “Four additional javelins for the rear ranks. Everyone holds where they are. Go.”

  The six Junior Tribunes galloped away to inform the maniple Tribunes of the decisions.

  “What are you thinking, sir?” Jace inquired.

  “It’s not what I’m thinking but what I fear,” Cornelius answered. “Could my agreement with Prince Allucius have fallen apart this quickly?”

  “If it has,” Nabars warned, “the Celtiberi will be missing a thousand cavalrymen by dawn.”

  As they talked, two long columns of riders appeared from the northwest. At the sight of the Legion battle formation, the columns halted. Six cavalrymen trotted away from the formation.

  “They want to talk, sir,” Battle Commander Nabars observed. “Metie and I’ll take a squad and go forward.”

  “No, Colonel. It’s my nonaggression pact that’s been violated,” Cornelius asserted. He held up a hand to hold Sidia in place and addressed Jace. “Battle Commander Kasia, care to take a ride?”