Stomping over, his Lance Corporal reached the infantryman and shoved him aside. From a forceful entrance onto the scene, the squad leader recoiled and backed away.

  A once human form had been splayed open from his crotch to his throat. The lower entrails had been cut free, stretched out, and wound around his head, covering his face. Angry slashes were visible on both of his hands.

  “How do you know it’s Obellie?” the squad leaders asked.

  “His feet. I recognize the combat sandals.”

  Tribune Furia and several Junior Tribunes lifted the rope and entered the animal pen.

  “What happened here?” he questioned.

  “Optio Obellie was hunted,” the squad leaders replied.

  “Hunted?”

  “Yes, sir. As sure as a deer is field dressed or a boar, Obellie was stalked, knifed, and gutted.”

  “Do we know who did this?” Justus Furia inquired.

  He didn’t expect an answer. But when Senior Tribune Kasia returned from his mission, he’d expect a full report.

  General Scipio and Sidia pushed aside two horses and strutted to the body.

  “Sir, we’ve had a man killed,” Furia reported.

  “I can see that,” Cornelius sighed. “Did anyone hear anything?”

  Furia glanced around to see if he could find someone in charge of the Century. Noticing the Corporal, he beckoned him over.

  “Your Century is next to the pens. Was anything reported last night? Strange noises? The sound of a struggle?”

  “No, sir,” the Tesserarius assured him. “No one on watch reported anything.”

  While the questioning was going on, Sidia squatted beside the body. With two fingers, he lifted a flap of stomach skin and studied it.

  “Optio Decimia,” Cornelius inquired.

  “Just a moment, General.”

  Then Sidia rolled the body over and examined the corpse. Locating a hole on the lower back, he put a finger in the gash, and probed it.

  “The wound is wide,” Cornelius offered, “most likely from a Legion dagger.”

  “No sir,” Sidia corrected. He held two fingers side by side. Then, as if outlining a wiggling snake, the bodyguard allowed the fingers to trace a twisting path downward. “There wouldn’t have been any sound. Other than the dead man gasping a final breath. He was stabbed in the kidney by a serpent dagger. The pain would have frozen him. A strong back and forth action as the blade was removed left the wide wound.”

  “Who would carry that type of weapon?” Cornelius inquired. In the distance, he noted the four women and their staff heading towards the wagon park. “Get the bridal wagons harnessed and moved out before they see this monstrosity.”

  Grooms raced to sort out the proper draft horses. After the rush, Cornelius looked at his bodyguard.

  “Well?”

  “You won’t see this on the hip of a Legionary or an Iberian infantryman,” Sidia explained. “A serpent dagger is not good for chopping food or making kindling. It’s designed for assassins and always hidden from sight.”

  ***

  While burning was preferred, it would take most of the day. No one complained when Optio Obellie was dumped in a hole and dirt shoved in over his mutilated body. After a prayer, his Century ran to catch up to the rear of the Legion detail.

  Near the front, Cornelius looked at the sky, letting his horse select the path for both of them. After a long time reflecting, Scipio lowered his head.

  “Optio Decimia, we have an assassin in our midst,” he stated.

  “Yes, sir, it appears that way,” the bodyguard agreed.

  “Is there anyway to flush him out?”

  “None that I can think of, sir,” Sidia admitted. “We’ll have to wait for him to act again.”

  ***

  At midday, on the fourth day of traveling, the vanguard called a halt. Moments later, Tribune Furia rode to the command group.

  “Sir, we’ve made contact with a war band from the Oretani,” Furia reported.

  “Were they expecting us?” Cornelius inquired.

  “Yes, sir. But they’re blocking our path,” Justus Furia said with a sly smile, “until they meet King Scipio.”

  Cornelius gnashed his teeth together for a heartbeat. Then he gathered his wits and told the Tribune, “They want to meet King Scipio? Then they shall meet King Scipio.”

  Cornelius and Sidia nudged their horses into motion. Ten riders from First Century went with them. But Justus Furia held back for a moment, savoring the details of the exchange. The exact words would go into his next report to the Senate of Rome.

  ***

  After two days marching in Oretani Territory, the Legion detachment followed the local guides off the plains and into the Iberian Range. The grades grew steeper, and the sides of the valleys rose in tree covered greens and browns. For a section, where they travelled along the bank of a mountain river, the gravel was mostly smooth. But when they left the riverbank, the trail proved hazardous. Weather erosion exposed rocks and loose stones while creating gullies. For all the speed of crossing from New Carthage, their progress slowed in the mountains.

  “I don’t like it, sir,” Senior Tribune Zeno disclosed. He studied the rising slopes on both sides of the trail. “We’ve no room to set up a proper marching camp. And the Oretani scouts said we have another day of this.”

  The midday break allowed the Centuries to catch their breath and rest. And it gave the command staff a chance to meet.

  “Suggestions, Senior Centurion?” Cornelius requested of the Legion’s senior combat officer.

  Thiphilia drew a circle in the dirt with the toe of his hobnailed boot, then another, and then a third.

  “Let each Century create a perimeter and where two are near a wagon, have them link their defensive circles,” he described. “We can’t build walls, but we can protect each group with shields.”

  “It’s the best plan until we reach another valley,” Colonel Quaeso concurred. “What about security for the Bastetani bridal party? They only have drivers.”

  “Select the most reliable Century we have and put it at the wagons,” Cornelius directed. “I don’t anticipate trouble, but better safe than sorry.”

  “I’d trust the Twenty-fifth Century with the assignment,” Thiphilia suggested. “Their Centurion is an excellent leader who maintains discipline in the squads.”

  “Pull them from the line of march and position them at the bridal wagons,” Cornelius directed. “If there’s nothing else, gentlemen, get some rest before we move out.”

  Too rough and steep for horses, the Junior Tribunes hiked up and down the trail delivering instructions about the night’s formation. One of the young staff officers walked downhill to the last third of the detachment.

  “Centurion Arathia, compliments of Senior Centurion Thiphilia,” the young nobleman advised.

  From across the trail, a voice offered, “This can’t be good.”

  “Save it, Optio,” Arathia told his Century’s Sergeant. Then to the staff officer, he urged. “Go ahead, sir.”

  “The Twenty-fifth Century is to move up and secure the Bastetani bridal wagons.”

  Without hesitation, the combat officer pushed to his feet, lifted his bundle to a shoulder, and stood still for a moment. The simple act of standing drew the attention of his Legionaries.

  “Twenty-fifth Century, your vacation is over,” Arathia shouted. “Optio. Tesserarius. We have a protection mission. And I expect every Legionary to act like he’s in his mother’s kitchen.”

  “Suppose we don’t have a mother, sir?” an infantryman asked.

  “Then act like you’re still in the nest, bird brain,” Arathia snapped back. “Twenty-fifth, move out.”

  Before all eighty infantrymen could shoulder their spears and gear, their Centurion was hiking away.

  “Move it, move it,” the NCOs shouted. “If the Centurion gets there first, he’ll begin counting. And you do not want to be the last man to arrive.”

  Some officers badgered assuming if they kept their men unbalanced and mentally beat down it would deliver results. Others used the fear of sessions on the punishment post. They figured frightened men would react as directed. But a few, like Centurion Arathia, understood neither intimidation nor fear created true strength and pride in a Century.

  The challenge of matching him in climbing the trail caused the eighty infantrymen and their NCOs to scramble after Arathia. None complained, that would be a waste of breath. And they needed every breath as they rushed to catch up with their leader.

  ***

  Aurunica watched as a combat officer marched rapidly up the slope. Behind him, and strung out along the trail, came a string of heavy infantrymen. Between the armor, helmets, weapons, and personal gear, it was amazing how fast they moved.

  “In a hurry, aren’t they,” the bride said to her bridesmaids.

  “I wonder what’s going on?” Ylli questioned. “Have we been attacked?”

  Sucra noted the relaxed Legionaries on the trail below their wagons, and ahead of them.

  “There doesn’t appear to be an all-out alert,” she offered.

  The four women watched in silence as the combat officer marched up to them, came to a halt, and saluted.

  “Centurion Arathia of the Twenty-fifth Century,” he reported. “We are here to keep you safe. I only have one rule.”

  “You have a rule,” Aurunica cooed. “Just one? How delightful.”

  “What rule?” Sucra questioned.

  “When I tell you to get behind a shield, you do it without question,” Arathia told them. “Do that and my Legionaries will do the rest.”

  “Sounds simple enough,” Aurunica noted.

  “There’s nothing simple about it, ma’am,” the Centurion remarked. While looking down the trail, he explained. “We’ve trained hard for two years in order for me to have confidence in my men. And, to know the rule will keep you safe.”

  “Then we will follow your directions,” Aurunica agreed.

  Arathia spun towards the arriving men and pointed downhills.

  “Optio, I’ll have words with Legionary Turtle, when he finally arrives.”

  “Better him than me,” a Legionary said to a companion.

  The last Legionary arrived, bypassed the Optio, and marched up to Arathia.

  “Centurion. I should probably hike back and help the squad servants with the Century’s gear.”

  “That would be most generous of you, Legionary Turtle,” Arathia confirmed.

  “Turtle? That’s a unique name,” Ylli mentioned. “And he seemed so willing to be helpful.”

  “His name is Geno, ma’am,” the Optio informed her. “Legionary Turtle is a slur for the last man to complete a challenge. And the Turtle gets to name his own punishment.”

  “Is that another one of Centurion Arathia’s rules?” the third bridesmaid asked.

  “Yes, ma’am,” the Sergeant told her.

  A moment later, orders were shouted up and down the line of march to move out. When the bridal wagons rolled forward, they were surrounded by the proud Legionaries of the Twenty-fifth Century.

  High above the trail, five Celtiberi tribesmen watched the movement.

  “That’s her,” one said. “You can’t miss the black hair and the air of superiority.”

  “She’s surrounded by infantrymen,” another warned.

  “We only have to get one blade by the guards to save Prince Allucius and the Celtiberi people.”

  “Tonight,” a third suggested.

  “Tonight,” the first confirmed, “when the infantry falls asleep.”

  Below them, the Legion detachment crawled up the steepest part of the trail.

  ***

  Dark came early in the mountains. But due to the plan, the half Legion continued the march until the shadows grew long.

  “Halt and form your defensive circles,” Thiphilia shouted.

  The Senior Centurion’s words were repeated forward to the scouts at the vanguard and back until it reached the last pair of infantrymen in the columns.

  While most of the Centuries gathered in loose circles, the Twenty-fifth split. Forty men moved to one side while overlapping the back of the main wagon. And the other forty shifted to the other side of the wagon and the front.

  “Every other man eats,” Arathia ordered. “Everyone else, stand by your shield.”

  “Sir, we’re in the mountains and far from anything,” his Tesserarius pointed out. “Why keep forty men standing after a hard day of marching?”

  “Good question,” Arathia granted. “The answer can be summed up in four words, bears, wolves, and lynxes.”

  “Sir, that’s only three,” the Corporal ventured.

  “Can’t you guess at the fourth?”

  “No, sir. I can’t imagine a fourth threat.”

  “Neither can I,” Arathia admitted, “and that’s why we’ll maintain the vigil all night. Because, why?”

  “Because the unseen spear is the one that puts you down,” the Tesserarius repeated from lesson by his Centruion, “the unseen blade is the one that cuts deepest. And the unexpected threat is the one that murders you in your sleep.”

  “Maintain the watch,” Arathia ordered before he walked off to check the positions of his Legionaries.

  ***

  On a ridge above the sleeping Legion, five pairs of eyes watched the cookfires blaze to life. From their vantage point, the fires appeared to be torches lining the mountain trail.

  “Easy enough to find in the dark,” the leader noted.

  “Is this the only way, Aluth?” one inquired.

  “Our borders are strong because we stand firm against invasion,” Aluth answered. “What else is a joining between a Bastetani Priestess and our beloved Prince, but a soft invasion of Celtiberi lands?”

  “The marriage must be stopped,” another commented.

  “Yes, it must,” Aluth confirmed. “Now, make your way to that wagon and slay the she-demon.”

  Four of them slipped downhill and vanished in the dark bushes. Aluth, having set the deed in motion, strolled over the hill to his horse. A heartbeat later, he walked the mount away from the ridge, leaving his assassins to their work.

  Chapter 11 - Red Limestone

  Images of teeth, fangs, and claws coming out of the night kept the Legionaries alert. But as the night wore on, the exhaustion overcame the danger. Every guard in every Century, in the middle of the night, fought to remain awake. One advantage the Twenty-fifth had, beyond the threat of bears, wolves, and lynxes, their Centurion prowled the night.

  “Are you ready?” the combat officer asked.

  From inclining against his shield and resting his head against the spear, an infantryman straightened at the question.

  “Sir, I am prepared to die in combat for my Century and the Republic.”

  “Wrong answer, Legionary,” Arathia corrected. “Your job is to make the other guy die in combat. You, stay awake and live.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  As he navigated around a sleeping infantrymen, Arathia staggered. It had been a long, long day. And cracks were forming in his veneer of the tireless commander. But he needed his NCOs fresh in the morning to manage the march. Figuring he could rest while he hiked, Arathia shrugged off the fatigue. Before he took the next step, a voice whispered from the back of the bridal wagon.

  “Centurion, don’t you every sleep?” Ylli inquired.

  Arathia walked to the back of the wagon. One of the young women from the bridal party sat on the tailgate with her skirt covered legs dangling outside the wagon.

  “Ma’am, I might ask you the same thing.”

  “I was asleep,” she remarked. “But there is tension in the night. Don’t you feel it?”

  “A Centurion holds the lives of eighty-two warriors in his hands,” Arathia told her. “For me, every day is filled with tension. Tonight, shouldn’t be any different.”

  Ylli extended an arm and rested three fingers on Arathia’s cheek.

  “You sense more than you’ll admit, Centurion,” she stated.

  Withdrawing her hand and then her legs, Ylli retreated into the wagon.

  The brief encounter, deep in the night, refreshed him. With renewed clarity, Arathia returned to checking on his infantrymen. A moment later, a figure dressed head-to-toe in black dropped from the back of the wagon.

  Once on the ground, the person crouched next to the rear wagon wheel. At first the squatter focused on the noise of men shifting and trying to stay awake, or those sleeping and snoring. After isolating and discarding the nearby noises, the dark figure cast a wider net.

  Insects dodging bats, and small creatures scurrying from cover to cover while avoiding owls, combined to create a uniformed hum. But like a ripple in the corner of a pond when a fish broke the surface to eat a water bug, a disturbance in the night created a hole. Animals trembled in place and insects swarmed away from several intruders.

  ***

  Two of the men tasked with murdering the demon bride, assumed the guard was listless and sleepy. They came from the dark in a headlong rush. One slammed into the armored chest and stabbed with his knife. The second man stepped to the side, using the fight to hide his approach to the bridal wagon.

  But an edge of the big Legion shield slammed into his hip before he got by the scuffle.

  “Rah,” the Legionary roared. He swung his shield at one and hammered the forehead of the other attacker with his right fist. “Tonight, you die.”

  The circling assailant rolled into a sleeping infantryman.

  Even though he was wrapped in the arms of Morpheus, the words Rah and Die reached his subconscious. Yanked away from the God of Dreams, the Legionary came around with his helmet and crushed the skull of the second assailant.

  The first attacker dropped from the guard’s punch. In the light of a campfire, he saw the face of his companion. But it was oval rather than round. Then, before the spear took his life, he understood. The other assailant’s head was cracked open like a crushed melon.

  In a heartbeat, the Twenty-fifth Century linked shields and lowered spears, creating a ring of hardwood and sharp steel around the bridal wagon.

  “Your shoulder is bleeding,” the Optio said to the sentry who had been attacked.