Chapter 17: Honor and Command

They returned to the main camp as dusk began to fall, bringing with them the smell of blood and silence. The Third Cohort did not march with shouts of victory. They walked in the same disciplined formation as when they left, their steps heavy on the dusty ground, their armor, once gleaming, now dulled and stained with reddish-black splotches. Behind them, several carts carried the fifty fallen bodies of their comrades, covered with makeshift tarpaulins.

As they passed through the main gate, activity in the camp seemed to cease. Soldiers from other cohorts, who had been repairing equipment or gambling by bonfires, fell silent. They stared at the returning ranks, their eyes fixed on the cracked shields, dented helmets, and the blank stares in the eyes of the survivors. This was not the sight of a unit that had just completed a small cleansing mission. This was the sight of a unit that had just returned from hell.

Ulixes walked at the front, his face a mask of dust and dried blood. He did not turn his head left or right. He just stared straight ahead, towards the center of the camp, towards the main command tent. He could feel thousands of eyes on him, a burden heavier than any armor.

Even before he could dismiss his troops, a Centurion from Crassus's personal guard was waiting for him. "Praefectus Acilius," the man said curtly, his eyes, which once held only disdain, now held a new stillness when they met his. "Dominus Crassus awaits you."

Ulixes gave a brief order to Flamma to take care of the troops and the wounded, then he followed the guard. He did not clean himself. He wanted Crassus to see the cost of his orders.

Inside the command tent, the senior officers had been assembled. Caesar stood to one side, his face calm as ever, but his sharp eyes immediately assessed Ulixes's condition as he entered. Several other tribunes whispered, but instantly fell silent as Crassus raised his hand.

Ulixes stepped forward, stopping before the large map spread on the table. He reached for the wet, heavy leather sack he had carried from the forest. Without a word, he opened it and rolled its contents onto the map of Campania. The head of the Germanic rebel leader stopped directly over the image of Vesuvius, its dead eyes staring blankly at the tent roof.

"The orders have been carried out, Dominus," Ulixes said, his voice hoarse. "The threat in the Sila Forest has been annihilated."

Crassus stared at the head, then at the blood-soaked Ulixes. A heavy silence filled the tent. Crassus walked slowly around the table, approaching Ulixes.

"My intelligence mentioned three hundred rebels, Acilius," Crassus said softly.

"Your intelligence was wrong," Ulixes replied flatly. "There were a thousand."

A collective, suppressed gasp escaped the other officers. They now understood the sight they had witnessed when the Third Cohort returned.

Crassus showed no surprise. He merely nodded slowly. "You were faced with a superior force, on their favorable ground, and you returned with a total victory." He looked at the other officers, his voice now rising, carrying a weight that silenced all other whispers in the tent. "When intelligence fails, when plans on paper become useless, a true commander forges his own victory. Praefectus Acilius has shown us all the meaning of Roman discipline and courage!"

He looked back at Ulixes. "As a reward for your exceptional service, I am granting your unit a new status."

He turned to face the officers. "From this day forward, the Third Cohort shall be known as Cohors Prima, the First Cohort of this legion! They will receive double rations, the finest equipment, and the honor of leading the assault in every battle to come!"

Ulixes saw the jaws of some tribunes tighten, their eyes flashing with resentment. The status of First Cohort was an immense honor, usually reserved for units with the longest history, not for a group of fresh recruits.

Crassus was not finished. He placed his hand on Ulixes's blood-stained shoulder. "And for its commander," he said, his eyes sharply sweeping over the other officers one by one. "Praefectus Acilius, from now on, you report directly to me. Your orders come from me, not from the tribunes."

That statement was a political earthquake within the tent. Crassus had just effectively cut the chain of command, placing Ulixes in a unique and powerful position. Ulixes was now the general's unofficial right-hand man.

He glanced at Caesar. The man showed no jealousy. Instead, he gave a very slight nod, a sign of acknowledgment from one player to another. Caesar understood. Crassus was not just rewarding a soldier. He was forging a weapon.

"Dismissed," Crassus said, breaking the silence. "Prepare yourselves. This war is far from over."

The officers dispersed in silence, leaving Ulixes alone with Crassus. As Ulixes was about to turn, Crassus stopped him.

"One more thing, Acilius," Crassus said. "You lost fifty men."

"Yes, Dominus."

"Next time," Crassus said. "Make sure that number is lower."

Several weeks passed in a new routine. Mornings in the First Cohort's camp now felt like being in a different world from the rest of the legion. The soldiers trained with the finest equipment, their newly forged gladius swords gleaming, and their reinforced shields no longer cracked or dented. Double rations made their bodies stronger, and the pride of being an elite unit made their backs straighter.

Ulixes pushed them harder than ever before. Honor, he knew, was a heavy burden. He trained them in complex maneuvers, breaking his cohort into smaller, flexible units that could attack and defend independently. He personally tested every Centurion in sparring, his Achilles Template making him an impossible opponent to defeat, forcing his officers to reach new levels of skill just to survive against him.

The jealousy from other cohorts was palpable. As Cohors Prima marched through the camp, other soldiers would stop and stare with a mixture of awe and resentment. The tribunes who once underestimated Ulixes would now turn away when he passed, unwilling to acknowledge the superiority of the general's "pet." Ulixes felt their gazes on his back. He didn't care. Jealousy was background noise. What mattered was readiness.

One afternoon, as he was overseeing training, a scout from the cavalry patrol arrived, his horse breathing hard, his own face flushed from hard riding. He leaped from his exhausted horse and ran directly to the main command tent. Soon after, trumpets sounded, their sharp, urgent call summoning all senior officers.

Inside Crassus's tent, the large map was now marked with dozens of new symbols.

"He's moving," Crassus said, his voice calm yet filled with tense energy. "The rebels have abandoned their stronghold on Vesuvius. Our scouts report them moving south, in one large group. Our walls have successfully starved them out. They are desperate. They are looking for one last decisive battle."

He looked at his officers. "And we will give it to them."

He pointed to a wide plain on the map, a few miles south of their current position. "Here. The terrain is open. No forests to hide in. No slopes to climb. Only steel, blood, and discipline. This is where we will crush them forever."

He began giving orders, pointing to Legates and Tribunes, assigning each legion to its position on the battle line. His plan was a classic Roman formation designed to withstand the initial onslaught and then crush the enemy from both flanks.

Finally, his gaze rested on Ulixes.

"Acilius," he said. "I don't need you to hold the line. I need you to be the spearhead."

He pointed to the center of the rebel formation on the map. "Spartacus will place his best fighters in the center, to try and break our backbone. Your task and your Cohors Prima's is to penetrate their ranks at their strongest point, create chaos, and kill Spartacus's lieutenants. Cut off their head, and the body will die."

It was a suicide mission. A deadly honor. Crassus was asking Ulixes to be a storm that would directly hit another storm.

"I want you to be the blade that will cleave their heart," Crassus continued. "Once you penetrate them, my reserves will enter through the gap you create and destroy them from within."

Ulixes looked at the map, then into Crassus's eyes. He showed no hesitation. "We are ready, Dominus."

Dawn the next day felt different. The air was filled with the sound of tens of thousands of men moving in a silence that felt heavy with unspoken prayers. The clinking of armor, the whinnying of horses, and the whispered commands of Centurions.

Ulixes stood before Cohors Prima. They were the first to march out of camp, taking their position at the front line. Across the wide plain, under a sky still purple and red, he could see them. The rebel army. A dark, irregular sea of humanity, their diverse weapons gleaming faintly in the dawn light.

He could feel the tremor of the ground beneath his feet as they began to shout, a collective roar from tens of thousands of souls pushed to their final stand, ready to die for one more day of freedom.

Ulixes looked across. His eyes swept the enemy lines, disregarding the chaotic mass, searching for a single point. And he found it. The figure standing before them all, taller, straighter. Spartacus.

Even from such a distance, it was as if their eyes met. There was no hatred there. Only a silent, tragic acknowledgment. Two men, once brothers on the arena sands, now stood as generals of two worlds about to destroy each other.

Ulixes took a deep breath, the cold morning air filling his lungs. He drew his gladius. The glint of its steel caught the first light of dawn.

The Roman war trumpets blared, their long, shrill sound cutting through the silence. The final storm was about to begin.