“Sidia Decimia, you came,” Sucra said with glee in her voice. She stood in the gateway of the compound beaming at him. “I wasn’t sure if you could pull yourself away from your important duties.”

  Sidia crossed to the gateway and offered his arm.

  “Just as I wasn’t sure you were serious about going to dinner. I’m surprised you’re willing to pull yourself away from your friends.”

  “Oh, they aren’t my friends,” Sucra tossed out.

  Her phrase “not my friends” might be a simple opinion based on being forced to live with three other women for weeks. Or, it might hold a secret.

  Because Sidia was a fixture behind General Scipio and blended into the background, people forgot the bodyguard was present. Sometimes they spoke plainly and often made remarks contradictory to their public statements. His cousin, Jace Kasia, had coached Sidia to not react to inflammatory or suspicious remarks. Rather he should listen, and probe if possible, and then report them to Cornelius. Following Jace’s advice, Sidia didn’t respond to Sucra’s comment.

  The bridesmaid linked one arm in his and reached over to rest the other on his upper arm and the brass armlet. As they began walking, an older woman appeared from the house and followed.

  “We have a shadow,” Sidia suggested.

  “She’s my chaperone,” Sucra laughed. “You’ll buy her dinner, won’t you?”

  “Where are the three of us eating?” Sidia inquired.

  ***

  The third-floor terrace of the restaurant overlooked south bay. Fishing boats rowed in with their catch, and a few merchant vessels appeared, having reached Cartagena Bay after a day of sailing. Far out at the harbor’s inlet, four Roman quinqueremes floated on the tide. The five-bankers were there in case pirates or Carthaginian ships-of-war attempted a raid from the sea.

  Sidia and Sucra were seated at a table near the edge of the balcony. The chaperone selected a table near the exit stairs as if to prevent the pair from escaping.

  “She’s very accommodating,” Sidia observed, meaning the older woman gave them space to converse in private. “Has she been with your family long. Oh, excuse me. Perhaps she’s your grandmother.”

  “My Amona is fifty miles northwest of here,” Sucra replied. “And I wish I was with her.”

  “Too many days in the big city,” Sidia offered. “I know when I left my father’s farm, I was intimidated by the crowds and high walls of Benevento.”

  “Ortillo has walls. Not as big as Jarales nor this grand. And not near as many miles long,” Sucra reminisced while indicating the defensive walls of New Carthage. “But on market days, when the farmers come to town, the streets get packed. I usually stay in my room and avoid them.”

  “I thought you were from the same village as Aurunica,” Sidia questioned.

  “She’s from Jarales and the other two are from cities farther west.”

  The proprietor brought a platter, interrupting her response. Sliced lamb, with a mixture of boiled broad beans, lentils, and peas, and a clay container of berry and honey jam filled the platter. Sucra divided portions into three bowls. After handing one to Sidia, she carried the other to her chaperone.

  “How did you end up in New Carthage?” Sidia inquired when she returned.

  Using a piece of flatbread, he focused on scooping up a too large helping of the vegetables and meat. His fumbling with the overloaded piece, drew a laugh from Sucra.

  “If she’s not your Grandmother, who is…” the bread dipped halfway to Sidia’s mouth. In a cascade of lamb and vegetables, the food toppled to the table with only a tiny part landing in the bowl.

  Sucra giggled and attempted to hide it by placing a hand in front of her mouth.

  “Oh, this is so much better than meals with Aurunica, her servants, and the girls,” she declared. Then she thought about the comment before saying. “I hope I haven’t offended you by laughing.”

  “You have a lovely laugh,” Sidia complimented her. “As I started to ask, before my flatbread rebelled, who is the chaperone?”

  “She’s one of Aurunica’s ten servants.”

  “For a shopping trip,” Sidia questioned, “she brought ten servants and three friends?”

  “Goddess Coventina bless us,” she cried. “Mother of abundance and fertility, my side hurts.”

  Sidia scooped up a smaller portion and ate while Sucra composed herself.

  “We aren’t here shopping,” Sucra revealed after a moment. “The girls and I were selected as Aurunica’s handmaids.”

  “Selected?”

  “Chief Karisker held a banquet for all the young women in our region,” Sucra told him. “Do you think a party of four perfect statuettes happened by accident?”

  “I had no reason to believe it wasn’t a gift from Philyra, the Goddess of beauty,” Sidia admitted.

  Sucra’s face scrunched up with humor.

  “Thank you,” she uttered. “But sometimes Goddesses need help to create perfection.”

  “Why not have Aurunica’s friends accompany her to the wedding.”

  “When you marry a Prince, everything must be uniformly pretty.”

  Despite Jace’s advice to probe and not display emotion, Sidia’s lower jaw dropped.

  “Aurunica is marrying a Prince? Which one? Who?”

  “It shouldn’t matter to you Latians,” Sucra divulged. “Aurunica sent to her father for a ransom. She’ll pay your General and we’ll be leaving tomorrow afternoon.”

  Realizing he needed to change the subject and not seem too interested, Sidia denied the label. “I am not Latin. I’m Hirpini from the Apennines. My people are independent mountain dwellers and not part of the Republic.”

  “Yet, you guard a Roman General.”

  “Truth be told, I hate farming,” Sidia explained. “Being an Optio in the Legions is a steady job. And securing a position as General Scipio’s bodyguard is a good assignment.”

  “Your General, what kind of man is he?” Sucra asked.

  The question might have been part of the normal flow of the conversation. Or, based on Sucra’s meticulously stacking vegetables on a piece of flatbread and her intense focus on the task, it was the reason she asked him to dinner.

  “What kind of man is General Scipio?” Sidia repeated as if he’d never considered the question. After a moment, he replied. “Cornelius Scipio is a studious man who keeps faith with the gods. He sacrifices, prays, and consults with them daily. He desires peaceful and profitable situations. And paramount to creating the proper conditions, he’ll negotiate and uphold his part of any bargain.”

  “Your General sounds like a fair and just man,” Sucra observed.

  “He is that,” Sidia confirmed. Then he delivered the warning in as nice a manner as possible. “He is fair and just. But when attacked, or a tribe breaks a treaty, or people lie to him, General Scipio will, without remorse, depopulate a region as retribution.”

  The stark admittance that Scipio would murder an entire community if angered, showed in the widening of Sucra’s eyes.

  “Plus, the General is an excellent strategist,” Sidia added to see what effect it had on her.

  “How so?” Sucra inquired.

  “Scipio captured New Carthage in two days,” Sidia reminded the bridesmaid.

  A quick glance between Sucra and the chaperone brought the old woman to the edge of the table.

  “It’s getting late, and I must get back before dark,” Sucra apologized. “Thank you for the dinner and the conversation.”

  After Sucra and her shadow left, Sidia stretched out his legs, and raised a hand over his head.

  “Proprietor, I have thinking to do. Bring me a pitcher of your best red.”

  Sidia Decimia sipped and watched the inner and outer bay darken. But while his body remained idle, his mind went over every word of the conversation with Sucra.

  ***

  Appearing like priestesses coming to a dawn ceremony, Aurunica, followed by Sucra and the other two bridesmaids filed into the Temple of Asclepius.

  “General Scipio, I was surprised at your summons,” Aurunica admitted. “But it was judicious. My father, Karisker, wants me home. You see, my mother has taken ill, and I must be there to care for her. After selling a team of horses and combining it with a stash of coins from last year’s harvest, he managed to raise a ransom. With it, he hopes to purchase my release.”

  As it had the day before, her low voice carried promises with each syllable and hinted at secrets a man, even if he didn’t understand the need, might want to explore.

  Unimpressed by the dramatic announcement, Cornelius advised, “Make that the first and last time.”

  “Forgive me General, I’m confused,” Aurunica purred. “What have I said to warrant such a rebuke?”

  Knowing Sidia had warned her, through Sucra, not to lie, Cornelius ignored the future bride and addressed Turibas.

  “First Centurion,” he instructed. “Form the heavy infantry of Wings Legion and prepare to march for Jarales.”

  Turibas, typically alert and ready to comply with any order, hesitated. Wings of Nortus had Velites, skirmishers, artillery men, and squadrons of cavalry. But Wings Legion had no Legionaries, other than the veterans of First Century. Certainly not enough heavy infantrymen to call them a Legion or to be a military threat. Then the truth dawned on him.

  “A question, General Scipio,” the First Centurion requested. “Do we take our second Maniple? They are a blood thirsty lot, sir, and don’t always leave survivors to sell as slaves.”

  Cornelius lifted his head and peered at the center of the temple as if communicating with the statue of Asclepius. While he concentrated on the God of Healing, everyone in the temple fell silent and waited. The quiet interval proved too much for Aurunica.

  “General Scipio, I lied,” she confessed. “My mother’s not sick. But my father is sending a ransom for my release.”

  His eyes drifted down to look at her in an indirect manner. A heartbeat later, Cornelius’ head dipped, and stared directly at the bride-to-be.

  “Who is the lucky man?”

  “I don’t know what you’re…” Cornelius held up a fist then extended two fingers. With the other hand, he pointed at the second finger and shook his head, no. Moving away from the falsehood she was about to deliver, Aurunica offered. “I am the fiancée of Allucius, Prince of the Celtiberi Tribe.”

  As if a hot poker had been driven up his spine, Cornelius Scipio hopped off the chair. He landed beside his seat, then doubled over as if punched in the gut. Sidia wrapped a supporting arm around his waist and hovered over his General. With his face as red as the tip of a hot iron, Cornelius stammered, “Get them out of my sight. Take them back to the villa.”

  Velites stomped forward, forming a barrier between the General and the wedding party.

  “I don’t understand,” Aurunica pleaded. “I told the truth.”

  “First Centurion, make sure none of the infantrymen assigned to guard the women were in my uncle’s Legions,” Cornelius ordered.

  “Yes, sir,” Turibas assured him.

  Recovering a little from the shock, Cornelius stood erect.

  As his head appeared behind the shields, Aurunica tried a different tactic, “I have coins coming to pay for my release.”

  “A Legion patrol intercepted the carriage from your father before daylight,” Cornelius told her.

  “Sidia, why this treatment?” Sucra shouted as the women neared the exit to the temple. “I thought he was just and kind unless attacked, or a tribe broke a treaty, or people lied to him.”

  “I must have forgotten one other item,” Sidia replied.

  “Forgotten what?” Sucra called from the edge of the temple.

  “For people subject to revenge, there is no compassion.”

  Before the guards escorting the wedding party reached the steps of the temple, Cornelius grabbed Sidia’s arm. Towing the bodyguard, Scipio headed for the chamber he used for meditation.

  ***

  In the dark, Sidia extended an arm, restricting Cornelius’ movements and creating a barrier against an assassin’s attack. Before long, wicks flickered to life as priests rushed around lighting the beeswax candles. Only when he could see objects in the muted light did Sidia drop his arm.

  “I’m sorry, sir, about the rude and rough treatment,” the bodyguard offered.

  With the candles lit and their job of appeasement completed, the priests fled the chamber.

  “Optio Decimia, if only you could guard my heart from the pain, and block the knives stabbing into my gut,” Cornelius sighed. “Then I might separate my emotions into usable parts. A logical mind to see beyond revenge. A clear vision of justice unclouded by vengeance. An ability to draw on ancient wisdom. And the foresight to embrace the Gods. But no path lays unshrouded by the blood of my uncle caused by the desertion of the Celtiberi heavy infantry.”

  “Sir, you handled the situation with the Ama woman well enough,” Sidia proposed.

  “No, I didn’t,” Cornelius admitted. “I sent Jace to the Ilergetes under the guise of finding out if the King and War Chief cared about the hostages. But even as I set the plot in motion, I imagined the joy of crucifying Mandonius and Indibilis. And then sacrificing Ama and the girls in the name of my father. I’m afraid I hid behind Jace Kasia to avoid committing to an action.”

  “Perhaps, General, the Gods put a Cretan Archer at your disposal for that exact reason,” Sidia suggested. “And seeing as Aurunica is Bastetani, this situation is easier.”

  While scanning the chamber, candlelight reflected in Cornelius’ shifting eyes. Finally, he looked at Sidia and announced.

  “Unlike the Ilergetes, we can assume Prince Allucius cares for Aurunica,” he proposed. “And a delegation from the Bastetani tribe can deliver the bride and a message from me.”

  “What will the message say, General?”

  “I’m going to kill you and your cowardly infantry,” Cornelius growled.

  “General Scipio, you are the Prorogatio of Iberia, the supreme commander of Roman forces in the region, and a Governor charged with making Iberia profitable,” Sidia reminded him. “Whatever strategy you use is the correct one. As for revenge, leave the killing to men trained for it.”

  “Men like Jace Kasia,” Cornelius guessed.

  “Yes sir, if that’s the solution you truly require.”

  Act 2

  Chapter 4 – Priest of Evil

  Fat drops of rain hammered into the puddle of water. With each impact, miniature fountains popped into the air. As the fountains collapsed, they sent out ripples. Each ripple collided with a neighboring ring, causing the surface of the pool to surge over its tiny banks.

  The puddle, broadly viewed, represented the wet landscape on either side of the wagon track. And, as if mirroring the damp earth, the sky above hung low, gray, and heavy with moisture.

  A sandal splashed down into the puddle. Destroying the rhythm of the rain, the footwear sent most of the collected water out in a single stomp. The man in the sandal didn’t notice the result of his action. It wouldn’t be the last time, over the next few days, he brought ruin to the natural order of things.

  ***

  “We’ll find shelter soon,” the man promised the draft animal at his side.

  The mule didn’t respond. Since daybreak, the beast had kept its face turned from the human. Out of indignity from being taken out of a dry stable, or being made to walk quickly in a downpour, or from the wet harness tugging against the mule’s shoulders and chest, the beast of burden blamed the human for all its misery.

  Behind the mule, the wheels of a peddler’s wagon bumped through the empty puddle. Only after the wagon passed did the water flow back into the hole in the road.

  The wheels rolled, the hooves carried the mule and wagon forward, and the sandals continued to splash along the road. It felt as if the world had vanished, leaving only the muted colors of a rainy day, and damp clothing as a reminder that civilization once existed.

  And although there was nothing civilized about the discovery, the man, the mule, and the wagon would soon find they were not alone.

  ***

  Tucked under overlapping and leaking oiled skins, three unemployed soldiers waited out the rain. No one had traveled the route all morning, putting the destitute men in a foul mood.

  “Sakar, you have better eyesight than me,” Cio suggested. “Is that a mirage, or our next meal coming down the road?”

  The one known as Sakar sat up, then rolled to his knees. The top of his head bumped the roof of the rain tarps, spilling water down into the shelter.

  Cold water drenched the clothing of a third man and he complained, “That wasn’t bright.”

  Sakar’s knife cleared its scabbard.

  “There’s only a single peddler,” Sakar warned. “We don’t need you for this operation.”

  The complainer used two fingers to move the tip of the blade away from his nose.

  “The cold water shocked me, that’s all. And I mouthed off, sorry.”

  “Don’t let it happen again.”

  By then, the wagon, the mule, and the tradesman emerged clearly out of the sheets of rain. The three soldiers stared with greedy eyes. Their hearts hard, bellies empty, and consciences unrepentant. Yet, although the three soldiers watched, they didn’t see. To a man, they missed the footwear that suggested the tradesman wasn’t easy prey.

  The sandals had thick soles to protect the feet in rough terrain and were secured for running and long marches with wide leg straps. Not favored by Republic Legionaries nor Greek Hoplites, the footwear came from the heavy infantrymen of the Mogente tribe. In reality, the source was less important than the tradesman who chose to wear combat sandals on the open road.

  ***

  “Well friend, this is your lucky day,” Cio announced as he stepped out from under a dripping tree branch.

  Sakar and the third soldier flanked Cio, each holding an old spear with a rusty iron head. In lock step, the three marched to the center of the roadway, pivoted smartly, and blocked the wagon trail. The two with spears, leveled their shafts at the traveler.