***

  Jace rolled to his left, causing the spear to glance off the shield. Spinning in a full circle, the Cretan Archer extended his right hand. The short blade of the skinning knife reached the overextended tribesman and slit the side of his neck.

  Momentum carried Biurdiki two more steps before the brother of the King of Turdules dropped to his knees.

  “Socrates said true freedom is death,” Cornelius proclaimed. “Carry the word to the people of Turdules that the warrior known as Biurdiki died in combat, a free man.”

  Jace signaled three infantrymen to remove the body. As they lifted the corpse, two Priests of Asclepius raced over to wash away the pool of blood.

  “Hold,” Cornelius ordered. “Leave the evidence of my decision for the other hostages.”

  Using their shields, light infantrymen crowded the priests away from the wet spot. During the brief confrontation, First Centurion Turibas appeared with a woman and two children.

  “No. No,” a clerk groaned.

  “Is there a problem?” Cornelius questioned. He scanned the mother and her children. “That woman, who is she?”

  The clerk shifted uncomfortably at the same time the woman noticed the blood on the temple floor. She tightened her lips, displaying tension.

  “Ama is the wife of War Chief Mandonius of the Ilergetes Tribe. And the children are Budarica and Betina, daughters of King Indibilis,” the clerk introduced the hostages. “Mandonius is Indibilis’ brother. The woman and children weren’t supposed to be presented yet.”

  The glass slipped from Cornelius’ hand, rolled off the edge of the table, and shattered on the floor.

  “Indibilis and Mandonius of the Ilergetes Tribe,” he breathed out. “The war leaders who murdered my father.”

  A half a step behind the woman, the First Centurion assumed the glass was an accident and didn’t hear the clerk or Cornelius. He started to announce, “Governor Scipio, may I present…”

  But Turibas was interrupted by Ama’s scream of terror at the mention of the Scipio name. Mandonius, her husband, had often boasted of attacking the Legions and killing General Publius Scipio. And now, facing another member of the Latian clan, Ama expected a quick death or worse.

  Chapter 2 – Find Their Value

  Hugging the children, the wife of Mandonius dropped to her knees, exposed her neck, and waited for the blade to sever her head from her body.

  “Get up, wife of Mandonius,” Cornelius urged.

  While holding the children against her breasts, she stood.

  “My man took your father, Scipio,” Ama challenged Cornelius. “Why would you not take the life of his wife?”

  At the casual use of his General’s name, Turibas made a fist and raised his arm to strike the woman. He almost did, but Cornelius recovered from the jolt of her words before Turibas delivered the punch.

  “Still your arm, First Centurion,” Cornelius ordered. He stepped away from the chair, and while walking around the table, added. “If we punished everyone for telling the truth, in a perfect world, there would be long lines at the punishment post.”

  “Yes, sir. I guess,” Turibas stated, not sure of the General’s meaning.

  Cornelius marched to the row of columns and vanished through the supports.

  “Colonel, what do we do now?” Turibas asked Marcius.

  “We wait for our General, First Centurion. It’s all we can do.”

  ***

  From the top of the temple steps, Cornelius gave a cursory glance at the homes and the businesses on the northern side of New Carthage. They stretched for blocks from the bottom of Temple Hill to the defensive wall. Beyond the wall, fishing boats navigated the bay.

  On the road circling the Temple of Asclepius, Velites loaded the body of Biurdiki into an empty cart. Jace Kasia stood beside the cart talking with a tall staff officer.

  Cornelius thought he recognized the man, but his mind was elsewhere.

  “Senior Tribune Kasia, a moment,” Cornelius called across to Jace.

  After a few words to the staff officer, Jace pointed to a spot east of the city. Then he jogged across the road, and up the steps to Cornelius.

  “We’ll burn the body outside the walls, sir,” Jace described, providing an excuse for why he delayed in responding. “The residents have been complaining about all the funeral fires, the stink, and the smoke.”

  Cornelius glanced at the hills to the east. Next, he rotated his head until he again faced the north bay. People assumed many things about Scipio’s measured pauses before reacting. Some claimed he consulted with Gods, while others, close to him, figured he talked with ancient scholars, like the poet Quintus Ennius.

  But Jace knew the reason for the delay rested in Cornelius fighting the image of a brash and careless young man. By working through each situation and selecting the appropriate words, Scipio came across as a man wiser than his years.

  While Cornelius thought, Jace watched the cart roll away.

  “I have a dilemma,” Cornelius finally admitted, “and I need your help.”

  “If it’s diplomatic, I may not be the best man for the job.”

  “I have no diplomats who can walk into Ilergetes territory and tell me what’s in the hearts of a King and a War Chief.”

  “Sir, I’m an archer not a seer.”

  “Perhaps I haven’t explained this well enough,” Cornelius conceded. “Let me try again. I’m holding the wife of Mandonius and the children of Indibilis. If the Ilergetes don’t hold them in high regard, they’re worth little to me. And I won’t waste my time offering them as trade.”

  After a moment of contemplation, Jace inquired, “Not even for a ransom?”

  “No quantity of coins will repay me for the loss of my father. If, however, I can make a pact with the Ilergetes and keep them off our shields, the trade will be worth more than all the silver in Iberia.”

  “You want me to find their value?” Jace guessed.

  “Sending an armed delegation would only get good men killed,” Cornelius remarked. In a flash of understanding, he attempted to amend the comment. “Jace, I meant a detachment would be attacked. While a single man of your talents might, well…”

  “Get dead, but not start a war?” Jace finished the thought. “Not to worry, General Scipio. Cretan Archers only have one question.”

  Cornelius stared at Jace waiting for the question. After a moment, he realized no query was coming.

  “What’s the going rate for a Cretan Archer?”

  “I like the sound of Colonel Kasia, Battle Commander for Wings of Nortus Legion.”

  “Junius Silanus and Bolt Legion are rowing for Tarraco tomorrow,” Cornelius told Jace. “That’ll cut down on your overland travel. And when you come back with the information, I’ll gladly pay the price.”

  “If you’ll excuse me, General Scipio,” Jace begged off, “I need to settle Wings Legion into their duties and buy some tools.”

  “Tools?” Cornelius inquired.

  “My mentor taught me, if you want to blend in,” Jace explained, “you must have a reason to be where you’re exploring.”

  ***

  Lucius Marcius, First Centurion Turibas, the daughters Budarica and Betina, Ama, the clerks, priests, and Velites drifted mentally. While duty or spears held them in the temple, their minds pondered problems as vast as the future, or as mundane as what to have for lunch.

  “That’s settled,” Cornelius boomed when he strutted from between the columns. “Turibas. Assign a squad to escort the woman and the girls to a villa. Be sure they’re kept safe. After that, bring out the next case.”

  When Cornelius reached his seat, Marcius noted, “You seem to be in a better mood, sir. It’s like a weight has been lifted from your shoulders.”

  “Only temporarily, Colonel. Clerk, who’s next?”

  “General Scipio, the next hostage is Isceradin,” the clerk read after consulting a list, “from the Carpetani Tribe.”

  “Carpetani territory is in the center of Iberia,” Marcius informed General Scipio. “Because they’re inland, the Carpetani aren’t plagued by invasions from the sea. But the acreage they claim does attract marauders. It requires them to maintain a massive army to guard their borders. And there, sir, lies a contradiction. Their capital, Madrid, is a seat of culture. Almost every Carpetani can read and write.”

  “That is interesting,” Cornelius spoke as a man crossed the temple floor. Dressed in woolen pants, with no shirt, the man had a length of silk draped over his shoulders and upper chest.

  In fluid strides, he easily outpaced the First Centurion in his armor.

  “Sirs. From the Carpetani Tribe,” Turibas called out. Even if his body was behind, his voice at least raced ahead of the hostage, “may I present sculptor Isceradin.”

  “Sculptor, painter, designer of pleasing, tantalizing, religious, or if you wish troubling mosaics,” Isceradin exclaimed. “Call me what you will. But know in my heart, that I am an artist.”

  “Tell me artist Isceradin, why are you in New Carthage?” Cornelius asked.

  “The sunrise over the sea. A bird on the wing. Clouds that play children’s games in the sky. Why would an artist be anywhere?”

  “I meant, why did the Carthaginians take you from your people?”

  “I’m not sure of the details. But it had something to do with my brother, the tribe’s King, not dealing with Latians,” Isceradin giggled and indicated Cornelius. “And yet, here I am, dealing with a Latian.”

  “First Centurion, have a squad escort Isceradin back to his studio. He’ll be staying with us. Clerk, prepare a missive to the King of the Carpetani Tribe. For the safety of his brother, he must not deal with the Carthaginians. And have him send a delegation to me. We’ll work out the details,” Cornelius directed. Then to Marcius in hushed tones, he said. “Aristotle would approve. For truly, if a man lacked the capacity to deliberate, for his own good, he must remain a slave.”

  With silk streaming in his wake, the artist strutted ahead of the Legion squad as they left the temple.

  ***

  “Clerk, what drama is in store for me next?” Cornelius requested.

  “Sir, Oretani, a mountain tribesmen from the Vascones.”

  A female voice easily carried from the holding room. Through the open doorway, it crossed the temple to the Legion officers. While the tone cut through the air, the words were garbled by the door and the distance.

  “The altitude at Vascones must be soothing,” Marcius observed, “for the voice of that tribesman is as alluring as the aroma from a spice shop.”

  Pitched low, as if carrying passion on every breath, the voice spoke again. This time clearly.

  “My friends and I are but visitors to New Carthage,” she protested. “Who is in charge of this debacle?”

  “General Scipio is the Prorogatio of Iberia. But ma’am, you’ll have to wait your turn,” Turibas told her in his command voice.

  Men feared to cross the First Centurion of Wings Legion. His martial skills were tested and proven in battle. His directions never ignored. Yet, when a shoulder and an arm appeared from behind the door and a soft hand caressed his face, the fierce combat officer melted.

  While the small hand remained cupped to his stern jaw line, a lithe, long-haired beauty slipped from the room. Behind her, two more young women emerged. Finally, a fourth, the owner of the restraining hand came fully around the door. She allowed her fingers to lightly brush Turibas’ lips as she passed by.

  “First Centurion. Who do we have here?” Marcius shouted.

  Overcome by the surprise attack of femininity, Turibas was unable to reply.

  “I am Aurunica, daughter of Karisker, an important landowner of the Bastetani Tribe,” the beauty stated as she glided over the temple floor. “Why are my friends and I being detained?”

  “That’s a good question,” Cornelius replied. “Why are you a hostage?”

  “So now daughters of this land are hostages,” Aurunica shot back. “Are we not allies now that you control New Carthage? Or should I call it New Scipio?”

  “You can call it anything you like. But you’ve yet to answer my question.”

  “We are simple, country girls. Unfortunately, on our trip to the big city, your army climbed the walls like spiders and began devouring people in the streets,” Aurunica responded. “Fearing for our lives, we took shelter in the closest compound. That, as it turned out, was Hasdrubal Gisco’s home for his guests.”

  Mesmerized by her voice and self-assurance, Cornelius listened, nodding at her every word.

  “So, you aren’t a Carthaginian hostage?” he asked.

  “Of course not,” she assured him. “And we are weary of the city and would like to return home to our village.”

  ***

  During Aurunica’s description of the error, the temple hushed. Priests, clerks, officers, and Velites were captivated by her voice. Everyone except Sidia Decimia. When you’ve felt the presence of a Goddess in hot stream and dangerous vapors, you become immune to physical lures.

  While everyone watched Aurunica, Sidia shifted his focus around the temple. Seeing nothing threatening, he began studying the other three women. All appeared to be a little younger than the speaker. And each was attractive in her own way.

  One of the women noticed his eyes on her. She allowed a sly grin to grace her lips. Then she mouthed a couple of words and raised an eyebrow.

  Sidia shook his head to let her know he didn’t understand. In response, she marched around the table, walked up to the Hirpini, and touched his brass armlet.

  “Your name?” she whispered as if they were alone in the temple.

  “Sidia Decimia. Optio Sidia Decimia.”

  “My name is Sucra,” she purred. “We’ve been locked up for days and it seems we’ll be so again. But oh, I am dying for a new dinner companion. And better conversation.”

  Before Sidia had a chance to ask her what she meant, Cornelius spoke up.

  “Optio Decimia. If you’ve finished interrogating the young lady, perhaps she can join her companions,” he teased. “They are leaving.”

  “Yes, sir,” Sidia acknowledged.

  Sucra tugged on Sidia’s arm, and he leaned over.

  “Come have dinner with me tonight,” she invited.

  Without waiting for a reply, Sucra scurried to catch up with Aurunica and the other women.

  Cornelius stretched and asked, “Isn’t there a mountain tribesmen stashed somewhere?”

  Stoned faced, to hide his embarrassment at being outmatched by a woman, First Centurion Turibas marched for the door to the holding room.

  ***

  “I am Oretani, Captain of the Vascones,” the tribesman announced. “My situation here assured that my command blocked the high passes and prevented Latians and their allies from crossing the mountains.”

  “And if I free you?” Cornelius inquired.

  “Logically, the trail through the Pyrenees would be closed to Carthaginians and their allies,” Oretani replied. “And opened for you and your command.”

  Cornelius didn’t respond to the tribesman. Instead, he addressed Lucius Marcius.

  “Colonel, take Captain Oretani with you to Tarraco,” Cornelius directed. “Along the way, write up a letter of agreement stating that if the Oretani fail to uphold their end, I will march on their territory and annihilate their people.”

  After voicing the threat, Cornelius stared into the eyes of the Oretani Captain, and inquired, “Do you have any doubt?”

  “None, General,” Oretani uttered.

  After a squad of light infantrymen left with the Vascones tribesman, Marcius asked, “You took him at his word. Was that wise?”

  “Plato taught that human behavior flows from desire, emotion, and knowledge,” Cornelius replied. “Oretani displayed all three. Further challenging him would have been like beating an obedient horse. It would only serve to decrease his commitment.”

  “General, I have to prepare Bolt Legion for the trip to Tarraco,” Marcius requested. “Do you mind if I abandon you for the rest of the hostage evaluations?”

  “I’m sure the clerks can fill me in on which territory is under consideration. You’re dismissed.”

  Marcius left and the interviews continued. But, by midafternoon, Cornelius grew bored. He informed the priests and clerks that they would resume the processing of hostages in the morning.

  “Optio Decimia, I’m going to my villa to meet with officers from Trumpet of Aeneas Legion,” Cornelius told his bodyguard. “Why don’t you take some downtime. Go see if you can find a diversion?”

  “Thank you, sir. I do have an activity in mind.”

  Chapter 3 – Four Perfect Statuettes

  Following a visit to a tonsor’s shop for a shave, haircut, and nail trim, Sidia visited the baths. Then, freshly scrubbed and dressed in a clean tunic, the NCO strolled to one of the villas assigned to the hostages. A guard met him at the gateway.

  “Optio Decimia, this is a closed compound,” the Legionary said while blocking his way.

  “I’m not visiting. I’m here to escort a hostage to dinner,” Sidia informed the guard. “Her name is Sucra.”

  “Please stay here.”

  The infantryman marched to a side entrance of the house and spoke with someone through the doorway. Back at the gate, he reported, “The Bastetani woman will be along shortly.”

  Sidia stepped away from the wall and lifted his face to the sun. Winter in New Carthage reminded him of late spring at home in the Apennine mountains. Warm with a cool breeze, except the air in the mountains smelled of pine and cedar. While along the coast of Iberia, salt and fish tinted the air.

  After a few moments of sunning, he glanced eastward across the city. From street level, he could see the solid block walls on Citadel Hill and the tall columns on Temple Hill. Most officers and Legionaries didn’t know why General Scipio had chosen the unfortified location for his headquarters. But Sidia understood. In order for Cornelius Scipio to rule Iberia, the General needed to appear to the populace as a civilian governor. Not as a military commander sequestered in a fortress on Citadel Hill.