Chapter 108: Starving Wolves

Arausio Escarpment, Gallia.

Silas simply could not fathom how easy it was to manipulate a heavily armed Roman flanking force.

"Do these patrician fools not believe in vanguard scouts?" Silas muttered to himself.

He watched the Syrian archers and Illyrian light infantry trudge up the narrow mountain paths in a tight column.

Their commanding officer was actually riding a horse.

A horse, on a rocky incline perfectly suited for an ambush.

It was as if the man was begging for a sniper’s bolt to the throat...

Silas shook his scarred head.

Before Lucius Cassius had forged the Syndicate, the concept of wealthy, inexperienced senators buying military commissions was just the accepted reality of the Roman world.

Men who had never held a sword in anger were routinely handed the lives of thousands of hardened auxiliaries simply because their grandfathers owned vast estates in Italy.

It was a disgusting system.

Why would any sane empire entrust heavily armed, expensive troops to a powdered nobleman who thought warfare was a poetry recital?

Watching the arrogant Tribune loudly berate his men below, Silas felt a profound surge of gratitude.

*Thank the gods the Forge Master doesn’t care about bloodlines,* he thought.

Silas slowly slid down the rock face, dropping into a shadowed ravine.

He picked up a handful of loose gravel and tossed it toward a patch of winter brush.

A moment later, the brush parted.

An *Umbrae* operative, his face painted with ash, looked up at Silas.

Lucius had mandated that every specialized unit learn a system of tactical hand signals, adapted from the gestures used by deaf iron-workers in the Massilian foundries.

It allowed the *Umbrae* to coordinate complex maneuvers without making a single sound.

Silas’s hands moved in sharp motions.

*Twenty paces north. Bait sequence two.*

The operative tapped his chest twice. *Understood.*

*Ten paces south. Bait sequence four.*

*Understood.*

*Lure the archers left. First and third squads, engage.*

*Understood.*

Over two hundred *Umbrae* operatives, the hardened survivors of the Alpine ambush, moved across the ridges like a pack of starving wolves.

To any superstitious local traversing the mountains tonight, the fleeting shadows and rustling brush would have looked like the restless spirits of the underworld on a hunt.

In a matter of minutes, the *Umbrae* had successfully positioned themselves to kite the massive Roman flanking force, drawing them into the dead-end ravines that scarred the escarpment.

Down on the goat paths, the Roman advance was slowing...

Tribune Claudius, shifting uncomfortably on his horse, was accompanied by two seasoned auxiliary commanders:

Centurion Bato of the Illyrians, and Decurion Drusus of the Syrian archers.

Bato was a scarred man who had survived a dozen border wars. He was currently scanning the dark ridges with growing paranoia.

"Tribune, this isn’t right," Bato growled, gripping his spear. "The rebels hold the valley, yet they leave the high ground undefended? It reeks of a trap."

Claudius rolled his eyes, adjusting the cloak draped over his armor. "You auxiliaries jump at shadows. Look ahead."

Claudius pointed toward a small clearing near the edge of a cliff.

Lying in the dirt were half a dozen bodies wearing the dark wool of the Syndicate, their weapons scattered.

Drusus rushed forward, kneeling beside the corpses. "They’re Syndicate scouts," the Syrian confirmed. "But look at the wounds. No arrow shafts. Their throats were slit, and their gear was abandoned."

Claudius smiled smugly. "Exactly. They ran into my forward patrols and panicked. The rest of them likely fled the moment they heard the march of the legions. These peasants have no stomach for true warfare. They rely on cheap tricks."

Bato frowned. "Tribune, nobody abandons their weapons unless they are routed. And we haven’t engaged anyone yet. This feels staged..."

*CRACK. CRACK.*

The sudden sounds of arbalests echoed from two different directions... one deep in the northern ravine, the other from the southern ridge.

Bato flinched, his shield coming up instantly. "They’re trying to split us!"

"Don’t be a coward, Centurion," Claudius sneered. "Listen to the cadence of the fire! It’s disorganized."

Just then, a massive roar drifted up from the valley far below them.

The sound of the Syndicate infantry executing their feigned retreat, followed by the thunderous cheers of the Thracian cavalry.

Claudius’s eyes went wide with greed. "Do you hear that? Rufinus is already breaking their center! If we don’t move now, the Legate will claim all the glory, and we will be left picking through the scraps."

"Tribune, we must maintain formation!" Bato argued. "If we chase shadows into the rocks, we lose our numerical advantage!"

"Silence!" Claudius barked, drawing his sword. "I will not let Rufinus take all the credit for crushing this rebellion! Drusus, take your archers into the northern ravine and wipe out those snipers. Bato, take the infantry south. I will lead the center reserve and push forward."

"That is suicide!" Bato roared, abandoning all military decorum. "You are marching us into a meat grinder!"

Claudius aimed his blade at Bato’s throat. "It is an order, you barbarian dog. Obey it, or I will have you crucified for insubordination before the sun rises. Move!"

Blinded by the prospect of plunder and glory, Claudius ordered his three thousand men to break formation.

The seasoned veterans glared at their arrogant commander, but Roman discipline held.

The auxiliary forces split, marching blindly into the unmapped ravines.

Back on his high perch, Silas nearly choked on a piece of dried ration meat.

He had to cover his mouth to muffle a bark of incredulous laughter. He stared down at the splitting Roman forces, utterly dumbfounded.

His multi-layered trap had worked, but it almost felt insulting...

He couldn’t believe a commanding officer could be so profoundly stupid.

"I suppose the Illyrian has half a brain," Silas muttered to himself, watching Bato lead his men to their doom. "But the Tribune is doing my job for me."

Shaking his head in mild disappointment, Silas raised a hand and signaled his men to spring the traps.

The moment the Roman auxiliaries committed to the ravines, Silas struck a heavily modified flint striker.

It sparked a bright chemical flare that burned vivid green for exactly three seconds.

It was entirely invisible to the Romans down in the rocky gorges, but to the Syndicate spotters waiting miles below in the muddy trenches of Arausio, it was as clear as a lighthouse.

A civilian spotter, huddled in a reinforced dugout behind the main trench line, saw the green flash on the escarpment.

He immediately turned and grabbed a rope connected to a series of brass bells.

He yanked the rope twice.

Further down the trench network, Commander Valerius heard the sharp chimes.

He was covered in freezing mud, standing alongside Decimus near the camouflaged *Grapeshot Bombards*.

Valerius permitted himself a savage smile. Silas had secured the western flank. The Syrian archers would never fire a single arrow into the valley!

"The flanks are locked, Valerius," Decimus grunted, wiping grease from his hands. "The bombards are primed. We just need the targets."

Valerius looked out over the plains.

The disorganized horde of the Thracian cavalry and the Roman heavy infantry were charging blindly into the center of the corridor. They were screaming for blood, chasing the fleeing Syndicate vanguard.

The sky in the east was just beginning to turn a bruised purple.

Dawn was coming...

"Hold your fire until the cavalry hits the peat bogs," Valerius ordered, drawing his spatha.