Chapter 16: Red Rain in the Sila Forest

The summons came as Ulixes was observing two of his soldiers sparring. He was about to step forward to correct a soldier's stance when the messenger from the command tent arrived.

"Praefectus Acilius," the messenger called. "Dominus Crassus awaits you."

Ulixes nodded, gesturing to Flamma to take over, then walked towards the center of the camp. He felt the gaze of his men on his back, a gaze now filled with almost unconditional admiration.

Inside the command tent, the atmosphere was cold. Crassus stood before his large map, a muscle twitched in his jaw, a clear sign of his annoyance. Caesar was also there, standing quietly in a corner, observing as usual.

"Acilius," Crassus said without preamble, his slender finger poking a spot on the map marked as the Sila Forest. "Those rats are getting bold. Intelligence reports a group of rebels entrenched there. They attacked my workers in Sector Gamma last night, stealing two carts of grain and killing four guards."

He looked at Ulixes, his eyes narrowing, his gaze devoid of any warmth. "Reports put their numbers at about two or three hundred. Enough to be a nuisance, not enough to be a real threat." He waved his hand in irritation. "I don't have time for nuisances. Take your cohort, go into that forest, and clear them out. I don't want to hear about them again after sunset tomorrow."

Ulixes looked at the map, then into Crassus's eyes. Two or three hundred. The number felt… too neat. Too easy. "As you wish, Dominus," he replied calmly.

Caesar, from his corner, said nothing. But as Ulixes turned to leave, their eyes met. Ulixes saw a faint glint of warning in Caesar's eyes, a silent acknowledgment that intelligence on the battlefield was often the first lie to die.(They often do this; why did I include it? This is to build rapport for the plot: The First Triumvirate and the Road to Caesar's Civil War.)

Back at the Third Cohort's area, Ulixes did not immediately gather his troops for a march. He called a man from the shadows of his tent. Not an armored soldier, but one of the orphans he had recruited, a skinny youth with eyes that could spot a rabbit from a hundred paces.

"I want you to go to the edge of the Sila Forest," Ulixes said softly, handing him a piece of bread and a waterskin. "Don't go in. I just want you to climb the tallest tree you can find. Count the campfires you can see when night falls. Don't let yourself be seen. Return before dawn."

The youth nodded and vanished silently. Ulixes then called Flamma. "Prepare the troops. Full ammunition. Rations for two days. We move in an hour."

That night, as the Third Cohort camped on the edge of the forest in tense silence, the young scout returned. His face was pale under the moonlight, his eyes wide, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps.

"Dominus," he whispered, his voice trembling. "The campfires… I stopped counting after a hundred."

One campfire could mean ten men. Flamma, standing beside Ulixes, inhaled sharply. His stern face turned pale. "By the gods," he growled. "That's not three hundred. That's a thousand." He looked at Ulixes. "Praefectus, we must report back. This isn't a cleansing mission, it's a death trap."

Ulixes stared into the darkness of the forest before him. He could feel their presence out there, a large mass of despair and hatred. He felt the danger, but the Achilles Template within his blood felt no fear. It felt hunger. (This is a side effect of the Template.)

"Reporting back is admitting doubt, Centurion," Ulixes said, his voice calm yet resonating with undeniable authority. "Doubt is the beginning of defeat. Crassus gave us orders to clear them out. And that is what we will do."

He crouched, picked up a stick, and began drawing on the damp ground. Lines and symbols representing his units.

"We won't fight them on their ground," he continued, his eyes glinting in the torchlight. "We will make this forest hell for them."

He explained his plan. A mad, desperate, and incredibly dangerous plan. He would divide his force of only 600 men into four groups. The first group, one hundred men, would be bait, moving forward through the main path to draw attention. The second group, the archers, would take position on a high ridge on the eastern side of the valley. The third group, two hundred men led by Flamma, would hide on the western side.

And the last group, two hundred of his strongest men, he would lead himself. They would be the hammer that struck from the most unexpected direction, finishing what the archers had started and driving the panicked enemy into the embrace of Flamma's troops.

Flamma looked at the plan drawn on the ground, then at his commander's calm face. This man didn't just accept an impossible mission. He reveled in it. He turned a death trap into an opportunity.

"Prepare the men," Ulixes said, rising to his feet and staring into the forest's darkness. "The hunt begins at dawn."

Dawn broke in the Sila Forest not with light, but with a thick fog that clung to the trees like ghosts. The air was cold and damp, carrying the scent of wet earth and rotting leaves. In that pressing silence, six hundred Roman soldiers moved soundlessly, dark shadows blending with the forest itself. No careless clanking of armor. No suppressed coughs. Only the discipline born of fear and respect.

Ulixes was at the head of his main attacking group, crouched behind thick bushes on a slope overlooking a narrow valley. Below him, his hundred bait soldiers now began to advance on the open path. They walked deliberately a little noisier, their shields occasionally "accidentally" bumping against trees, creating just enough echo to be heard.

He waited. Patience was a weapon often more deadly than a sword. He could feel the pulse of life within his blood, a calm, powerful energy, ready to be unleashed. He looked towards the ridge across the valley. He couldn't see his archers, and that was a good sign.

Moments later, he heard it. At first just a faint murmur, then it grew into a roar that shook the foliage. From the end of the valley, they emerged. A thousand rebels. They were no longer desperate hordes of slaves; they were a battle-hardened army. Many wore leather armor seized from fallen legionaries, carrying Roman shields repainted with barbaric symbols. They moved with the arrogance of their superior numbers, seeing the hundred Romans before them not as a threat, but as delicious prey.

Their leader, a gigantic Germanic man with matted blonde hair and a huge axe slung over his shoulder, bellowed orders in a language Ulixes didn't understand. Yet, his intent was clear. The rebel forces began to run, the ground trembling under the steps of a thousand enraged men.

The Roman bait performed their duty perfectly. They stopped, formed a seemingly hesitant shield wall, then began to retreat slowly, drawing the horde deeper and deeper into the valley. Deeper into the jaws of the trap.

"Wait," Ulixes whispered to himself, his sharp eyes fixated on the Germanic leader. He was the center of gravity of the enemy force. Destroy the center, and everything would collapse.

The rebels had now fully entered the kill zone.

Ulixes raised his hand, then brought it down with one swift motion.

A moment later, from the ridge opposite, a collective sound like the hiss of a giant snake echoed. The first rain of arrows streaked into the sky, forming a terrible black arc before plummeting down into the dense mass of rebels.

Chaos erupted instantly. Their roars of triumph turned into screams of pain and surprise. Hundreds of men fell, their bodies pierced by arrows from an unexpected direction. Their previously solid formation broke into a whirlpool of confusion. Those at the front tried to stop, but were pushed forward by those behind.

Before they could recover, a second volley of arrows rained down, then a third. It was no longer an attack. It was a slaughter from the sky.

The Germanic leader roared in fury, trying to rally his men, his wild eyes frantically searching for the source of the attack. He pointed towards the ridge, but it was too late.

"Now," Ulixes said. His voice was calm, yet it carried the promise of death.

He was the first to rise from his hiding place. Behind him, two hundred of his strongest soldiers rose in unison, a wall of shields and spears that seemed hungry for blood.

"Advance!" he shouted.

They descended the slope, not with barbaric roars, but with heavy, methodical strides. THUMP. THUMP. THUMP. The inevitable rhythm of death.

Ulixes led the charge, running with a speed that surpassed the other soldiers. He felt the Achilles Template burning in his muscles, sharpening his senses. He saw the battle no longer as chaos, but as a series of movements and opportunities.

He was the first to reach the panicked rebel lines. A heavily bearded man turned, his eyes wide with shock at the figure appearing from the side. He raised his sword. Ulixes did not slow down. He executed a fluid side-step, the rebel's sword cutting only empty air. Before the man could retract his weapon, Ulixes's gladius had pierced his neck from the side, severing the artery with one clean, efficient movement.

Blood spurted, drenching Ulixes's face. He didn't feel it. He was already moving, his eyes locked on the next target. Two rebels attacked him simultaneously. He parried the first attack with his shield, using the force of the impact to shove the attacker towards his comrade. As both men lost their balance, Ulixes leaped forward, his sword moving in a brutal horizontal arc, slashing both men's thighs in one motion. Both fell, screaming.

He was a whirlwind of death. His movements were a deadly dance. He dodged an axe swing, then stabbed his sword into the man's armpit, piercing the weak point in his leather armor. He kicked a man's shield, breaking his stance, then slammed the pommel of his sword into the man's face.

He didn't fight like a legionary. He fought like the embodiment of war itself. He didn't kill with anger. He killed with purpose. Every movement was calculated to disable or kill as quickly as possible, then move to the next target. Behind him, the shield wall of the Third Cohort slammed into the remaining enemy lines like a tidal wave of steel, beginning their brutal, methodical work.

Ulixes's eyes were now fixed on one person. The Germanic leader, who was finally realizing the true threat.

The Germanic leader's roar was like the sound of a wounded bear, full of raw fury and power. He charged at Ulixes, ignoring the other legionaries, his wild eyes locked on the figure who had wrought so much chaos. His massive, double-bladed axe swung down in an arc designed to cleave both shield and man.

Ulixes did not retreat. He saw the axe's trajectory. He felt the wind of its swing parting the air. At the very last moment, he did not dodge aside, but leaped forward, into the man's swinging reach. His body lowered, sliding across the blood-slick ground. The axe head whizzed just inches above his head.

As he slid past the giant man's legs, his gladius moved in a swift, vicious upward slash. The tip of his sword sliced the back of the Germanic man's knee, severing his hamstring.

The leader roared, this time not from anger, but from burning pain. His leg gave out instantly. The momentum from his failed swing made him spin and fall heavily to his knees.

Ulixes was already on his feet behind him. Without hesitation, he plunged his sword into the man's back, directly into the gap between his shoulder blades, piercing his heart from behind. The giant body convulsed once, then slumped forward, creating a wet thud on top of the other corpses.

Their leader had fallen.

The leader's death was the spark that ignited the last vestiges of the rebels' courage. The panic, which had been merely a ripple, now became an uncontrollable tidal wave. Their formation completely shattered. The battle now devolved into a series of desperate individual duels.

And in the midst of that chaos, Ulixes became the embodiment of the god of death.

He moved with cold purpose. He saw a group of four rebels trying to form a small shield wall. He charged towards them. His first leaping attack struck the central shield with immense force, breaking the arm of the man behind it. As the man shrieked, Ulixes landed, spun, and slashed the neck of the man next to him. The other two tried to attack him; he stabbed one's leg, making him fall, then used the shield he had just freed to smash the last man's face. Four men. Down.

He kept moving. He saw a skilled rebel, a braided-haired Gaul, successfully kill two legionaries. Ulixes approached him. The Gaul smirked, seeing a worthy challenge. He attacked with a series of rapid thrusts. Ulixes parried them all with minimal wrist movements, as if swatting flies. As the Gaul grew frustrated and made a wider swing, Ulixes stepped in, his sword piercing the man's stomach with one deep, fatal thrust. Five.

A man with a tower shield tried to hold him off. Ulixes didn't try to pierce the shield. He leaped, using a soldier's shoulder as a momentary foothold, and landed behind the shielded man, stabbing him in the neck before the man could even turn around. Six.

Twenty. Thirty. Forty. He lost count. He just kept moving. Every enemy he saw was a geometric problem to be solved. An attack angle to be dodged. A weak point to be exploited. He slashed hamstrings. Stabbed gaps under armpits. Struck temples with his pommel. Kicked knees until they buckled the wrong way.

Around him, the Third Cohort had now completely taken over. Flamma's troops had closed the escape route from the western side, creating an impenetrable killing zone. Ulixes's soldiers, inspired by their commander's ferocity, fought with ruthless discipline. They no longer hesitated. They killed with the efficiency he had taught them.

Ulixes saw the last group trying to resist, about fifteen men gathered with their backs against a cliff. He walked towards them. As they saw him approach, the defiance in their stances faltered, their faces turning deathly pale. They saw a figure smeared with blood from head to toe. It was enemy blood, not his own. They saw the god of death walking towards them.

Some of them dropped their weapons, raising their hands.

"No prisoners," Ulixes commanded, his voice hoarse, yet clear amidst the dying din.

He was the first to attack the desperate group. He gave them no chance to plead or escape. The fight was short, brutal, and ended with the last corpse falling at his feet.

A hundred. Perhaps more.

Silence descended upon the valley. A silence broken only by the groans of wounded Roman soldiers and the sound of swords being pulled from lifeless bodies. The air was thick with the coppery scent of blood, so strong it was almost palpable. The entire valley was now a mass grave. A thousand rebels. A thousand corpses.

Ulixes stood still in the middle of that sea of bodies. He stared at his hands, which trembled, not from fatigue, but from the lingering effects of overwhelming adrenaline. He looked around him, at his fifty fallen soldiers, their bodies lying among the enemy. He walked to one of them, a young man he remembered scolding for his weak stance. He crouched, closing the youth's eyes with his blood-stained hand. The price of victory.

He rose to his feet. His sword dripped thick red blood onto the withered leaves. Crassus's orders had been carried out. This forest had been cleared.