Chapter 23

The Port of Kalb, Hispania

Cormac leaned back in the chair at Niall’s desk and listened to the crashing waves and bustle of the docks below, closing his eyes and relishing the moment. He felt bad about how often he kicked the commander out of his own workspace, and if he was honest, there were probably other temporary accommodations he could set up while he was operating out of the port, but he preferred the commander’s office.

Besides being convenient to messengers and soldiers, as needed, he liked how it sat above the docks. High enough that not too much noise came in the window, which allowed him to leave it open for the nice breeze that came off the Middle Sea, but close enough he could still look out and see the bustle about the harbor and the high-masted ships coming in.

A knock on the door drew him out of his reverie, and to the reason he was sitting in the office at all.

“Come,” Cormac commanded, sitting up and schooling his features.

Cormac watched as the Arandur representative was led into the office by two legionaries, his face pressed into a scowl. The man wasn’t in manacles or even being touched by the men, but it was clear from his face he hadn’t come willingly.

“Welcome, friend,” Cormac said, standing up from behind the plain wooden table that served as a desk. “Please, have a seat.”

The man gave the two soldiers a look, as if assessing if he could just leave or not, before stepping forward and taking the offered seat. As he did, the men moved to stand on either side of the door, inside the room, as Cormac had instructed them to do before they left to retrieve his guest.

“Some wine, perhaps?” Cormac gestured to a clay jug and goblets on the table.

“I’m no friend of yours, Britannian,” the man finally snarled. “Your soldiers dragged me here against my will. What gives you the right to accost a free man of Hispania in such a manner?”

Cormac held up a hand in a conciliatory gesture. “Please, I apologize if my men gave you any indication that your presence here was forced. That was not my intention.”

Of course, that was a lie. Cormac’s men had dragged the representative here very much against his will, on Cormac’s instructions. Something he had learned from Medb was to always stack the deck when negotiating. Instead of trying to predict the reaction of the person you’d be against, set up a scenario ahead of time that was most likely to produce a reaction you could work with. Besides, it was satisfying to see the usually brash and cocksure man looking so off-balance.

“Well, I cannot say I appreciate being fetched like some errant child. Now, perhaps you might tell me what was so urgent as to justify this ... discourtesy.”

“Straight to business then. Very well. We have concluded our investigation into the recent attack on one of your outlying villages. We have found some ... inconsistencies with the accounts from your survivors. In short, we believe the attack never happened. It was staged.”

“What!?” the man spluttered, his face reddening. “This ... this is an outrage! You dare accuse us of fabricating an assault that cost our tribesmen their very lives?”

Cormac just sat there and listened as the man repeated himself, over and over. Demanding apologies, for all intents and purposes completely flabbergasted that anyone would dare think his people would do something so reprehensible.

“You can deny it all you want, but we know the truth,” Cormac said when the man’s denials finally wound down. “The damage to your village was extremely localized, and the people were clearly afraid of the warriors accompanying the man I sent to investigate. Meanwhile, every other raided village was nearly burned to the ground, with widespread destruction. Not a single person in your village was able to accurately identify which tribe had supposedly raided them. Yet every other raided village had no trouble pointing to the Arandur as the ones who raided them.”

The man started to say something, another denial, most likely.

“Furthermore,” Cormac said, leaning forward and speaking over him. “The injuries on the so-called victims were still fresh. The man we sent is a seasoned warrior with decades of battle experience. He knows what fresh wounds are, and can tell the difference between those and injuries that happened days or even weeks prior. He is quite certain these supposed ‘attacks’ happened after our last gathering of the tribes ... after you had already laid claim to being raided.”

“I don’t care what you think you can prove. You Britannians are no different than the Carthaginians who came before. You swoop in thinking you can decide what is best for Hispania and her tribes,” the representative said, his credulous expression fading as he jabbed a finger at Cormac. “What matters here are the tribes themselves, who have never gotten along, always fighting each other for land, resources, and power. The Carthaginians at least understood that. They knew that if they let the powerful tribes have their way, there would be peace of a sort. Something you Britannians still need to learn.”

The man leaned back, his standard over-confident demeanor back in place, as if he hadn’t been outraged moments before.

“If you keep insisting that all the tribes work together under your high-minded rules, all you will get is chaos and bloodshed as we fight among ourselves.”

“That sounds remarkably like a threat. Are you saying that if I refuse to provide weapons to the Arandur or hold you accountable for violating our agreements, you will sabotage relations with other tribes and provoke more conflict in the region?”

“Take it however you want, Britannian,” the man said with a shrug. “I’m simply telling you how things work here. The tribes have never gotten along, and they never will. That’s the natural order of things. But if you keep pressing this and refuse to sell to my people, then we’ll have no choice but to make sure the other tribes know how deceitful you really are.”

“I see,” Cormac said, remaining calm and thinking back to some of the things his wife had said about negotiation. “Then let me make my position equally as clear. Britannia will not be coerced by threats from those who violate their agreements with us. Nor will we allow chaos and bloodshed to spread unchecked. If the Arandur insist on raiding their neighbors, despite our warnings, then they will face severe consequences.”

The man started to respond until Cormac held up a hand, stopping him, “Don’t bother with any more of your threats. Tell anyone what you think you have to. I think you misjudge the wisdom of your neighbors and your own place in their eyes.”

“You aren’t from here and know nothing of us. You think the other tribes will just stand by while you crack down on us? They’ll see your hypocrisy for what it is.”

“We shall see,” Cormac said. “Thank you for coming.”

The man glared at Cormac but didn’t say anything further, instead standing and stomping toward the door. The two legionaries glanced questioningly at Cormac, who gave a slight shake of his head. Each man stepped aside, allowing the representative, who never looked back at Cormac nor said anything while this was taking place, to leave, following the man outside as he did.

Cormac sat in silence for a long time after that, thinking. While their conversation didn’t end the way Cormac had hoped, it did end more or less how he predicted it would. Now, he had to decide what to do next.

Rome, Italia

As his legion spread out into long firing lines, interspersed with batteries of artillery, Bomilcar looked toward the walls of Rome. For months, they’d slowly plotted to reach this point, delayed again and again by attacks up and down their supply lines.

Now that they were here, he wasn’t sure it was worth it, even with the towering wall the Carthaginians built around it. Once, this had been a magnificent city, the heart of what was the Roman Republic, which his own ancestors had fought so hard to capture. Now, it was a shadow of its former self. He had been in the city several times over the years, before his life and allegiances had taken a drastic turn, and every time he’d been shocked by the state into which it had been allowed to fall. Gone were the parts of the city that had once held massive temples and architecture, if the artists who’d rendered paintings of it were to be believed, replaced by small ramshackle homes built shoulder to shoulder, a crowded and intertwined mess.

If it weren’t for its symbolic value, Bomilcar would have as soon bypassed the city altogether, finishing it off at some future time. Unfortunately, he didn’t have that luxury. Every day they had gotten closer to the city, his Roman legionnaires had become more excited by the prospect of retaking their ancestral home. While Bomilcar was sure they would feel differently once they got inside, he could at least understand their feeling.

“Have the batteries prepare to bombard the walls, concentrating on the gates, if possible,” he commanded Gordianus. “They are to keep their fire low, to minimize damage to the city as much as possible. Although I don’t expect them to sally, keep the cohorts in line and prepared to repel an attack.”

“Yes, Legate,” Gordianus said, saluting and riding off.

Bomilcar watched him go. He was a good man and, by all rights, should have taken over the Seventh Legion after the unfortunate loss of Velius. He would have done a good job at it, too. Bomilcar had already talked to the Consul about finding a legion for the man, but politics played their hand, and Marcus, who’d already been groomed for a position, had gotten there first.

Twenty minutes later, the cannon began firing, smashing iron balls into the stone and brick walls. Aside from the normal cannon that had made up the Britannian batteries since their formation, he had several pieces of a new style of cannon the Consul called howitzers. While he was duly impressed with their range, he immediately ordered the fire from those weapons ceased as their first shots sailed over the walls of Rome and into the city proper.