His job done, the Standard Bearer planted the pole and leaned it forward, allowing the banner to hang free.

  “First maniple, stand by to advance,” the maniple Tribunes alerted the attack line.

  Only ten Centurions of the original twelve combat officers repeated the orders. But two Optios replaced the dead Centurions, and they repeated the instructions for their Centuries.

  “Advance, advance, advance,” the staff officers ordered.

  ***

  On the left side of the plateau, Cornelius Scipio paced behind the assault line of Golden Cat Legion. Halted at spear’s length from the Carthaginian shield wall, the first maniple breathed hard from the climb. Or, possibly from the shower of spears, arrows, and stones that accompanied their trek up the hill.

  “Congratulations, General,” the First Centurion told Cornelius. “You’ve done it.”

  “Only because we were halfway up the slope before their infantry realized we were here,” Cornelius added.

  On each side of the attack line, Tribunes of the maniple instructed, “Centuries. Standby to advance.”

  Their words were relayed to the Legionaries by eight Centurions, an Optio, and three Tesserarii. The climb up the hill had cost first maniple, Golden Cat Legion, four combat officers and three senior NCOs.

  “Advance,” the pair of staff officers bellowed.

  A heartbeat later, three hundred and twenty Legion shields hammered forward. But there were no opposing shields. Most pushed air, but a few caught spearmen unaware and broke the shafts of overextended spears. Equally useless, the gladius strikes of the first advance cut nothing but sunbeams. Then the assault line stepped forward.

  “Advance.”

  Again, the shields plowed air and the gladii cut sunlight. Then the Legion attack line stepped forward to meet the enemy’s stagnant shield wall.

  “Advance.”

  As any practitioner of Apollo’s sport would attest, getting into a rhythm was the key to overwhelming an opponent’s defenses. And just as a boxer during a fist fight, the next advance maintained the quick one-two, one-two punch.

  The hammering shields shoved a number of soldiers out of line. With holes in the shield wall, the gladius strikes found flesh, widening the gaps. And while the step was halted at a half pace by the remnants of the shield wall, the wounded Carthaginian infantrymen were stomped as the assault line moved up.

  Once again, the maniple Tribunes ordered, “Advance.”

  And just as a winning fighter in Apollo’s sport might pummel his opponent in the face, the shields of the attack line pulverized the shield wall. Then three hundred and twenty gladii slashed out. Almost as one blade, the steel cut down infantrymen. And when the line stepped forward, the Legionaries walked on a blanket of bodies.

  “First line, rotate back,” the staff officers instructed. “Second line, move forward and hold.”

  The assault line of Golden Cat halted, not from exhaustion, they had fresh arms and legs on the front line. They stopped because there were no infantrymen close enough for an advance attack.

  “Shield wall,” the Tribunes warned.

  A horde of Carthaginian mercenaries ran at the Legion lines in an attempt to drive the Legionaries off the plateau. But months of shield training and drills held the Carthaginians. Next, with the enemy in close proximity, the tactic changed again.

  “Advance,” the Tribunes shouted above the war cries.

  “Advance,” the combat officers repeated.

  ***

  At the center of the plateau, Jace Kasia stepped through the last of the melees. On either side, his Velites in a concentrated assault sent the spearmen fleeing. Victorious, Wings Legion raced to the top unopposed.

  “It reminds me of my father’s farm after a storm,” Ceradin mentioned. He indicated the Legionaries appearing over the right and left edges. “We’d dig a trench to siphon off the trapped rainwater. Leaves, twigs, and mud flowed into a funnel shape as it poured out of the pond.”

  The funnel shape on the plateau consisted of the Carthaginian army running towards the rear of the mound. Streaming in from both sides, Legionaries chased them down the grade.

  “Orders, sir?” the Senior Centurion inquired.

  “Walk our Velites behind the heavy infantry,” Jace told him. “But don’t get caught up in the fighting. We’ve done our part to break the Carthaginians.”

  “Yes, sir,” Senior Centurion Ceradin responded. “Centurions of Wings Legion, at a walk, forward.”

  First Centurion Turibas fell in beside Jace. They hiked several steps before he addressed the Battle Commander.

  “You survived another fight, Colonel,” he mentioned. “How many more before you fail?”

  “What do you mean, First Centurion?”

  “Just what I said,” the combat officer insisted. “Since you arrived in Iberia, you’ve risked your life for General Scipio, for Rome, and before that General Nero. How long can you temp Cossus, before he withdraws his protection.”

  “Cossus?” Jace asked.

  “The Iberian God of Warriors,” Turibas said. “He’s helpful, but eventually, every brave fighter reaches a bad end.”

  “Have you seen signs?” Jace asked.

  “No, sir, but I do see a man consistently on campaigns of war. Most men are fighting for something. Take me for instance, I’m Iberian. Someday, when my land is no longer a battleground between Rome and Carthage, I’ll buy a farm. That’s why I fight. Why do you fight, sir?”

  Jace started to say every Cretan Archer was charged with earning a profit and staying with a client until the contract was fulfilled. But in the midst of the blood and gore, it sounded hollow in his mind. He couldn’t imagine how it would come across if spoken aloud. Then, the thought fled his mind.

  “Bounty,” a group of Legionaries shouted. “The Carthaginians left their camp. Everyone is raiding it. The fighting is over.”

  “Should it be?” Jace questioned.

  Act 9

  Chapter 25 – An Unfinished Battle

  As if unattended market stalls, rows of neatly spaced tents sprawled across the rear of the plateau. Although the shelters lacked vendors, there wasn’t a shortage of consumers. But they weren’t shopping. Rather, the Legionaries were pillaging the camp of the Carthaginian army.

  A muscle at the side of Cornelius’ jaw twitched. To mask the annoyance, he rubbed his cheek to hide the sign of irritation.

  “Congratulations on a great victory, General Scipio,” Jace said, acknowledging the success.

  He and Senior Centurion Ceradin braced and saluted.

  “But why didn’t we pursue Hasdrubal, General?” Ceradin inquired.

  Cornelius lifted his face and gazed at the blue sky. In the distance, clouds gathered, threatening rain.

  “Colonel Kasia, my Legionaries decided that plunder was more important than chasing down a fleeing enemy,” Cornelius mentioned. He maintained his inspection of the heavens as if reluctant to look at Jace. “I wonder where they got the idea that looting a camp was more important than fighting?”

  “Plunder is one of the benefits of being victorious, sir,” Jace replied. “We used the promise of riches to keep the recruits committed to the training. And it worked. Against an enemy on high ground, they fought their way to the top and routed their adversaries.”

  “But then they stopped to fill their coin purses and stuff their bundles,” Cornelius growled. Lowering his chin, he locked eyes with Jace, “while allowing the enemy to escape. Maybe you should rethink your training methods.”

  “Yes sir, it appears so,” Jace affirmed.

  Sidia Decimia looked at Jace from the other side of General Scipio. He scrunched up his face in sympathy at the scolding. But the insult aimed at his cousin didn’t end with the dig at Jace’s skills as an infantry instructor.

  “Ceradin, I want to know where Hasdrubal Barca is headed,” Cornelius ordered the Senior Centurion. “And the state of Mago Barca’s army. Have they broken camp?”

  Going around the Battle Commander of Wings Legion, and issuing orders directly to his second in command, emphasized the General’s displeasure with Colonel Kasia.

  “Yes, sir, I’ll send patrols right away,” Ceradin vowed.

  He started to turn when Jace restrained him with a hand on his arm.

  “Let the patrols know, Senior Centurion,” Jace advised, “in the morning, we’re marching north to Marçà.”

  “Just a moment,” Cornelius snapped. “When did you, Colonel Kasia, take over as my planning and strategy staff?”

  A Century of Legionaries, herding a bull, passed by and the Centurion saluted.

  “It’s a great victory,” Cornelius gushed.

  “Rah to General Scipio,” the combat officer yelled.

  Seventy-four dirty and bloodied Legionaries responded, “Rah.”

  “I owe a great debt to my infantry,” Cornelius boasted. “Salute to my Legionaries. But, may I inquire, where are you going with the beast?”

  “We’re taking the bull to the priests,” the Centurion informed him. “I lost six good men today, sir. And I want them honored.”

  “Be sure they butcher the meat into small pieces,” Cornelius suggested. “You’ll need the excess cooked and cooled for packing by morning.”

  “We’re leaving, sir?” the Centurion asked.

  “That’s what I’ve been told,” Cornelius remarked. General Scipio waited until the Century was away before turning to Jace. “Why are we marching north in the morning?”

  “Sir, you left the Ilergetes on high alert and bunched up on their border,” Jace answered. “If Hasdrubal Barca joins the remnants of his army with the spearmen of King Indibilis, they’ll march over Marçà in a half day. And take Tarraco the next afternoon.”

  “And supplement their spearmen’s rations with the grains I staged,” Cornelius pointed out. “Like a trail of seeds leading to a bird trap, they’ll follow them to my ruin.”

  “Not if we march at dawn, sir,” Jace proposed.

  ***

  As hard as Cornelius pushed the Legions on the way to Baecula, he added extra miles on the way to Marçà.

  “We can rest when we’re in position to defend our fort,” he advised any officer who questioned the rough march.

  But General Scipio didn’t cloister himself with his staff. During the long days, he and Sidia rode to different Centuries. They dismounted and hiked alongside the Legionaries. At first, his presence would intimidate. But the longer he marched with the Century, the more relaxed the infantrymen became.

  “This is brutal,” Cornelius complained after a couple of miles. “Whose idea was this?”

  “Ah, General Scipio, you’re in charge,” infantrymen would reply. “Sir, it was you’re idea.”

  “Somebody should wish blisters on the feet of any commander requiring his beloved Legionaries to march fifty miles in a day.”

  “We can do it, sir,” the infantrymen assured him. “We’ll do it for you.”

  Although General Scipio left after a short visit to the ranks, his presence lingered.

  Six days and three hundred miles later, the Legions arrived at Marçà. Yet Cornelius, as weary as anyone, sat on his mount. He watched as every infantryman and cavalry rider passed in review. Under the eyes of Cornelius Scipio, the ranks straightened, and with each step, the hobnailed boots came clear of the ground. No one wanted to show weakness in front of their General.

  “Sir, you’ve been here all morning,” Sidia commented. The parade of exhausted Centuries flowed by in a never-ending stream of men and weapons. “You need to rest.”

  “On the banks of the Trebia River, Hannibal unleased his barbarians on the Legions of Consul Longus,” Cornelius replied while saluting the next Century in the procession. “Not once during the battle did the Carthaginian General leave his station. Even when his concealed cavalry struck our Legions from the side, Hannibal sat his mount so every one of his warriors could see their General.”

  “Do you think it makes a difference, sir?” Sidia inquired.

  Cornelius pounded his fist in the air and shouted, “Steed Legion.”

  Throats dry from eating dust, stomachs empty from the long hike, and muscles exhausted from carrying equipment should have dampened the enthusiasm of the infantrymen.

  Yet, they responded in full voice to Cornelius’ cry and bellowed back, “Steed Legion.”

  “I guess it does,” Sidia uttered.

  ***

  The rapid movement of the Legions outpaced both the patrol heading south and the one chasing Hasdrubal Barca. On the third morning after arriving at the fort, the patrols reported in.

  Cornelius had the cavalrymen fed while he waited for his Battle Commanders. Once they gathered, he called in the NCOs of the patrols.

  “The Ilergetes are an unfinished battle, as are the soldiers of Hasdrubal Barca,” Cornelius said. He indicated the map table and instructed. “Let’s start with the northern patrol.”

  “Sir, we followed the Carthaginians to the Pyrenees,” the cavalry Optio explained. “By the time they reached the mountain, they had moved far to the west. The last we saw of them their columns had started up the pass.”

  Lucius Marcius cleared his throat and asked, “Any chance of them turning around and coming at us?”

  “Sir, there’s always a chance a wounded animal will turn and attack,” the patrol leader advised. “But they moved with purpose as if under orders. I didn’t get the feeling they were unserious about leaving Iberia.”

  “Senior Centurion Thiphilia,” Cornelius instructed, “take Steed Legion and retrieve the grain, then dismantle the supply depots.”

  “Are you pulling back the threat from the Ilergetes, sir?” Nabars asked.

  “They aren’t my biggest worry right now,” Cornelius informed the Battle Commanders. “Now that we know the tribe isn’t getting reinforced, we can focus on Mago Barca and his army.”

  Sidia stepped forward and passed a few coins to the patrol leader.

  “From the General as a token of thanks for a job well done,” he whispered.

  ***

  Once the cavalry NCO left the headquarters building, Sidia waved the southern patrol leader forward.

  “We received good news from the northern patrol,” Cornelius informed the NCO. “Hopefully, your report will be as equally pleasing.”

  “General Scipio, my report is anything but pleasing and mostly unattractive,” the cavalry Optio admitted.

  “Show me,” Cornelius ordered. He waved a hand over the map table, encompassing the south-central region of Iberia.

  Using his thumb, the patrol leader covered a circle next to a line marked as the Guadalaviar River.

  “At Carmona, General Barca has been joined by forces commanded by Lieutenant/General Hanno,” the cavalry NCO informed the group. He pulled a piece of parchment from a pouch and handed it to Cornelius. “We captured a courier and took this off him.”

  Cornelius unrolled the parchment and handed it to Jace.

  “Can you translate that, Colonel Kasia?”

  Jace studied the document for a moment before stating, “Hanno arrived from the west with reinforcements for Mago Barca. It appears that Mago sent an earlier letter to Hasdrubal Gisco demanding he bring his army to Carmona. But Gisco hasn’t responded and Mago is upset.”

  “Mago needs to die,” Sidia growled.

  “Do you have something to add, Optio Decimia?” Cornelius questioned.

  “Mago Barca needs to die, sir,” Sidia replied. “He ambushed the Legions of Consul Gracchus. He needs to die, sir.”

  “Wasn’t he guided into the trap by Hirpini scouts?” Cornelius inquired.

  Both Sidia and Jace shrunk a little at the truth. Hirpini tribesmen had guided the Legion and Consul Gracchus into the mountain trap.

  Realizing the discussion had gotten off course, Cornelius suggested, “With Mago and Hanno in one location, we can march on Carmona.”

  “Not so easily, sir,” the cavalry scout interjected. “Hasdrubal Gisco has moved his army to Fuentes de Andalucía. That’s only seventeen miles from Carmona.”

  “Two armies, that close together, is unattractive,” Cornelius projected. “If we attack one, the other will fall on us while we’re occupied.”

  “It gets worse, General,” the cavalryman told him. He lifted his thumb to reveal the symbol for a large city. “Both Fuentes de Andalucía, and Carmona are near Seville. If we linger too long, or offend the Turdetani Tribes, we’ll have to deal with their mercenaries.”

  Sidia handed the NCO a few coins, told him the General appreciated the report, and walked the cavalry NCO to the exit. Once the man left, Cornelius held out his arms in resignation.

  “Comments or thoughts, gentlemen,” Cornelius proclaimed. “I’m fresh out of ideas.”

  Jace stepped forward and held out his left arm.

  “Cretan Archers wear a small shield on their left wrist,” he described. “It’s not large enough to stop a spear or an arrow. It’s used for hand-to-hand combat. Even then, it’s best deployed as a distraction before stabbing an opponent with a knife.”

  “But I’ve seen you smash a head or two with the small shield,” Sidia added.

  “It wouldn’t be much of a distraction if it was made of feathers,” Jace advised.

  Cornelius walked around the map table.

  “Too often, we’ve seen divided Legions fail,” he proposed. “My father and uncle split their Legions hoping to catch the Carthaginians by surprise. It resulted in tragedy. But keeping with the left arm and right arm analogy, we might be able to attack one fortification while holding the other in position.”

  “Which one do we hold, and which one do we hit?” Thiphilia, Steed’s Senior Centurion, inquired.

  Cornelius stared at Jace for a moment before Jace nodded.

  “I’ll have the information for you before you reach Fuentes de Andalucía and Carmona,” he stated.

  “What’s this going to cost me?” Cornelius inquired.

  “Nothing extra General Scipio,” Jace informed him. “But sir, you’re going to need a new Battle Commander for Wings Legion. After this mission, I’m resigning.”