A flatbed wagon backed up to block the road. Once the horse stopped moving, Magistrate Timarchus and a man dressed in the tunic of a Rhodian Admiral climbed onto the bed.

  “The citizens of Knossus and Polyrrhenia have formed a partnership and they want every citizen of Crete to join them,” Magistrate Timarchus exclaimed. “I want to hear the pros and cons of joining with our sister cities. But first a word…”

  Only because Zarek and Jace were searching did they identify the spearmen. Although not in the uniform of the Rhodian Navy, their stiff postures, and the outline of their spears, making depressions in the grass, gave them away.

  “I have four spearmen on my side,” Jace whispered.

  “Four more on my side blocking access to the path up the hill,” Zarek reported while untying the cap on his quiver.

  “Five more coming from the city,” Neysa added.

  “…please give a warm welcome to Admiral Polemocles.”

  The naval commander nodded to the crowd and turned to Timarchus.

  “I’m afraid I lied to you, Magistrate,” Polemocles declared. “Although I have been hired by Polyrrhenia to blockade the colony of Lyttos, I wasn’t authorized to visit your city.”

  “If you don’t represent the alliance, why are you here?” the Magistrate demanded.

  His words reached the crowd, and they made menacing sounds, but none moved.

  “I’m here to arrest a rogue bowman and his associate,” Polemocles replied. He glanced around and spied his soldiers coming down the hill. As they closed with the flatbed, it was obvious their formation escorted a civilian. “There is a witness.”

  “Jace. What’s the color of Bettina’s hair?” Zarek inquired.

  “Dryas said it’s dark brown,” he answered.

  From the wagon, the Admiral continued, “But I learned last night the name of the murderers. Will someone kindly point out Zarek Mikolas and his student to me? There is a reward.”

  “Just a second, Admiral,” Timarchus complained, “I didn’t agree to a manhunt.”

  “No, you didn’t,” Polemocles replied. The knife came out of its sheath, and in a smooth arc, it rose to the Magistrate’s chest and plunged into his heart. “But I didn’t ask your permission.”

  Horrified at the murder of their Magistrate, the crowd and council stood in silence. In a moment, they would have rushed the flatbed wagon. But a voice rose up before the mob surged forward.

  “There they are,” a familiar voice shouted.

  Jace and Zarek spun to face Dryas Kasia. The Uncle, the brother-in-law, the family trader stood with an arm extended and a finger pointing at Jace and Zarek. Behind him, a pretty girl with dark brown hair waited with a smile on her face.

  “Those two,” Dryas said doubling down on his accusation, “are the murders of the Rhodian patrol.”

  People moved away from the three forming a circle. Shocked by the betrayal, neither Jace, Zarek, nor Neysa moved.

  “Kill them,” Admiral Polemocles ordered from the wagon bed.

  Spearmen snatched their weapons from the grass and four threw.

  “No,” Zarek screamed as he tackled Neysa, landing on her upper body.

  Seeing the woman who raised him only partially protected from the spears, Jace leaped onto her legs and her lower body.

  Every animal when struck a fatal blow by an arrow or a spear exhales. Not a sigh or a quick expulsion of air, but an outbreath that comes from deep in the lungs. Hunters knew the sound. It signaled that the hunt was over, and the animal would run no farther.

  Tears came to Jace’s eyes when he heard Zarek utter his final breath. Then a voice came to him. From under the archer’s carcass, the voice that sang him to sleep at night when he was four years old and having a nightmare about a raging sea.

  “Run, Jace,” Neysa ordered. “Get to the cabin, gather a long pack, and get to Phalasarna. From there, sail away from Crete. And remember, I love you. Now run!”

  The nightmare of being slung about by a raging sea, unable to draw a breath, and being overpowered by towering waves returned. Fear gripped Jace’s heart just as it had when he was a four-year-old orphan.

  Then Neysa Kasia’s comforting voice cooed in his ears.

  “And remember, I love you. Now swim.”

  ***

  Running hills gave Cretan Archers deep lungs, and water training, the confidence to hold their breath underwater. Jace squeezed his eyes shut tight and tried to recall the sound of Neysa’ voice. But all he could hear was the gurgling of water rushing by with the force of a gale. And it made him angry.

  Pulling with his powerful shoulders, Jace moved forward. After locating another set of handholds, he braced and pulled again. Then his face came out of the water. Still in the torrent, and within the confines of the drainage culvert, he hung to a side, while looking up at a short waterfall.

  “Thank you, Neysa,” he said.

  Then Jace scrambled to street level. Standing for a moment, he allowed the rain to wash his flesh and rinse away his anger.

  ***

  The third cavalryman to emerge from the culvert, climbed to street level, and embraced Jace.

  “For getting me out of that pit, sir,” he coughed up rainwater as he spoke, “I love you.”

  “There’s a lot of that going around,” Jace assured him. “Now get up the street and keep watch. We need to haul in the rest before the city comes to close the port. We don’t want to get caught.”

  “Naked, sir?”

  “What?” Jace asked as he tossed the wrist shield and rope into the culvert.

  “Caught naked,” the cavalryman said.

  “I don’t get it,” Jace admitted.

  While Jace fed the rope out, the cavalryman headed to the end of the block. A few moments later, another head emerged.

  “The next time you have a special mission, Colonel,” the dripping wet man advised. “Count me out.”

  “Get up the street and keep watch,” Jace instructed. “We’ll be moving soon.”

  ***

  The hammering rain changed to a slow drumbeat and streaks of weak light lit the clouds. High above the five crouching men, the roof of the abandoned building leaked rain and let in the pale light. With those clues, the state of the storm and the new day weren’t in question.

  “What’s the plan, sir?” a cavalryman inquired.

  “If General Scipio follows through with the tactics,” Jace explained, “we should hear the Carthaginian army call up their infantry and head for a gate.”

  “And what do we do?”

  “Once it starts, we’re going to capture the southern gate,” Jace answered. “Our goal is to keep the portal open for the Legions.”

  “With just the five of us and no armor, and you naked, sir?”

  “When you put it like that,” Jace commented, “it sounds bad. But we can do it.”

  From the street outside the building, they heard voices issuing orders, boots scraping on pavers, and male voices grumbling. For a heartbeat, Jace and his four men braced, preparing for a fight. But the soldiers passed by. Shortly afterwards, the sixth cavalryman in the patrol slipped into the building.

  He went to Jace and handed him a folded bundle of cloth.

  “It’s the only thing I could find, Colonel,” the rider apologized. “The streets are filled with mercenary spearmen, and you said not to get caught.”

  “General Scipio has arrived,” a couple of cavalrymen offered.

  “Not exactly,” Jace corrected. He took the bundle, unfolded it, and shook out a large rectangle of cloth. “This will do.”

  As Jace wrapped the material around his waist and expertly tucked an edge into a fold, one of his men pointed out, “That’s not a toga, sir. It’s too small.”

  “This is a himation,” Jace explained as he shifted the material. Soon, it wrapped his body from chest down to shin level, and draped over his left shoulder, while leaving his right shoulder bare. “On Crete and in other Greek cities, it’s considered fashionable. And you’re right, it’s not as voluminous as a toga.”

  “You said, it’s not exactly General Scipio,” a cavalryman reminded Jace. “If not the General, sir, who is attacking Carmona?”

  “It should be Senior Tribune Silanus outside the walls, assaulting the Carthaginian camp,” Jace answered. “General Scipio, hopefully, is at Fuentes de Andalucía. Probably making evil faces at Gisco’s army and cursing me, if everything is going according to plan.”

  Act 10

  Chapter 28 – When Out is In

  A sad fact for Legionaries, leather straps, iron and steel equipment, padding, helmets, gladii, shields, and spears attracted moisture. And while infantrymen didn’t mind getting wet, it happened whenever it rained, they absolutely detested the following day. For it meant drying, sanding, shining, and oiling every piece of equipment they owned.

  “This is a travesty,” an infantryman announced.

  Another Legionary seconded the notion by saying, “It’s a violation of everything holy.”

  “Oh rejoice,” their Centurion exclaimed. Rainwater ran off the red horsehair comb on his new helmet, streaking the sides with pale red dye and carrying the stain down the sides of his neck. The combat officer ignored the discomfort and declared. “We have a legal scholar and a warrior priest in our ranks. Truly, I have the most talented Century in all of Bolt Legion.”

  The sarcastic comment brought laughter from the ranks, marking it as the first happy incident of the morning. One that started before the pale light of a rainy day washed away the night and found Legionaries standing in ranks under a sky that continued to pour down on them.

  “If we’re not going to assault,” an infantryman suggested, “we could have kept our waterproof covers on our shields and wraps over our armor.”

  “And a philosopher,” the Centurion bellowed. “How did I get so lucky?”

  ***

  The Legionaries of Bolt Legion weren’t alone in their misery. Four Legions of heavy infantrymen stood in ranks, getting soaked. And while enemy spearmen waited just a half mile away, the Battle Commanders of the Legions had not ordered their maniples forward.

  “You were right, sir,” Sidia said.

  “I’m so rarely wrong,” Cornelius replied, “remind me of the specific instance.”

  The General’s aids, staff officers, senior Centurions, and infantrymen of First Century sat their mounts in silence, bearing the storm without protest. They had no choice, General Scipio exposed himself to the weather and remained silent about it. But his remark pulled at the corners of their mouths, and in their sodden despair, the entire headquarters staff grinned.

  “As you promised, sir, we are getting wet,” the bodyguard stated the obvious. “But sir, do you think Gisco has figured it out?”

  Cornelius smiled at the question. Glancing to his right for a moment, then to his left, the youthful Prorogatio of Iberia pondered the question. The standard bearers of four Legions and their Battle Commanders held positions at the front of their heavy infantry. Behind Cornelius, four matching banners identified him as the General for those Legions.

  “Eleven thousand Legionaries, plus their NCOs, and officers make a formidable war machine,” Cornelius granted. “I believe what you’re asking, Optio Decimia, does Gisco, or his advisers, realize our weakness?”

  Sidia Decimia mimicked the General and peered right and left. The solid rows of wet infantrymen with naked shields and spears, stood in three lines, offering potential violence. But heavy infantrymen were all that composed the Legions. There were no cavalrymen to hold the flanks, nor skirmishers or Velites to disrupt the forward element of a charging enemy.

  “I’m positive he hasn’t caught on, General,” Sidia declared.

  “Why so sure?” Cornelius inquired.

  “Because, General, Gisco’s riders, spearmen, and soldiers are like us. They’re standing in the rain and getting wet, instead of attacking.”

  ***

  Twenty-two miles to the south, there was no hesitation to engage.

  “Forward the next wave,” Junius Silanus ordered.

  Using a Celtiberi trick, passed on by Prince Allucius, each cavalry horse towed two light infantrymen. Although the tactic slowed the cavalry charge, the configuration quickly inserted Velites into the heart of the Carthaginian camp.

  “We’ve only twenty squadrons of horse remaining, and four thousand light infantry in reserve, sir,” Captain Bekeres cautioned. “If you commit them, we’ll have no forces left for an orderly retreat.”

  “And if we don’t use what we have, we’ll leave Mago and Hanno intact,” Silanus pointed out. “Tomorrow, or the day after, they’ll be at our backs when we face Gisco. What would Cornelius have me do?”

  “You’ve been around him a long time, sir,” the Celtiberi cavalry officer proposed. “I’m sure you know the answer.”

  “Cornelius Scipio has the ability to make rational men impulsive, daring, and slightly mad,” Silanus admitted. “Forward the last wave. We will end this today, one way or the other.”

  Bekeres gestured the forward motion, and his signal corps sent the instructions to the waiting heavy cavalry and light infantry.

  “Sir, the gate is opening,” the cavalry officer announced. “Carmona is ripe for the taking.”

  “Or to puke out Carthaginian reinforcements and destroy us,” Silanus growled.

  From the portal, officers and their staff raced from the city.

  “Not reinforcements,” Bekeres stated.

  “It’s worse,” Silanus asserted. “Their commanders are coming out to take charge.”

  “I’ll get Captain Darsosin and we’ll cut the camp in half with our Celtiberi,” Bekeres proposed. “It’ll give you a better sense of the momentum of the battle.”

  The Captain galloped away and Junius Silanus sat watching the fighting. There were only two orders he could give at that point. Attack through the gates or retreat. In a motion he’d seen Cornelius do a hundred times, the Senior Tribune of Iberia lifted his chin, raised his eyes to the sky, and prayed.

  ***

  A smartly dressed Carthaginian officer and his staff galloped down a road in Carmona. As they raced towards the fighting, they passed a Greek and five laborers.

  “He’s so pretty, he must be important,” one of the laborers offered. “If I had my lance, he’d be one dead Carthaginian.”

  “Keep your voice down,” Jace warned the cavalryman. “When we get to the gate guards, keep your eyes downcast and your mouths closed.”

  “Yes, Colonel,” they mumbled in response.

  A block from the south gate, a second Carthaginian noble and his staff trotted by.

  “Do you suppose one of them is Hanno and the other Mago?” a cavalryman whispered to Jace.

  “Now I want a lance,” Jace grunted. “Mago owes me for a Legion.”

  “Do you know him, sir?”

  “Never met the General,” Jace admitted. “Doesn’t stop me from wanting him dead.”

  ***

  Moments later, they rounded a corner, and encountered a courtyard. On the far side of the plaza, the six approached the southern gate.

  “Where are you going?” a Sergeant of the city guard challenged.

  A Turdetani tribesman with public responsibilities needed to be proficient in Iberian and Phoenician. Additionally, an NCO at an entrance to the city would also be familiar with Greek and Numidian, the other trading tongues. Plus, he would be alert for Latin, the dialect of his enemy.

  “The Carthaginian ordered me to help secure the gate,” Jace said in perfect Greek.

  As his native language, the Hellenic speech contained no hint of Latin. Jace hoped, between the Greek and his reference to a mythical Carthaginian, the Sergeant would allow his cavalrymen to remain at the gate.

  The NCO cocked his head to the side, concentrated on translating the words, then pointed out, “You look Latian.”

  “My hometown on Crete is better than any Roman city, Lochías,” Jace shot back as if the Latin remark was an insult.

  “What’s a Lochías?” the Sergeant demanded.

  Talks with traders and merchants rarely involved a discussion of positions in a phalanx formation. The unfamiliar word made the Sergeant curious if he’d been insulted. And as Jace intended, the NCO’s question about the new word moved him further from his initial challenge.

  “A position of importance in a fighting formation,” Jace answered. He indicated the seven city guards at the gate. “A Lochías is a commander of a rank. It identifies you as the leader of the noble defenders of this city.”

  The NCO puffed up his chest before inquiring, “why are you here?”

  “I’m a Greek tradesman traveling with General Hanno,” Jace lied. “Because my apprentices, and myself, are not trained with shields and spears, he sent us to handle the gate. That frees up your warriors to do the fighting, if the Latians get too close.”

  A long, worrisome pause followed the fib.

  Master Archer Mikolas often warned, “Be judicious with your compliments. Accolades can make a situation better or cause the target to become suspicious.”

  Jace waited for the results of his flattery.

  “Watch the gate, Greek,” the Sergeant ordered. “We’ll guard the approach.”

  The NCO and his seven gate guards marched through the portal and formed a semicircle in front of the entrance.

  “He was dying to get out there and watch the fighting, sir,” a cavalryman whispered.

  “They all were,” Jace agreed. “When I give the word, arm yourselves and prepare to defend the gate. I’m going to have a look.”

  Jace pointed at a pair of spears and shields resting beside the open gate. The implication was clear, three of the cavalrymen would have to disarm guards to secure weapons. Then he climbed a ladder and peered over the wall at the battle raging south of the city.

  ***

  The battlefield was divided in two. Far from the walls of Carmona, one Carthaginian General attempted to rally his forces. But the Velites and the Legion light horsemen smashed their defensive formations before they solidified. Islands of soldiers in armor with infantry shields fought back-to-back. Yet, they were unable to shuffle to join other clusters of their comrades. And preventing the upper field of conflict from moving north and joining with the other General was a broad no man’s land.