“What a curious use of words,” Sicounin commented. “Please tell us about it. It’s said that unburdening your mind helps bring solutions to the forefront.”

  “As is identifying the cause of your issues,” Caikonbe proposed. “I’ve always found the answer to every problem lies in the details.”

  Junius took a healthy drink from his wine glass and held it out. A servant immediately refilled it. The Senior Tribune took a sip before setting it on the tabletop.

  “Most of the summer, I have been acting Governor of Iberia,” Junius slurred. “And I think I’ve done a good job.”

  “Most assuredly,” Caikonbe remarked. “Trade is up and shipments of metals to Rome were uninterrupted.”

  “And you’ve provided security along the coast,” Sicounin conceded. “Our fishing fleet is safe thanks to you.”

  Of the seven other attendees at the feast, five were leading citizens of Tarraco. But two were merchants with deep connections to tribes on the interior of Iberia. And while the residents were slightly curious about the conversation, the merchants focused on remembering every word uttered by the Roman.

  “I really shouldn’t, it would be disrespectful,” Junius said.

  “Come, Senior Tribune, you’re among friends,” one of the traders urged. “Allow us to be a sympathetic audience for you.”

  Junius Silanus drummed the fingers of one hand on the table while downing his glass of wine. A waiting servant quickly refilled the glass.

  “I held the Legions together when he left for Rome,” Junius complained. “And as he frolicked with the elites, I did the work here. And suddenly, he’s back and I’m told to wait for tomorrow’s meeting like one of his Battle Commanders. And he spends all of his time in the shrine of Jupiter, thanking the God for my work.”

  “How awful,” Sicounin gushed.

  Murmurs of agreement from the guests supported the sentiment. Junius bobbed his head, stopped to take another slurp of wine, and opened his mouth to speak. He hesitated briefly before telling them the tale.

  “It’s those Ilergetes tribesmen,” Junius revealed. “He blames me for not punishing them. Now, he’s pooling resources to march on the tribe and butcher them into extinction. And he’s punishing me because it delays his plans to deal with Hasdrubal Barca, and the other Carthaginian Generals. He’s so incensed with Indibilis and Mandonius that he’s weakened New Carthage to punish the brothers. And crippled my Legions and my ability to strike at Hasdrubal from New Carthage.”

  “He should be grateful to have an administrator like you to lean on,” Sicounin told him. “Without you, we’d all be slaves of Carthage. Even if he doesn’t, we appreciate to you, Junius Silanus.”

  Junius lifted his glass to his mouth and smiled before taking a tiny sip. For him, the evening couldn’t end soon enough. But until the feast broke up, he’d have to maintain the appearance of a disgruntled Legion officer.

  ***

  Sidia Decimia and five Legionaries from First Century idled away the night. A couple of times a patrol had questioned them, but once made aware that he was the Generals’ bodyguard, the city guards continued their rounds.

  The six infantrymen sat on the patio of a closed café. They had a good view of Tarraco’s night gate a half block away.

  “I sure hope the proprietor is an early riser,” a Legionary commented. “I could eat.”

  “You can always eat,” another pointed out.

  “That’s because I’m always hungry.”

  “Can you stop thinking about food for the moment and ponder the rider and the wagon?” Sidia asked.

  From the dark city, a wagon rolled into view. Beside the transport, a mounted man kept pace with the driver.

  “The rider might be a caravan guard,” an infantryman suggested.

  “What guard carries extra waterskins but no armor or long weapon,” the hungry Legionary questioned. “He looks more like a courier.”

  “Come daylight,” Sidia promised, “I’m buying you breakfast.”

  “That’d be great,” the Legionary replied.

  The rider and wagon rolled to the city gate, and after speaking with the gate guards, they vanished through the portal.

  “I think that’s it,” Sidia announced.

  But from down the street, another rider trotted towards the gate. Light in the saddle with feed bags and waterskins hanging off the horns, the man wasn’t equipped for anything except fast traveling.

  “Now that Optio, is a messenger,” a Legionary reasoned. “It’s a very busy night in Tarraco.”

  “Now I hope the owner is an early riser,” Sidia said.

  “Why do you say that?” two infantrymen inquired.

  “Because we’re going to be here all night.”

  “Watching for more couriers?”

  “Right you are, Legionary,” Sidia stated.

  ***

  Late the next morning, Cornelius rode to the shrines overlooking the fort. Without the protection of Sidia, he brought two veterans to watch his back.

  “I’m accustomed to peace while I pray,” he told them. “Unless it’s important, I’m not to be disturbed.”

  “Yes, sir,” they replied.

  The bodyguards took positions on either side of the entrance. With an Eagle banner waving over one infantryman and a Lightning Bolt standard flapping over the other, Cornelius strolled between the banners and entered the shrine.

  ***

  Copied from the small shrines of Rome, the structure had relatively high walls, a stone floor, benches for worshipers, and a stone altar for small sacrifices and gifts. What the shrine lacked was a roof. Open to the heavens, the style allowed for uplifting sunlight, fresh air, and access for the God to look in on his flock.

  What no one planned on, including his Ilergetes uncle, was a servant from the Mayor of Tarraco’s household reacting to Junius Silanus’ story. Before daylight, the servant scaled the wall and hid under a bench. His stealth avoided the General’s bodyguards and put him in a position to murder the man who threatened his Ilergetes relatives.

  ***

  Cornelius stopped and leaned against the doorframe. Altars were always miraculous. Sunlight streamed in, and he could feel a breeze on his face. And while allowing a view of the blue sky above, it was enclosed on all sides, cutting off connections to the material world beyond. Further mesmerizing Cornelius, on the far end of the rustic shrine, a beautifully polished stone table drew his eyes to the purpose of the building.

  “Jupiter, I’ve come seeking your blessing,” he said before stepping completely into the shrine. “We’ve much to discuss before my Battle Commanders arrive.”

  He walked down the center aisle. At the front bench, Cornelius sat and lifted his face to the sky.

  Two rows back, the servant drew his knife. Fittingly, as a gift from his uncle, it would be used to stop the mad Roman and end his plan to massacre Ilergetes spearmen and their families. Scooting sideways, the servant cleared the underside of the bench. But his grip on the hilt of his Ilergetes knife turned his knuckles white and sent tremors down his arm. With his heart racing, the servant paused to calm his nerves.

  ***

  Sidia and the five infantry veterans saluted the gate NCO.

  “If you’re still drunk after a night in Tarraco,” the Duty NCO warned, “I don’t want trouble.”

  “No trouble, Optio,” an infantryman scoffed, “much to the disappointment of my dry throat.”

  “But we did have a big beef breakfast,” the hungry Legionary boasted.

  While the five went to their barracks, Sidia rode to the General’s quarters.

  “He’s not here Optio Decimia,” an aid told him. “He went to the shrines.”

  “How many bodyguards did he take, sir?”

  “Two from First Century.”

  “Just two? Not a squad?”

  Before the junior officer answered, Sidia jerked the horse around and kicked it in the flanks. A moment later, the horse, much to the gate NCO’s ire, galloped back through the opening. Outside the fort, Sidia guided the horse off the road and up the hill towards the four shrines.

  Sidia had no reason to believe General Scipio was in danger.

  However, as Aristotle stated, excellence was not an act, but a habit. And a habit was an acquired disposition to perform certain types of actions.

  Having countless times performed actions to protect General Scipio, Sidia let habit drive him and the horse to the shrine of Jupiter.

  Dismounting while the horse was still in motion, Sidia demanded, “Where’s the General?”

  “Optio, he doesn’t want to be disturbed,” one of the Legionaries informed him.

  The other pointed at the entrance to the shrine.

  ***

  With the Ilergetes blade held forward at waist level, the servant aimed the tip at the Roman’s neck. Creeping silently forward, he held his breath. Then from the sky overhead, a high-pitched piping noise reached into the shrine. And his target turned.

  Cornelius rotated his head, searching the sky for the eagle. But then he saw the assassin rushing forward and the tribal blade filling his vision. Falling backwards, he used an arm to deflect the blade. Blood flowed, his head hit the bench, and the General of Legions fell to the stone floor. With his vision blurred, Cornelius could only hold up his empty hands to fend off the coming slashes.

  For a heartbeat, the murderer stood over Cornelius. Then he sailed through the air and collided with the altar. Bent over the edge for a moment, the killer sprang back and swung his blade at the assailant.

  “Spare him,” Cornelius mumbled, his voice hoarse from shock and surprise.

  But the War Chief of the Hirpini was beyond hearing. His blood boiling from almost failing in his duty, Sidia Decimia wielded the gladius as if it was a fine skinning knife.

  The results weren’t pretty. And just before the servant dropped from the deep gashes, Sidia kicked him onto the altar.

  “For Jupiter,” he growled. Then with a look of horror on his face, he knelt beside Cornelius. “Sir, besides the arm, are their other cuts?”

  “No Sidia, you arrived just in time,” Cornelius answered. With the bodyguard’s help, he got to his feet and looked at the assassin. “I did want to question him before the crucifixion. But a sacrifice to Jupiter and his eagle will have to suffice.”

  Act 8

  Chapter 22 - Third Spear of Carthage

  Anxiety filled the Legion commanders. All they knew was General Scipio had been attacked but they had no report on how bad, or why, or by whom. The eight of them, their aids, and servants occupied the General’s dining hall. For men accustomed to directing maneuvers under combat conditions, idling away the afternoon without intelligence or a plan made the large room feel like a cage.

  “Perhaps we should go to the medical tent,” Colonel Nabars of Trumpet Legion suggested, “and see for ourselves.”

  The Battle Commander for Bolt Legion thought so little of the idea, he shook his head no, but didn’t speak.

  “What’s wrong Marcius,” the Colonel from Gold Cat Legion teased, “don’t like the sight of blood.”

  In a quick turn, the Battle Commander of Winds of Nortus faced the joker.

  “I don’t think anyone here is afraid of the sight of blood,” he snapped.

  Gaius Laelius from Eagle Legion laughed, “I don’t think he was being serious.”

  Although they each served Cornelius Scipio, the eight men lived and worked with their Legions. Rarely did the Battle Commanders of the Iberian Legions socialize.

  “Senior Tribune Zeno are you sure you want this job?” the Colonel from the War Chariot of Deimos asked.

  “Commanding a Legion has been a lifelong ambition,” Zeno replied. “Steed of Aeneas is ready to die for General Scipio.”

  “That’s really not the goal,” Jace Kasia commented. “I believe our purpose is to make the other guy die for his General.”

  “Save your Greek philosophy for your artillerymen,” Winds’ Colonel remarked to Jace. “Wings Legion doesn’t even have heavy infantrymen.”

  “Maybe not. But Wings of Nortus has a Colonel who will stomp you into the dirt.”

  “Gentlemen. This is not a pub serving Legionaries on payday,” Lucius Marcius warned. “Control yourselves.”

  “Tell that to the Greek,” Winds’ Battle Commander deflected. Adding as he walked away. “Kasia started with the threats.”

  Jace dipped a finger in his berry flavored water, lifted it out, and stuck it in his mouth. Then the archer hooked the finger on the inside of his cheek and snapped it out, making a loud, “Pop.”

  The offended Colonel turned back.

  “Keep walking Winds,” Jace told him. “Your heavy infantry has been living off intelligence delivered by the blood and sweat of my Legion for months. Let me give you one piece of advice. Don’t start a fight you can’t finish.”

  The door opened. Cornelius Scipio, with a bandage on his right forearm and blood stains on his robe, walked in followed by Senior Tribune of Legions Silanus, and Optio Decimia.

  “What did I miss?” Cornelius inquired.

  “Colonel Kasia was explaining the finer points of combat theory for the benefit of Winds Legion,” Gaius Laelius replied.

  “I assume he didn’t get far into the lecture,” Cornelius submitted, “as I don’t see blood on anyone but me.”

  Junius Silanus moved to the dining table and laid a knife on the corner.

  “Anybody know the origin of this?” he asked. “The blade was used in the attempted murder of our General.”

  Blank stares were the only reply until Jace walked to the table. He bent, studied the carved handle, tapped the blade with a fingernail, and declared, “A fine example of the skills of an Ilergetes knifemaker. Good steel. And the handle is beautiful.”

  “Ilergetes. I’ve reached the end of my patience with Indibilis and Mandonius. We will,” Cornelius growled then stopped. Looking around at all the extra people in the hall, he ordered. “Everyone except my Battle Commanders, clear the room.”

  ***

  Red faced in anger with his eyes squeezed tight, Cornelius waited for the room to empty. Once he was alone with his commanders, General Scipio told them, “I want the Ilergetes crippled. The brothers nailed to beams and hoisted up on crosses. And I don’t want them to know we’re coming.”

  His zeal brought out ‘Rahs’ from seven of his commanders. Only one refrained from cheering.

  “Colonel Kasia, I don’t see enthusiasm for my plan on your face,” Cornelius pointed out. “Is there a flaw in my strategy. Perhaps you feel my vengeance isn’t justified?”

  “Retribution is historically the right of the offended,” Jace proposed. “And sir, you certainly were offended. But the Ilergetes are a static enemy. They’ll be there when you decide to attack. In the meanwhile, you have a mobile enemy that won’t wait.”

  “You’re talking about the Carthaginian Generals,” Cornelius remarked. “Aren’t they wintering at Ilipa, north of Seville? The last time I checked, we lacked the Legions to attack three entrenched armies. Or do we?”

  “Hasdrubal Barca has moved away from his brother Margo and Hasdrubal Gisco,” Jace reported. “He’s dug in at Baecula on the upper reaches of the Guadalquivir river.”

  “Why would he leave a fortified position?” Laelius from Eagle questioned.

  “The only thing my scouts and I can come up with is he’s recruiting for a mission,” Jace answered. “Either he plans to take back New Carthage or he’s heading for the Republic to join Hannibal.”

  Forgetting his injury, Cornelius Scipio rammed a fist into the palm of his other hand. Pain gripped his right forearm, and he doubled over. Still leaning forward, he paused.

  Sidia reached out to support him, but Cornelius shrugged off the assistance.

  “Do you know what’s more painful than a cut on the arm?” he asked.

  Sensing a rhetorical question, none of the Legion commanders replied.

  Cornelius straightened his back, tapped his coin purse, and answered his own question, “The cost of paying, feeding, and housing an army while waiting for an attack.”

  “The expenses are enormous,” Silanus agreed. “But what does that have to do with current events, General?”

  “Call the aids and servants back in,” Cornelius announced. He paced for a few moments to allow them to be summoned. “We’re going to march on the Ilergetes. We’ll burn their farms, butcher their livestock, and kill their spearmen wherever we find them.”

  The servants and aids flowing in heard Cornelius Scipio’s version of revenge.

  “And the third spear of Carthage?” Jace inquired.

  “I’m afraid if we attack Baecula, Mago and Gisco will come in and hit us from behind,” Cornelius told him. “We’ll have to settle for getting rich from selling the Ilergetes into slavery. And doubling the defenses at New Carthage. It’s the best we can do with what we have.”

  “Yes, sir,” Jace acknowledged.

  ***

  Late the next morning, ten miles west of Tarraco, five wagons, two Centuries of Legionaries, and a mounted escort reached a clearing. Wooden pegs identified it as their destination.

  “Those are the engineer’s stakes,” a teamster shouted to a cavalry officer.

  “Give me patrols on our perimeter,” the Centurion instructed his riders. “I don’t want us surprised by a war band while we build the supply station.”

  The infantrymen stacked their shields and spears, then dropped their armor.

  As a pair of Legionaries pulled a stockade log from a transport, one mentioned, “there’s something I don’t understand.”

  “And that’s different today as opposed to yesterday?” his squad mate inquired while lifting the opposite end.

  Holding the log, they stopped and looked at each other.

  “No, really,” the first insisted. “Rumor has it, the General wants to assault the Ilergetes as quickly as possible. But here we are building stockades for supply stations. Won’t that give the Ilergetes days, or even weeks, to gather spearmen on their border?”

  Their Optio walked up, lifted a leg, and placed his foot on the wall log.