“You’re the client, sir. I’ll be wherever you need me,” Jace responded.

  “In that case, let’s go talk to their delegation.”

  ***

  As they trotted through the lines of infantrymen, Jace remarked, “six against two, not good odds, sir.”

  “Last night, I thought of Hannibal,” Cornelius mentioned. “He commands different tribes yet finds ways to connect with their officers. But his power stems from more than the respect of Captains and Lieutenants. Somehow, Hannibal manages to inspire spearmen and soldiers. It’s the only explanation for how he gets men to follow his complicated battle plans.”

  “And you think by sacrificing yourself, you’ll inspire your Legions?”

  “Of course not,” Cornelius assured him. “I’ll sacrifice you while I ride away.”

  For an instant, Jace couldn’t process the statement. Once he did, he replied, “That’s a different pay scale.”

  “Was that comedy or tragedy?” Cornelius questioned.

  “General, I’m not following you,” Jace admitted.

  “First, I don’t think anyone is going to get sacrificed today,” Cornelius pointed out. “The cavalrymen aren’t carrying lances and haven’t drawn their swords. And so, I ask you, how was it?”

  “How was what, sir?” Jace inquired.

  “The joke. I’m working on humor to enhance my accessibility to the men,” Cornelius explained. “For Aristotle, comedy represented man at his worst. Deserting you in a fight would be me at my worst. That made my comment humorous. Which was yours?”

  “If humor is worst, what’s the opposite?” Jace inquired.

  “Comedy shows men at their wickedest while tragedy displays real life and man at his best.”

  “I’m afraid, a Cretan Archer is trained in mercenary ways,” Jace described. “There is a price for every life. Sometimes it’s high, and other times the cost is low.”

  “Then I declare your phrase, that’s a different pay scale, as tragedy,” Cornelius announced.

  “Sir, if I might make a suggestion.”

  “Go ahead, as you pointed out, we’re two against six.”

  “You have a reputation as being able to communicate with the Gods,” Jace offered. “When you grow silent and gaze at the sky, as if you’re consulting with a deity, the men are enthralled. At that moment, you become an inspiring figure.”

  “But I’m not doing anything except carefully weighing choices,” Cornelius protested.

  “Not to your Republic or Iberian Legions,” Jace assured him. “To them, you are a conduit to the Gods. Stay with that.”

  “And leave the comedy to others,” Cornelius guessed.

  ***

  Cornelius and Jace reined in as the six riders approached then halted.

  “General Scipio. I am Bekeres and he is Darsosin, Captains of Cavalry,” one of the Celtiberi riders greeted them. “We carry best wishes from Prince Allucius. And a gift.”

  Cornelius straightened his back and used a forward and a rear saddle horn to lift up. He peered at the columns of cavalrymen in the distance.

  “A gift, you say?”

  “Yes sir. Fifteen hundred cavalrymen from the heart of Celtiberi,” Captain Darsosin answered. “The Prince trusts that you will have a use for us.”

  “Colonel Kasia, can you fit fifteen hundred heavy cavalrymen into Wings Legion?” Cornelius asked.

  “Sir, it’s better than the alternative,” Jace replied.

  For a moment, Cornelius started to lift his eyes to the sky and ponder the statement. But realizing he needed to get his Legions moving, he directed, “Captain Bekeres. Captain Darsosin. Good to have you with us. We’re marching north to Tarraco. Take the forward position. I’m sure Colonel Kasia will be along to introduce himself later.”

  “Yes, sir,” the two officers replied.

  They pulled their horses around and trotted back to the columns of cavalrymen.

  “It’s better than the alternative,” Cornelius repeated Jace’s words from earlier. “I’m not sure if that’s comedy or tragedy.”

  “Perhaps, sir,” Jace uttered, “it’s a little of both.”

  ***

  A week later, the Legions reached the fort at Marçà outside of Tarraco. During the eight days of traveling, Jace worked with Bekeres and Darsosin to ascertain the skills of the Celtiberi cavalrymen.

  “Centurion of Horse,” Jace called to Wings top cavalryman, “I’ve good news and bad.”

  “There always is,” Sinebe acknowledged.

  “The Celtiberi are masters of breaking other mounted formations,” Jace described. “Riding shoulder to shoulder at a gallop, they’ll smash the opposing cavalry with a wall of lances and armored horses.”

  “What’s the good news, sir?” Sinebe inquired.

  Jace studied the man to see if he was jesting. By the set of the cavalry officer’s jaw, he could tell the Centurion was serious.

  “I thought that was the good news,” Jace told him.

  “No, sir. Legion cavalry is utilitarian,” Sinebe explained. “We’re not swift like the light cavalry from Numidia. Or solid like the heavy cavalry from Celtiberi.”

  “We’re not fighting the Celtiberi,” Jace reminded him.

  “No, sir. Not this year.”

  ***

  That night after the Legions were secured from the march and quartered, Jace reported to Cornelius.

  “Sir, you’ll be pleased to know, the Celtiberi can break most formations with a cavalry charge,” Jace bragged.

  “That’s not how Hannibal did it at Cannae,” Cornelius proposed. “He sent his heavy cavalry out wide. Close in, on our flanks, he used his light cavalry to screen the movement of his light infantry. By the time the dust settled, our maniples were infiltrated by infantrymen. To copy the movement, I need the Celtiberi to be swift around the infantry line, to be aggressive and run off the enemy’s cavalry, then to attack him from the rear.”

  “How long do I have?” Jace asked.

  “We’re three days march from the Segre river and the town of Lleida. And I don’t plan to stay here while the Ilergetes prepare for us. Figure you have about three days before we come into contact with a force of any size.”

  “Yes, sir. If you’ll excuse me.”

  “Aren’t you staying for the officers’ mess?”

  “No, General. The grains in the sandglass are running.”

  “I understand. Dismissed.”

  Jace saluted, turned about, and ran from the command pavilion.

  ***

  Scipio’s three Legions consisted of almost six thousand heavy infantrymen, twenty-two hundred light infantrymen, and two thousand cavalrymen. Between the combatants and the supply caravan, it could have been mistaken as an invasion force.

  Seven miles southwest from Lleida and the Segre river, Indibilis and Mandonius planted their banners and dug in their heels. Based on the ranks of Ilergetes spearmen and cavalry gathered, the brothers decided it was an invasion.

  As the front ranks positioned themselves a long bow shot from each other, tents and pavilions went up behind the combat lines. On the Legion side, Cornelius called his commanders together.

  “If you beat them here, General,” Gaius Laelius of Eagle Legion mentioned, “you can hammer out a treaty and be free of the hostages.”

  “A quick march in, sir,” Colonel Nabars agreed, “and out with minimum casualties. I would call that a successful campaign.”

  Ignoring the Battle Commanders of Eagle and Trumpet, Cornelius looked over the collection of staff officers and Colonels.

  “Kasia, where are you?”

  “Back here, sir,” Jace called from the rear of the crowd.

  He stood by a basket of fruit. After cutting a plum in two, he pulled out the seed, and popped a half into his mouth.

  “Everyone has advice for me,” Cornelius said. “What about you?”

  Plunk, Jace dropped the seed into a bowl, and paused for a moment while chewing.

  “It’s under ten miles from here to the Segre river,” Jace said after swallowing. “My advice, sir? Turn the land between here and the river into a killing field. And burn everything to the riverbank.”

  Laelius and Nabars protested as did their Senior Tribunes.

  “For what purpose?” some demanded. “You beat them here and be done with it. Why make an enemy of the Ilergetes?”

  Jace shoved the other half of the plum into his mouth and chewed while they complained. When the noise faded, Jace replied, “You want peace, so choose. The price of peace is high, or it is low. If you want to return season after season and pay the high price, we should leave now. We’ll be back to fight them later. However, if you want a low price for peace, drive the Ilergetes to the river and leave ash and bodies in our wake. Give their women nightmares and make their poets cry when they sing of the horrors.”

  The pavilion fell silent, and all eyes turned to Cornelius. The advice went against the General’s habit of releasing foes, and his willingness to discuss a treaty, even when the details favored his adversary. Typically, in a situation like this, Scipio would set up a treaty tent and call for talks before the javelins flew and the shields clashed.

  “Senior Centurions of Supply,” Cornelius requested, “I want two wagons filled with barrels of vino.”

  “We can do that, sir,” one of the supply officers assured him. “Where do you want them?”

  “I want the Ilergetes spearmen to have the vino before dark.”

  “You’re giving our vino to them?” Senior Tribune Metie scoffed. “What about our Legionaries? They deserve extra vino if anyone does.”

  “Matie will drive one rig,” Cornelius announced. “Kasia, I want two riders with extra horses to pull him and the other driver out once they’ve delivered the vino and the message.”

  “Message, sir?”

  ***

  The comedown from commanding six maniple Tribunes, and being second in charge of a Legion, irked Matie. Plus, his Legionaries and Centurions were witnesses to the spectacle. At the moment, he hated the Ilergetes, his infantrymen, and Cornelius Scipio.

  “What’s this,” a spearman shouted.

  Along the defensive line, the Ilergetes braced with spears in hand, ready for an attack. But all that approached their lines were two wagons.

  “What’s this?” another demanded.

  “Wine for the mighty Ilergetes,” Matie sneered, barely able to get out the complimentary words. “Your power on the field of battle is renowned. Please accept these gifts.”

  “The Legion and the boy General send us wine,” a spearman declared. He patted the barrels. “They are afraid of us.”

  As directed, Matie said, “Your words carry weight.”

  “And look who the driver is,” a war leader noted. “He’s a Senior Tribune.”

  Before the tribesmen could surround Matie and the other driver, Jace and Sinebe arrived with the mounts.

  “Sir, we should go,” Jace stated.

  The Senior Tribune and a Centurion, selected to protect Matie, jumped on the horses. Followed by a rain of insults and laughter, they galloped back to the Legion lines.

  “It’s not even enough to get all of them drunk,” Matie complained.

  “They’re Ilergetes, Senior Tribune,” Jace explained. “Most of the spearmen won’t even get a taste. But their war chiefs and commanders will drink a bellyful.”

  Matie fumed all the way to Trumpet Legion. But as he approached, shouts went up.

  “Rah to our Senior Tribune,” the infantrymen yelled. “Matie rode right up to the enemy and spit in their eyes. Rah.”

  Senior Tribune Matie sat a little straighter as he approached the headquarters tent of Trumpet Legion.

  ***

  “It’s always like this in the Legion,” an infantryman whined. He indicated the cookfires of the Ilergetes. “Somone else gets our vino and we’re stuck with vinegar and water. It’s always like that.”

  “But we got extra rations,” another member of the squad said. “I’d rather have a full plate than a few sips off a wineskin.”

  “Eat and rest,” their Optio warned. “I’ve never seen a Battle Commander give anything without expecting something in return. That means get some rest before the Colonel collects.”

  “It’s always like that in the Legion,” a Legionary stated.

  The NCO walked to the cookfires of his squads and checked on each infantryman. He would make his rounds until everyone at every cookfire, except a guard, slept. Then he went to his tent, took off his armor, and stretched out.

  Before daylight, the Optio rose and nudged his Tesserarius.

  “Get the squads up and dressed,” the Optio instructed. “Remember, no fires and keep the noise to a minimum.”

  “We’re heavy infantry,” the other NCO offered. “Quiet is not a normal state for Legionaries. And they’ll want breakfast.”

  “Tell them to eat it cold. Remind them that last night they got extra rations. And this morning, the Colonel is collecting for his generosity.”

  ***

  While the heavy and light infantry dressed in the dark, Jace Kasia tugged on the reins of his mount. He and five hundred cavalrymen led their horses through the trees, skirting to the southwest of the battlefield.

  “I see a villa,” a cavalryman mentioned. “Is that our destination?”

  Beyond the trees and far to the right, numerous campfires illuminated the walls of a compound and a bonfire inside outlined the roof of a big house.

  “We’re headed for the Segre river,” Jace replied. “You’ll know when we get there.”

  Chapter 18 – Make Their Poets Cry

  The empty ground between Legionaries and Ilergetes filled, too quickly. As one side surged across at first light, the other side slept. They dozed, unaware of the attack, until twenty-four Centurions barked out, “First maniple forward.”

  Even if the two dozen voices went unheard, the following crescendo of the orders, being repeated by infantrymen, brought the spearmen to their feet. By then, unfortunately for the Ilergetes, the officers from the first maniples of two Legions ordered, “Advance, advance, advance.”

  A line of six hundred and forty hardwood shields smashed forward. Getting a face full of Legion shield rocked the few spearmen alert and on the line. Some went down. They joined those slow to awaken. And just as they struggled to their knees and prepared to stand, the shields withdrew. And the wood of six hundred and forty infantrymen got replaced by the cold, sharp steel of their gladii. Stepping forward into a field of bodies and wounded, the Legion lines completed the first advance.

  By the start of the second advance, the Ilergetes in the rear stormed forward. But haphazard reinforcements proved no challenge for a well-disciplined wall of Legionaries. This repetition of the hammering shields had the aid of spear thrusts from the second row. And while six hundred and forty short blades delivered devastation, the overhand thrusts with an equal number of spearheads destroyed the resistance.

  “Second line, rotate forward,” the twenty-four Centurions bellowed. “First line, rotate back.”

  After months of practice and a thousand sessions of rehearsals, the Legions put fresh arms and legs on the assault line. And after only a slight delay, they began the third advance.

  Ilergetes reeling from confusion or injury remained on the defensive line. They absorbed the hardwood and went down. And as they did for each advance, the gladii stabbed in unison, as if a single axe blade. The action chopped down the remaining spearmen. In turn, those tribesmen still alive were stomped to death by three lines of hobnailed boots.

  ***

  “They’ve broken,” a staff officer exclaimed. “Congratulations, General Scipio, you’ve won the day. Should we hold?”

  Cornelius looked from the slaughter and the fleeing tribesmen to the heavens. But unlike the normal pause to consider choices, he prayed.

  “God Aeneas, the Terrible, grant me the strength to see this through,” he implored. A moment later, Cornelius Scipio lowered his eyes and with an icy calm, he ordered. “Send the Velites down the center for the stragglers. Followed by the Legionaries. And start the flank attacks by the Celtiberi cavalry.”

  After a gentle nudge, the General’s horse began picking its way through the broken and bloody bodies.

  “Surely, this will make their poets cry,” he whispered.

  But in the distance, the routed spearmen joined other tribesmen. Together, they formed defensive ranks on either side of a walled compound. And farther away, on the horizon, Cornelius noted wisps of smoke drifting into the sky.

  ***

  From concealment, Jace Kasia and his cavalry detachment peered through the trees. A camp of better than eight hundred Ilergetes and their horses covered the field to their front. The tribal cavalrymen squatted around cookfires eating a dawn meal. Behind them, the eastern half of the city of Lleida served as a backdrop for the horse camp.

  “If they get a hint that we’re here before the attack begins,” a Legion cavalry officer warned, “we’ll be chopped meat.”

  Across the Segre river, the other half of Lleida slept. The presence of Ilergetes cavalrymen, however, brought out vendors from the town on this side of the river.

  “Their communications protocol is poorly designed,” Jace remarked.

  “Excuse me, Colonel?” a Centurion inquired.

  An inbound messenger slapped reins on the flanks of his mount. Driven by the panic of its rider, the horse raced into the Ilergetes camp. The courier guided the horse towards the command tents in the center.

  “The rider with a report of the attack is late,” Jace advised. He looked at the streaks of light in the sky. “If the Legion had been attacked, I’d hope my cavalry officers would be sober enough to send out couriers with the report before midmorning.”

  “It appears the vino had the desired effect,” a cavalryman offered. Next, he observed. “When they go to help their spearmen, we’ll have the privilege of sacking a fully stocked camp.”

  “Hold that thought until we see how many riders respond to the attack,” his Optio suggested. “If they keep too many in reserve, we could still be outnumbered.”

  The courier rushed into a pavilion. A moment later, War Chief Mandonius emerged. He was fully dressed in armor and lively.