Chapter 12: The Legate's Arrogance

[ Author's thoughts: I've never written in POV before, but for this chapter, I tried using it. I hope it doesn't ruin the story. ]

Be careful reading this chapter; there are bloody scenes. It's best not to read while eating.

Inside the spacious command tent, Marcus Crassus stood before his large map. His senior officers, including Ulixes, Caesar, and Tiberius, formed a semicircle before him. The air in the tent was still, carrying the weight of the general's authority.

"Spartacus expects us to attack him directly," Crassus said, his voice flat and sharp. "He wants us to exhaust our legion's strength by assaulting the hills he has fortified. We will not grant him that luxury."

His index finger traced a line on the map, parallel to the rebel positions. "Our strategy is siege and attrition. We will cut off their supply lines. We will starve them. We will let winter be our deadliest weapon."

He then turned, his piercing gaze fixed directly on Legatus Mummius. "Mummius, I want you to take the Second and Fifth Legions. Shadow their movements from the south. Do not let them gather food. Attack their small groups if the opportunity arises." Crassus paused, his voice becoming lower and harder. "But I command you clearly. DO NOT engage in full-scale battle without direct orders from me. Am I clear?"

"Very clear, Dominus," Mummius replied, although Ulixes could see the Legatus's fingers tap once, briefly, on the table. It was a fleeting break in his composure.

The meeting was dismissed. As the officers exited the tent, Ulixes saw Mummius standing with a sour face. Tiberius Crassus approached him, a smile on his face that did not match the calculating look in his eyes.

"Very… cautious orders," Tiberius said, his voice quiet enough to be heard only by Mummius. "Yet I hear the slaves are off guard and fragmented. A quick victory would greatly boost the morale of the entire army, wouldn't it, Legatus?"

Mummius glanced at the distant rebel camp, then towards Crassus's tent. For a moment, his jaw tightened with indecision before his expression settled back into a mask of supreme confidence. He snorted. "Crassus sits on his map, while glory waits to be seized out there."

He turned and called one of his trusted Centurions. "Prepare the Second and Fifth Legions," he ordered in a stiff, feigned firm voice. "We move when the shadows lengthen. We will give Crassus the victory he dared not take himself."

A few steps away, Ulixes and Caesar, both having overheard the conversation, exchanged glances. No words needed to be spoken. They both knew that Mummius had just signed the death warrant for thousands of his own soldiers. Disaster was on its way.

(Scene shifts to Spartacus's point of view)

The arrogant blare of Roman trumpets was deafening, an insolent invitation to die. Spartacus smirked, a cold muscle movement on his stern face. Fools. They were actually attacking. Dust billowed on the horizon, the bronze peaks of thousands of helmets gleaming like giant serpent scales under the cruel sun.

"POSITIONS!" Spartacus roared, his voice hoarse with dust and fury.

His brothers moved in unison. There was no hesitation. Agron and his German giants formed a shield wall on the left flank, their great axes thirsty for Roman bones. On the right, Crixus growled, his wild eyes glinting, his mighty muscles tensing beneath his shield. Gannicus, with a predatory smile on his lips, disappeared into the undergrowth with his men, ready to pounce from the shadows.

Spartacus felt his heart pound, not from fear, but from burning anticipation. He gripped his two swords tightly, his knuckles white. This ground would drink blood today.

The legionaries' ranks advanced neatly, an arrogant killing machine. CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! Their synchronized steps sounded like the heartbeat of death.

"RAISE SHIELDS!"

Hundreds of shields were raised, forming a wall of wood and steel. Moments later, the sky darkened. Thousands of arrows rained down on them, hissing like a deadly downpour. Most embedded in shields with satisfying THUNKS, but some found gaps. Spartacus heard a man scream behind him, a short spear embedded squarely in his eye, blood and brain matter spurting out.

"CHARGE!"

Their shield wall crashed into the Roman front line. The sound was not the graceful clang of metal, but the crunch of bone and the tearing of flesh. Agron's axe slammed down, splitting a legionary's helmet and skull in two. Blood and brains splattered, hitting the face of the man next to him who shrieked in horror. Crixus pushed forward like a bull, his massive shield crushing ribs, his sword piercing bellies, spilling his victim's intestines onto the hot sand.

The Romans, accustomed to open-field warfare, were lured deeper into the forest. This terrain was Spartacus's ally. Protruding tree roots tripped their steps, thorny bushes tore at their unprotected legs. Their once neat formations now broke, separating into small, panicked groups.

A savage yell split the air from the right flank. Gannicus! He and his men burst from the thicket, their swords dancing, severing Achilles' tendons, slitting exposed throats. A surprised legionary turned, but it was too late. The hand holding his sword was severed at the wrist, followed by a thrust to the throat. He fell, choking on his own blood.

Bodies began to litter the ground, staining the forest floor. Spartacus moved among them like a god of death. His swords became an extension of his will. He deflected a thrust, spun, and severed his attacker's arm at the shoulder. He kicked a man down, then stomped on his face with his boot until there was a wet, crushing sound. Sweat and blood drenched his body, but his eyes remained fixed on the shifting battle lines, his expression unreadable.

He saw an officer, his red-crested helmet now dented and stained with blood. Perhaps it was Mummius. The man was screaming, trying to re-form his shattered lines, his face pale with fear.

The Roman line completely broke. Their order collapsed into individual panic. They threw aside their heavy shields and swords, then turned and ran. They ran from forest devils who did not fight like men.

Spartacus watched Mummius, the red-crested one, stumble away, pure terror etched on his arrogant face. Spartacus could easily have pursued him, ended his life with one slash. But he stopped.

He let the man run.

Let him return to Crassus. Let him tell of the hell he had just witnessed, of scattered bodies and severed limbs. Let him spread fear. That message would be a sharper weapon than any sword.

Spartacus took a deep breath. The air was filled with the metallic tang of warm blood and the scent of fear. This was only the beginning. Spartacus picked up the legionary eagle standard (Aquila) at his feet and smiled.

(Scene returns to Ulixes's point of view at Crassus's main camp)

In the main camp, the air was heavy with anticipation. Ulixes was overseeing the unloading of grain when the first shouts came from the southern gate. Not shouts of victory. They were shouts of panic.

He turned, his eyes narrowing. Moments later, they began to arrive. Not in neat formations, but in a chaotic mob. Soldiers from Mummius's forces. Their armor missing, their shields discarded, their faces pale and their eyes wild with terror. Some were badly wounded, supported by their comrades. Others simply ran, stumbling and falling, their breaths ragged.

The entire camp fell silent, other soldiers halting their activities, staring at the humiliating scene with horror. Ulixes saw Caesar not far from him, his face hardened into a granite mask. Their prediction had come true in the bloodiest possible way.

Ulixes immediately walked towards the command tent. He had to hear the report directly. He arrived there at the same time as Caesar and Tiberius, whose face showed a mixture of shock and cunning satisfaction.

Moments later, Legatus Mummius was dragged in by his guards. He no longer looked like a Roman commander. His red-crested helmet was dented, his armor stained with mud and blood, and his eyes stared blankly, trembling uncontrollably.

He fell to his knees before Marcus Crassus, who sat silently in his chair, his face unreadable.

"Dominus…" Mummius whispered, his voice broken. "The terrain… those slaves… they fought like beasts… an ambush…"

Crassus did not move. He said nothing. He merely stared at the trembling Mummius, his gaze flat and devoid of any pity. that seemed to strip the Legatus's soul.

A surviving Centurion, his face covered in blood, entered and knelt. "Dominus," he said with a shaking voice. "The eagle standard… the eagle standard of the Second Legion… has been captured."

A collective gasp of held breath was heard from the officers inside the tent. The greatest honor of a legion was lost, taken by slaves.

Crassus slowly rose from his chair. He walked closer to the trembling Mummius. He did not shout. He was not angry. His voice was very soft and calm, which made it far more terrifying.

"Get out," he whispered.

Mummius stared at him in disbelief, then quickly crawled backward and out of the tent.

Crassus looked at his remaining officers, his cold eyes sweeping over each of them one by one. "Discipline is the backbone of a legion," he said. "When that bone is broken, it must be reset with fire and steel."

He paused, letting his words sink in. "Summon the Centurions of the fleeing cohorts. Gather all their soldiers in the main field."

He turned, his back to them. "They will make an example."

Ulixes felt a cold chill run down his spine. He knew what ancient punishment was coming. Decimatio. One out of ten of their own soldiers would kill their comrades. Crassus would not just punish failure. He would drown his army's shame in a sea of blood.