Chapter 13: The Sound of Death

The trumpet's sound was no call to war. Its note was hoarse, long, and steeped in ill omen. It was a call to death.

In the camp's main field, over ten thousand soldiers stood in an unnatural silence. They formed a gigantic square, a human theater forced to be spectators. In the center of that square, surrounded by an empty space that felt like an abyss, huddled the men of the Second and Fifth Legions. They no longer stood in formation. They were simply a broken mass of souls, their shoulders slumped, their heads bowed, their eyes staring blankly at the dusty ground.

Ulixes stood on the wooden platform erected for the officers, flanked by Caesar and Tiberius. A cold wind swept across the field, carrying the acrid scent of thousands of men's cold sweat. From his position, he could see everything. He saw the real fear in the eyes of the condemned soldiers. He saw the grim curiosity in the eyes of the spectator soldiers.

He glanced sideways. Caesar stood still as a statue, his face a sharp mask of concentration. He wasn't watching in horror; he was learning, analyzing every detail of this display of power. On the other side, Tiberius stood stiff, his face pale. Not from enjoying the cruelty, but from profound shame. His jaw was clenched, his eyes staring straight ahead, refusing to show weakness before his rivals.

Then, Marcus Crassus stepped to the front of the platform.

The silence, which had already been oppressive, now became absolute. Even the rustle of the wind seemed to cease. Every pair of eyes was fixed on that single figure. Crassus did not shout. He didn't need to. His calm, cold voice spread across the field, carried by the wind, piercing every ear.

"You have shamed the eagles of Rome," he said, each word spoken with deadly precision. "When ordered to stand, you ran. When ordered to fight, you threw away your shields."

He paused, letting the words sink in like poison.

"This shame," he continued, "must be washed clean. Not with water, but with blood. Your own blood."

A barely perceptible collective shiver ran through the ranks of the condemned men.

"For every ten of you," Crassus explained, "nine will live to remember today's lesson. One will die to teach it." His eyes, showing no hint of pity, swept over the pale sea of faces. "Not by the hand of the enemy. But by the hands of your own brothers."

He raised his hand, a simple gesture yet laden with the weight of destiny. The Centurions, their faces hard as stone, began to move among the ranks, carrying bronze helmets filled with small stones.

"Begin the lottery," Crassus commanded.

The procession began. The Centurions moved along the trembling ranks, the heavy sound of their footsteps the only sound breaking the silence. They stopped before each group of ten soldiers. The cold, gleaming bronze helmet was offered to the first man.

From the platform, Ulixes narrowed his gaze, his focus fixed on one group standing not far from him. Ten men, their faces chalk-white, their eyes fixed on the helmet before them as if it were a venomous snake. The first man, a veteran with a scar on his cheek, hesitated for a moment. His rough hand, accustomed to wielding a sword, now trembled as he plunged it into the helmet. He let out a barely audible sigh of relief as he revealed a small white stone in his palm. He stepped back, safe.

The second man. The third. The fourth. White. White. White. Each white stone drawn was met with silent relief from the drawer and mounting tension from those still waiting.

Then it was the fifth man's turn. He was a youth, perhaps no older than seventeen, with a thin beard just beginning to sprout on his chin. He squeezed his eyes shut tightly as his lean hand reached into the helmet. As he pulled his hand back and opened it, a deeper silence enveloped the small group.

On his sweating palm lay a small, smooth black stone.

Time seemed to stop. The young man stared at the stone, his eyes wide, uncomprehending. He looked at the faces of his comrades, as if seeking an answer, looking for a mistake. There was none. Their faces were masks of horror and guilt. The black stone fell from his limp palm, making a small click as it hit the hard ground. The sound was louder than any war cry.

The young man's knees buckled. He collapsed to the ground, his body trembling violently, suppressed sobs escaping his choked throat. His nine surviving comrades could only stare at him, some turning away, unable to watch.

Across the entire field, the same ritual repeated. A large man with tattooed arms roared in fury as he drew a black stone, throwing it at the Centurion's face before being struck down by guards. Elsewhere, a man simply laughed, a terrifying, empty laugh, as he showed his black stone to the sky.

Ulixes felt a cold chill run down his spine. This was not the rage of battle. This was not the heat of battle. This was terror delivered with the precision of a surgeon's knife. A lottery of death in which the gods did not intervene. He looked at Caesar. The young officer's face remained calm, but his eyes moved quickly, scanning the entire field, noting every reaction, every sob, every moment of weakness. He wasn't just watching; he was mapping the soul of this army.

The soldiers who drew the black stones were separated, forced to kneel in pitiful rows in the middle of the field. Before each condemned man, their nine surviving comrades stood with pale faces, their hands clutching wooden clubs or large stones.

A Centurion raised his hand. The silence was so thick that Ulixes could hear his own heartbeat in his ears.

"Execute the punishment," the Centurion commanded, his voice hoarse.

For a few moments, no one moved. The nine soldiers in the group closest to the stage simply stared at their kneeling comrade, their faces masks of agony. One of them, a burly man, began to sob, dropping his club to the ground. "I can't," he whispered.

Before his sob finished, an overseeing officer stepped forward and slammed the pommel of his sword into the soldier's face. "PICK UP YOUR CLUB!" he roared. "Or you'll take his place!"

The man, blood streaming from his nose, picked up his club with trembling hands.

Then, the sound of the first blow. A sickening thud, followed by a choked scream of pain. The second blow. The third. Across the entire field, the same gruesome ritual repeated brutally. Ulixes watched men turn their faces away even as they swung their clubs, unable to look at the faces of the friends they were killing. He could hear the sound of cracking bones, and see the blood beginning to soak the sand, creating dark stains on the thirsty ground.

Ulixes did not look away. He forced himself to watch every detail. This was not the chaos of battle. This was discipline in its purest, most horrifying form. He felt his own stomach cold and empty, but his mind remained clear, analyzing. Five hundred lives, he thought, to instill fear in ten thousand. A cruel calculation. A successful calculation.

He glanced sideways at Caesar. The officer leaned slightly forward, his keen eyes showing no horror, but rather the concentration of a scholar observing an important experiment. He saw not murder; he saw a demonstration of power and its impact on mass psychology.

Then Ulixes looked at Tiberius. Crassus's son's face was ashen. His jaw was clenched so tightly that the muscles in his cheeks bulged. His hands were fisted at his sides, knuckles white. He was not enjoying this. He stared at the scene with a horror mixed with burning shame. This was the consequence of his actions, of Mummius's defiance which he instigated. Every scream was an accusation against his own ego.

Slowly, the sounds faded one by one, replaced by a silence deeper and more terrible than before. When it was all over, the field was filled with five hundred shattered corpses and thousands of men whose spirits were broken.

Marcus Crassus, who hadn't moved a muscle during the execution, stared at the field for a few moments. His face showed nothing. Satisfaction, sorrow, or anger, all hidden behind the general's steel mask. Without a word, he turned and walked away, his red cloak billowing behind him.

Discipline had been enforced. The price of failure had been paid in full with blood. And the military camp had now transformed into a much darker place, where fear was the only god worshipped.

A few days after the Decimatio, a new, chilling silence settled over Crassus's military camp. The coarse laughter and shouts of gamblers had vanished, replaced by a methodical rhythm, devoid of any past liveliness. The sound of thousands of leather sandals marching in unison on compacted earth. The regular clang of the blacksmith's hammers, now orderly, no longer chaotic. And the sharp hiss of hundreds of sharpening stones being rubbed against gladius blades. Fear was a very efficient blacksmith.

Ulixes walked through the rows of tents towards the Third Cohort's training area. The soldiers from other legions he passed no longer looked at him with scorn or curiosity. They simply stared straight ahead, their eyes blank, their postures rigid with enforced obedience. They moved like machines made of flesh and bone, each part afraid to be the first to break.

When he arrived at his training ground, the scene was different. His men also trained with silent intensity. Under Centurion Flamma's watchful eye, they repeated their shield wall formation over and over. THUMP. Their shields locked into a solid wall. DISPERSE. They broke apart, then formed it again. THUMP.

They were afraid too. Ulixes could see it in the tension of their shoulders and the way they gripped their sword hilts tightly. But their fear was different. It wasn't the fear of a lamb waiting to be slaughtered. It was the fear of a wolf sharpening its fangs, a focused energy.

Flamma saw him approaching and gave the command to rest. The old soldier walked up to Ulixes, his hard face showing an unreadable expression.

"They're training hard, Praefectus," Flamma said, his voice low.

"Fear is a good motivator, Centurion," Ulixes replied, his eyes still observing his soldiers who were now silently drinking from their water skins.

Flamma nodded. "They fear Crassus, yes. Everyone in this camp does." He paused for a moment, his eyes meeting Ulixes's directly. "But they trust you. They know you won't lead them into a futile slaughter just for a name."

Before Ulixes could answer, a sharp, clear trumpet blast sounded from the center of the camp. The call for an officers' meeting.

"Looks like the gods have new plans for us," Ulixes said flatly. He clapped Flamma on the shoulder. "Make sure they're ready."

As Ulixes entered Crassus's command tent, the air inside felt heavy with a new tension. Mummius stood in a corner, his face pale and silent, his authority informally stripped after his failure. The other officers stood stiffly, their eyes fixed on the map on the table.

"Intelligence has been confirmed," Crassus said, his voice flat, without a hint of triumph. He pointed to two widely separated points on the map of Campania. "The rebel forces have split."

A quiet murmur of surprise ran among the officers.

Crassus continued, his finger tracing a path north. "Crixus, with most of his most fanatical Gallic and German fighters, is moving north. Towards Rome."

Ulixes felt a shift in the room. The fear that had previously enveloped the camp was now being replaced by something else. Greed. Opportunity.

"He's a fool," Caesar said, his voice calm and analytical, cutting through the silence. He stepped forward slightly, his sharp eyes tracing the map. "He left the highlands and surrendered his tactical advantage for blind rage. In the open roads, without mountain protection, they are merely a flock of sheep waiting to be slaughtered."

Ulixes remained silent, but his mind raced, agreeing with every word Caesar uttered. Crixus, always driven by anger and passion, had made a fatal strategic error. He had chosen the battleground most advantageous for the Roman legions.

"Indeed," Crassus replied, his cold eyes meeting Caesar's for a moment, an acknowledgment from one strategic mind to another. "And folly must be punished swiftly and mercilessly."

His gaze swept the room, pausing briefly on Ulixes, then shifting to his son. There was something new in the way Crassus looked at Tiberius. No longer pure disappointment, but a cold calculation. As if he were weighing a damaged tool, deciding whether it could still be used.

Marcus Crassus's eyes moved from the map to the faces of his officers. His decision had been made.

"We will leave Spartacus for now," Crassus said, his voice cutting through all speculation. "He will be easier prey when starved. We will cut off the closest snake's head first."

He looked at Caesar, then at his son. "Caesar, you will lead the Fifth Legion. Tiberius," he said, and Ulixes saw how Tiberius instantly straightened his back, "you will lead the cavalry. Intercept them on the Appian Way. Destroy them, and bring glory back to our name."

Tiberius's eyes gleamed with eagerness. This was the opportunity he craved. A chance to redeem his shame, to prove his worth after being humiliated by his father. A thin smile touched his lips as he glanced towards Ulixes, his chin held slightly higher than before.

Crassus then turned to Ulixes. "Praefectus Acilius."

Ulixes felt a slight tremor of anticipation.

"You remain here."

The words felt like a dull blow. Ulixes kept his face expressionless, but he felt his jaw tighten for a moment.

"Your task is more important," Crassus continued, as if sensing the unspoken disappointment of his new commander. "I will not have forces on the front lines run out of arrows or grain due to chaotic logistics. Mummius has proven that. Ensure Caesar's and Tiberius's forces get everything they need, at all times. Their speed on the battlefield depends on your efficiency here."

The order was clear. He was no longer seen as merely a combat commander. He was now a vital cog in Crassus's war machine, a less glorious but perhaps far more crucial position. He bowed his head.

"As you command, Dominus."

The meeting was dismissed. The officers rushed out to carry out their orders. Tiberius walked past Ulixes with a triumphant gaze. Caesar, on the other hand, paused briefly beside him.

"Make sure your best wine reaches us once we win, Acilius," Caesar said with a thin smile, before following the others.

Ulixes was left alone in the now silent tent, only with Crassus and Kore. He saw the general return his gaze to the map, a new line of worry creased his brow as he looked at the map, the expression of a father who had just sent his son to battle.

Ulixes turned and stepped outside. He stood beneath the twilight sky, observing the distant bustle as Tiberius's cavalry and Caesar's legions began to prepare for departure. He wouldn't be there to feel the heat of battle or the glory of victory. His war was now different. His war was about sacks of grain, inventory lists, and ensuring the snakes unleashed by Crassus remained well-fed.

(POV Gaius Julius Caesar)

The heat of the sun burned through the steel helmet Caesar wore. He stood motionless on a small hill overlooking the Appian Way, the air shimmering with heat, thick with a silence that felt heavy with unspoken possibility. From here, the straight stone road looked like a giant gray sword cleaving the green landscape. A perfect place for a slaughter.

Below, he saw his bait cohorts retreating with discipline that had been rehearsed repeatedly. Their steps were regular, their shields raised, as if in a parade, not a panicked flight. They played their role perfectly. Good, Caesar acknowledged the fact with detached clarity.

Then, in the distance, dust billowed. At first just a small cloud on the horizon, it quickly grew into a large dust storm, bringing with it a faint rumble, like distant thunder. He didn't need scouts to know what it was. Twenty thousand rebels driven by rage.

He watched them emerge from the dust cloud. Not as a legion, but as a dirty, disorganized human tidal wave. He could see the glint of their diverse weapons—axes, rusty swords, and agricultural spears. They surged forward, their barbaric roars now beginning to be heard, a sound born of hatred, not discipline.

He could see their leader at the front, a Gallic giant he recognized as Crixus, raising his sword high. He leads from the front, Caesar thought. An act of bravery. And a fatal tactical error.

Caesar remained still, his hand raised in the air, palm open. He waited. He felt a strange calm descend over him, a clarity of mind that only came on the cusp of bloodshed. He saw his twelve thousand soldiers hidden within the dense woods on both sides of the road, silent as statues, their bronze helmets barely visible among the foliage.

The rebel forces had now entered deep into the valley. The narrow road forced their already disorganized ranks into a denser, longer column. They were too focused on the fleeing prey ahead of them. They didn't look sideways. They didn't look up. They didn't feel the net tightening around them.

Caesar waited until the tail of the long rebel column had passed the ambush entry point. There was no turning back for them now. The moment was perfect.

His raised hand descended with one sharp, clean, unwavering motion.

A moment after Caesar's hand dropped, the shriek of dozens of Roman war trumpets blared from both sides of the forest, a coordinated and deafening harmony of death. From within the silence of the woods, Crassus's legions emerged in unison. Not as individuals, but as a moving wall of red scuta advancing with a discipline so perfect it was inhuman. closing off all escape routes.

The sky darkened. The air above the valley hissed with the sound of giant silk tearing as thousands of pila and arrows rained down. Caesar, from atop the hill, watched his work unfold. The leading ranks of Crixus's confidently charging force shattered in the blink of an eye. Heavy Roman javelins pierced their crude wooden shields, embedding deep in chests and bellies, lifting men from the ground and slamming them backward. Arrows found gaps between their leather armor, lodging in necks, faces, and thighs, turning their war cries into shouts that were a mixture of sudden surprise and sharp pain.

The already disorganized rebel formation now broke into total chaos. Those at the front tried to stop, but were pushed forward by the huge wave from behind who didn't know what was happening. They collided with each other, stumbling over the corpses of their own comrades, becoming silent targets for the second wave of arrows.

"Now," Caesar said, his voice calm. He gestured to the standard bearer beside him. The silver eagle of his legion was raised high, gleaming under the sun. Below, the Centurions saw the signal.

"ADVANCE!" The sound of thousands of soldiers shouting in unison was like the roar of a giant beast. The shield wall began to move forward, the iron-reinforced steps of their caligae pounding the stones of the Appian Way with a steady, deadly rhythm. THUMP. THUMP. THUMP. It was the approaching heartbeat of death.

"Time to join the feast," Caesar murmured. He mounted his horse, his gladius already drawn. Victory required presence. With his personal guard, he spurred his horse down the slope, not to fight blindly, but to be in the thick of the battle, to direct the slaughter personally.

As he reached the stone road, the air was thick. The coppery smell of blood, the acrid scent of sweat, and dust choking the lungs. The battle was a brutal vortex of chaos. Before him, he saw a German rebel, his body covered in blue tattoos, swing a massive axe that cleaved a legionary from shoulder to chest, a spray of blood soaking the ground. Before the German could raise his axe again, three gladius from other legionaries had pierced his back and neck from the side. He fell forward silently.

Caesar's horse whinnied as a desperate rebel tried to stab its belly. Caesar dismounted from the saddle with a fluid, calm motion, landing lightly on the blood-slicked ground. The man, his eyes so wide they showed the whites all around, lunged at him with a rusty dagger.

Caesar did not fight with anger. He fought with geometry.

He deflected the thrust with his small shield, not by blocking it, but by redirecting it to the side. His wrist movement was minimal. As the man lost his balance from his own momentum, his side was exposed. Caesar's gladius moved in one efficient straight line, stabbing just below the ribs, piercing the lung. The man choked on his own blood, his eyes wide in surprise, before collapsing. Caesar had already withdrawn his sword, his eyes already scanning for the next threat.

He looked around him, His brain processed thousands of details in an instant. He saw Tiberius, Crassus's son, fighting without thought for defense, driven only by the need for a glorious kill. Tiberius screamed, slashing wildly, every movement too wide, too wasteful of energy. He killed, yes, but he also exposed himself to unnecessary counterattacks. An amateur, Caesar thought with a hint of disdain. He fought for his ego, not for victory.

"Formation on the left flank!" Caesar roared to a nearby Centurion, his voice cutting through the din of battle. "They're trying to escape into the woods! Close the gap!"

The Centurion nodded and bellowed the command. The legionary ranks moved like a machine, closing the gap with an impenetrable wall of shields.

Caesar's attention then turned to the center of the battle. Crixus. The Gallic giant was surrounded by at least ten legionaries. He fought like a cornered bear, each desperate swing of his sword managing to fell one or two legionaries. Blood flowed from several wounds on his body, his breath heavy, but he refused to fall.

Caesar saw that Tiberius realized the same thing. he son of Crassus's eyes locked onto Crixus, holding the distinct hunger of a man who sees a prize he must claim for himself. This was the biggest prize on this battlefield. Killing Crixus. He watched Tiberius push past his own men, shouting, charging straight towards the already wounded and exhausted Crixus.

Caesar was busy deflecting another attack when it happened. He dodged an axe swing, stabbed his attacker in the throat, and as he withdrew his blood-soaked sword, he saw it. He saw Crixus, after deflecting attacks from three sides, finally stumble. He saw Tiberius waste no time. He saw Tiberius's sword plunge down with full force, piercing Crixus's already wavering defense and striking deep into the Gaul's belly.

Crixus's enraged roar was cut short. Replaced by a wet, choking sound. He stared at Tiberius with eyes full of hatred, then he collapsed forward, his large body hitting the stone road with a heavy thud.

Seeing their leader fall, the morale of the remaining rebels shattered. Their resistance dissolved from a chaotic fight into a mad scramble of individuals trying to flee in every direction. The fight transformed into a slaughter. The legionaries advanced with cold discipline, butchering the slaves who tried to escape. The clash of steel was now replaced by screams and ignored pleas for mercy. The grand Appian Way had become a slaughterhouse.

The last cries of the dying rebels finally faded, swallowed by a sudden, heavy, and deafening silence. The battle was over. Now only the aftermath remained. Caesar remained on his horse for a moment, his sharp eyes sweeping over the scene before him. The grand Appian Way, a monument to Roman power and order, had now become a blood ditch.

Thousands of corpses lay in horrific poses of death. The bodies of legionaries in their red armor mingled with the raggedly clothed bodies of the rebels, creating a brutal mosaic of death. The air was thick, a nauseating mixture of the metallic smell of drying blood, the scent of sweat, and the stench of spilled entrails on the hot stones. Among the piles of bodies, the surviving Roman soldiers moved slowly, killing those who still moaned or binding those who had surrendered.

Caesar walked through the carnage,

his expression remained unchanged, as if he were merely observing a play.

He passed one of his soldiers sitting by the roadside, vomiting violently, his face pale, his eyes wide and unfocused. He passed the body of a Gallic rebel, his blue eyes staring blankly at the sky, as if still unable to believe his dream of freedom had ended here.

His attention then turned to the center of a small crowd. There, Tiberius Crassus stood with his foot on the chest of Crixus's corpse. He raised his blood-soaked sword into the air, basking in the cheers of the nearby soldiers.

"I have slain the champion!" Tiberius shouted, his voice hoarse with adrenaline and pride. "I have cut off the serpent's head! This victory is mine!"

Caesar stopped and observed the scene. He saw the childish arrogance in Tiberius's eyes, the desperate need for recognition. He didn't see a hero. He saw a lucky boy who managed to kill a lion that was already mortally wounded and surrounded by other hunters. He won a duel, Caesar thought coldly, but he did not understand the meaning of this victory. Without a word, Caesar turned and continued on his way, his disdain shown through his complete disregard.

He then saw Naevia. The warrior woman was being dragged by two legionaries, but she did not surrender. She kicked, bit, and roared like a cornered she-wolf, her tear-filled eyes blazing with pure hatred as she stared at Crixus's corpse. Caesar observed her for a moment. Their hatred would not die with Crixus. That was another data point. A problem for another day.

He finally found a slightly quieter spot at the edge of the battlefield. He stood alone, looking back at the entire scene of destruction. This was a victory. An absolute and necessary victory. But as he looked at the faces of the dead slaves, he saw something unsettling beneath the dirt and blood. He saw the faces of miners, farmers, shepherds. Humans. Humans who dared to dream of being more than just property. A dangerous thought.

But their dreams were a fire that would burn Rome, he thought, suppressing that strange feeling with a realism that chilled the nascent warmth from his chest. And fire must be extinguished. Mercilessly. Without hesitation.

He sheathed his gladius, which was almost clean, the click of metal entering its scabbard sounding remarkably loud amidst the groans of the dying. Cruelty was a tool. Just like this sword. Just like discipline. Just like fear. The key was not in its use, but in its purpose.

He looked north, towards Rome, then south, towards where Crassus and the rest of his forces waited. This war was far from over. And he knew, along the path to power, there would be many more valleys to be filled with blood.

(POV MC)

Days passed in a suffocating silence. Crassus's military camp, a city inhabited by over ten thousand armed men, now moved in a tense rhythm of waiting. Beneath the pale, cloudless Campanian sky, the heat pressed down, making the air shimmer above the compacted earth. Off-duty soldiers moved with forced purpose. The rough laughter and boisterous dice games had vanished, replaced by the sharp hiss of whetstones rubbed against sword blades and the methodical clang of blacksmiths repairing armor. Everyone kept busy, a futile attempt to ward off the anxiety hanging in the air.

Ulixes did not allow himself to sink into the waiting. He used this time. He was at the supply depot, a large area near the back gate of the camp now under his jurisdiction. He stood beside a newly arrived cart, its cargo dozens of amphorae of wine from a recently managed estate. He picked up one of the smaller amphorae, checking its wax seal with his thumb, ensuring no one had tampered with it in transit.

"The wine ration arrived just in time, Praefectus," a hoarse voice said behind him. Centurion Flamma stood there, a rare crack of a smile appeared on his hard face. "My men thank you. Good liquor is better than any speech for keeping spirits up."

"Well-drunk soldiers fight harder, Centurion," Ulixes replied, his eyes still checking the inventory list on a wax tablet. "Ensure the distribution is fair. I don't want any fights over a single jug of wine."

Flamma nodded. "They wouldn't dare. Not anymore." He glanced towards the quiet camp. "This place feels like a temple awaiting sacrifice."

Before Ulixes could answer, a different trumpet sound blared from the direction of the main gate. Not a call for a meeting. Not a danger signal. It was a single, long, clear note, the signal for a single approaching rider.

Activity around them ceased instantly. Soldiers training stopped mid-movement. Slaves lifting sacks halted their steps. All heads uniformly turned towards the gate. Ulixes felt a change in the air, the passive waiting now becoming active and hopeful.

He saw him. A single cavalry rider, spurring his exhausted horse through the gate. The horse stumbled, foam at its mouth, its flanks wet with sweat. The rider himself was in no better condition. He no longer wore his helmet, and his armor was dented in several places. His face was ghostly pale beneath a layer of dust and dried blood. He could barely stay in the saddle.

As he reached the center of the camp, he fell from his horse. Guards immediately swarmed him, lifting him, and hurriedly carrying him towards the medical tent.

The crowd did not disperse. They simply stood, whispering, trying to guess. Bad news traveled faster than fire.

Ulixes remained silent in his position, his keen eyes observing the reactions of those around him. He knew that the first information coming from the battlefield was almost always wrong, exaggerated by fear and confusion. He needed facts, not rumors.

He felt a light touch on his elbow. Livia, the orphan girl, stood beside him, her large eyes were wide, her breath coming in short, quick gasps.

"Dominus," she whispered, her breath ragged. "The soldiers near the medical tent... they're talking... about eagles..." She swallowed. "And about blood... so much blood. They say... they say Crixus is dead."

Ulixes looked at the little girl. He showed no reaction. "Good job, Livia. Now go. Don't be near the officers' tent."

The girl nodded and disappeared into the crowd. Crixus dead. If that was true, then Caesar and Tiberius had succeeded. But at what cost?

He saw the men shift uncomfortably, their whispers growing from a low murmur to an audible buzz. He knew he had to get the real report before these rumors poisoned the entire camp. He glanced at the shadows between two tents and found what he was looking for. The Egyptian stood there, observing him, awaiting orders.

Ulixes gave a barely perceptible nod towards the medical tent. The Egyptian understood. He didn't need to be told what to do. He turned and slipped away, his figure merging with the crowd, a ghost moving for his master.

Ulixes returned his gaze to the main gate. The entire camp now held its breath, waiting for the official messenger, waiting for the truth. And in the midst of that expectant silence, Ulixes waited for his own report.

The wait felt heavier than any physical training. Ulixes returned to his duties at the supply depot, forcing himself to focus on the inventory list on his wax tablet, but his ears remained alert, listening for every shift in the camp's noise. Every approaching hoofbeat made hundreds of heads turn. Every unusual shout made soldiers stop their work. The air felt thick and heavy.

He was counting spare pila when the Egyptian returned, emerging from the shadows between stacks of shields like a phantom.

"The rider was a Decurion from Tiberius's cavalry wing," the Egyptian whispered, his eyes not focused on Ulixes, but on the bustle around them. "He spoke of an ambush. Of rebels trapped on a narrow road. He raved about blood, about how Crixus's forces were annihilated."

"And Tiberius?" Ulixes asked softly, his eyes still fixed on his wax tablet.

"He didn't mention the Tribunus by name," the Egyptian replied. "Only victory."

Ulixes nodded. He didn't have the full picture, but the pieces were beginning to form an image. Victory. That was the most important thing.

Moments later, another trumpet sounded. This time, its note was different. It pierced the air with a clarity that demanded all attention. The signal for the arrival of an official messenger.

The entire camp seemed to cease moving. Ulixes, along with other officers on duty, immediately walked towards the main field in front of Crassus's command tent. They gathered in silence, their eyes fixed on a newly arrived rider. This man, unlike the first, still looked impressive. His armor was dusty but intact. He dismounted his horse, gave a brief salute, then entered Crassus's tent.

The wait now felt agonizing. The officers glanced at each other, but no one dared to speculate aloud. They simply waited.

Finally, the tent flap opened. Caesar stepped out, followed by the messenger. Caesar's face looked tired, but his eyes held the bright, hard light of a man who had just won. He stopped before the assembled officers.

"Officers of Rome!" his voice echoed, clear and strong. "I bring news from the Appian Way! The forces of Crixus the Gaul have been utterly crushed!"

A collective exhale seemed to pass through the officers, their tense shoulders visibly slumping. Some of them cheered. Others clapped their comrades on the back. The shame of Mummius's defeat had been erased. The fear instilled by the Decimatio now began to be replaced by restored Roman pride.

Ulixes merely observed, his face remaining expressionless. He saw Mummius, standing at the edge of the crowd, smile for the first time in weeks. He saw the Centurions straighten their backs. Victory was the best medicine for a wounded army.

But then, Caesar raised his hand, asking for silence. The cheering subsided.

"Crixus himself is dead," Caesar continued, "slain by the hand of a brave Roman, by Tribunus Tiberius Licinius Crassus!"

This time, the cheers were louder. Crassus's name was shouted. Glory had been restored to the general's family.

Ulixes felt something was off. The way Caesar pronounced the sentence, the pause he took, felt like a well-rehearsed performance.

As the cheering began to fade again, Caesar took a deep breath. The light of triumph in his face faded, replaced by a shadow.

"But this victory," he said, his voice now lower and heavier, "comes at a very heavy price."

Silence descended again, heavier than before.

"With profound sorrow," Caesar continued, his eyes meeting each officer's gaze one by one, "I must also report... that Tribunus Tiberius Licinius Crassus... has fallen in battle."

The victory they had just tasted turned to ashes in their mouths. The air felt cold. The joy vanished instantly, replaced by silent shock and confusion. The commander's son was dead. In the midst of their greatest victory, they experienced the most personal defeat.

Amidst the bewildered and shocked crowd of officers, a guard from Crassus's personal detail approached Ulixes. "Praefectus Acilius," the guard said in a low voice. "Dominus Crassus calls for you."

Ulixes nodded and followed the guard, leaving the murmurs and whispers behind him. He walked towards the command tent. The air around him felt cold. As he stepped inside, a heavy, solemn silence immediately greeted him.

The war maps had been put away. In the center of the room, on a large wooden table, lay a body covered by a crimson officer's cloak. At one end, expensive military boots were visible. Tiberius's body.

Caesar stood near the table, his face hard and unreadable. Marcus Crassus sat in his command chair, looking at nothing, just staring blankly at the dark tent wall. He no longer looked like a general commanding Rome's largest army. He only looked like a father.

Crassus did not turn his head. He just gave a small gesture with his hand. Caesar understood.

"My previous report was for public consumption, to maintain morale," Caesar said, his voice low and formal, directed at Crassus but also for Ulixes to hear. "The truth is more complicated."

He paused for a moment. "Crixus is dead and his forces annihilated, that is true. Tribunus Tiberius fought bravely."

Ulixes noticed how Caesar chose his words carefully.

"But the wound..." Caesar continued, "the wound does not match a rebel weapon, Dominus. It was a single, neat stab, from behind, beneath the gap in his armor. Delivered after the main battle subsided, when chaos still reigned."

Ulixes looked at Crassus. The man did not move. He was like a granite statue carved in a posture of grief.

"Some guards reported seeing your personal slave, Kore," Caesar added, his voice now barely audible. "He was seen fleeing the area where the Tribunus's body was found moments before. He has not returned."

An agonizing silence filled the tent. Ulixes observed Crassus with his full focus. The general remained stone-still. But then, Ulixes saw it. A single, violent tremor ran through Crassus's shoulders, a tremor he quickly suppressed and forced to stop. His hands, clenched on the arms of his chair, tightened so much that his knuckles turned white. His eyes, when they finally blinked, no longer showed the calculation of a general. They were an abyss of bottomless emptiness.

Without turning, without a word, Crassus raised his hand, a final gesture of dismissal.

Caesar gave a brief, respectful nod, then turned and gestured for Ulixes to follow him. They both stepped out of the tent, back into the camp's inappropriate noise.

Outside, they stopped. Caesar's and Ulixes's eyes met. There was no triumph in Caesar's gaze, only weariness and cold calculation. Both of them understood. The war against Spartacus continued. But inside that tent, a new, darker, and more personal war had just begun in the heart of their commander.

Ulixes felt an unpleasant chill in his stomach. He had lost a foolish rival, but he now served a wounded dragon. And nothing was more dangerous than that.