From the hilltop, the military camp looked like a new city born of steel and leather. Thousands of tents stretched out like brown scars on the green landscape, arranged in precise rows. The smoke from hundreds of campfires stung Ulixes's nostrils, carrying the scent of burning wood and half-cooked meat. The shouts of Centurions, the clang of blacksmiths' hammers, and the grumbling of thousands of men formed a ceaseless background noise. This was Crassus's war machine.
Ulixes spurred his horse down the slope, the seal from Crassus in his hand granting him access past the guards at the main gate whose eyes followed his every move. He was directed towards the command tent of the Second Legion, a tent larger than the others, surrounded by busy officers and running couriers.
Inside, Legatus Mummius, a middle-aged man with permanently downturned lips and a belly that was beginning to bulge beneath his expensive armor, was bent over a large map. He did not lift his head when Ulixes entered and announced his presence. Ulixes simply stood silently in the stillness, letting the Legatus finish his game of showing who was more important.
After a seemingly deliberate amount of time, Mummius finally straightened his back. His small, sharp eyes swept over Ulixes from sandal to hair, his gaze swept over Ulixes as if looking at something unpleasant he had stepped on.
"Ah, yes," Mummius said, he said, his voice flat and lacking any interest. "'The Champion' from Capua. Dominus Crassus has... peculiar tastes."
He picked up a papyrus scroll from the table and tossed it towards Ulixes without ceremony. Ulixes's hand moved quickly, catching the scroll before it fell to the ground.
"The Third Cohort," Mummius said, returning his gaze to the map. "They are at the western edge of the camp. A collection of farmers and city thugs. Just try not to let them kill each other before they meet those slaves."
Ulixes unrolled the scroll. Black ink on the pale papyrus confirmed his status: Praefectus Cohortis Tiberius Acilius Ulixes. He rolled it back up, a brief, stiff nod his only reply to Mummius. Without waiting to be dismissed, he turned and stepped out of the tent, leaving the Legatus in his arrogance.
Hostility had been declared without a single spoken threat. He now had his orders. He walked through the rows of tents, towards the western edge of the camp, towards the six hundred men who were now his responsibility.
Ulixes walked along the irregular rows of tents, towards the western edge of the camp. The further he got from the command center, the louder the noise and the thicker the smell of sweat and cheap wine. Here, discipline felt like a distant concept. Groups of men huddled together, shouting as they threw dice. Elsewhere, two burly men wrestled on the dusty ground, cheered on by the coarse shouts of their comrades.
He stopped, his sharp eyes sweeping over the crowd. Six hundred men. Their faces were a mixture of boredom, fear, and false bravado. He did not see legionaries. He saw raw clay that he would have to force into shape.
An older man stepped out of a tent, approaching him. His body was stout, his face like sun-baked leather, and a deep scar split his left eyebrow. On his chest hung phalerae, metal discs signifying past awards for bravery. This was a true soldier.
"Praefectus Acilius," the man said, his voice hoarse and flat. He stopped before Ulixes, his gaze assessing. "Centurion Flamma. This is your unit."
His tone was not insulting, but neither did it show respect. It was the tone of a professional who had seen too many battles and too many commanders.
Ulixes did not look at Flamma. His eyes continued to sweep over the men who were now beginning to notice him, whispering among themselves.
"I see work, Centurion," Ulixes replied calmly. "Not a unit."
Flamma's jaw tightened slightly. "They are farmers and shepherds, Dominus. Not veterans. They need time to be forged."
"Spartacus will not give us time," Ulixes countered, now looking directly into the experienced Centurion's eyes. He saw weariness there, but also the lingering fire of a fighter. "And the enemy will not wait for them to be finished being forged."
He turned, his voice now slightly louder, enough to cut through the nearby noise. "Tomorrow at dawn, gather them all on the training ground. Their real training begins."
Ulixes did not wait for a reply. He walked towards the tent that had been prepared for him. He felt Flamma's gaze on his back, a gaze that now held a flicker of surprise, the certainty from moments before gone. The Centurion had expected a pampered noble. He did not expect this.
The summons for the officers' meeting came that afternoon. Ulixes stepped into Legatus Mummius's command tent. The air inside felt stuffy, filled with a dozen other officers, Praefecti and Tribuni, standing around a large table where a map of the Campania region was spread out.
He found his place, standing silently, his hand resting calmly on the hilt of his gladius. His eyes scanned the room. He saw Tiberius Crassus, standing near Mummius with his chin held high, his expression one of effortless superiority the son of Rome's most powerful man. On the other side, stood a thinner man with dark hair, whose eyes missed nothing, darting from face to face. The man observed him for a moment, an analytical gaze, before returning his focus to the map. Caesar, Ulixes thought.
Mummius began the meeting with a slam on the table. "Our plan is simple!" he boomed, his voice too loud. "We will march straight to Vesuvius and sweep those slaves off the mountain. A frontal assault that will break their spirit!"
Some officers nodded in agreement. Tiberius smirked. But Ulixes felt a cold sensation down his spine. A foolish plan. Attacking an elevated position without encircling it was a recipe for disaster.
"We will need true courage from our officers on the front lines," Mummius continued, his eyes glanced at Ulixes, a small, mocking smile playing on his lips.
Tiberius seized the opportunity. "Of course, Legatus," he said in a mocking voice. "Courage on the battlefield is very different from courage in the arena sands, isn't that right, Praefectus Acilius?"
A moment of silence fell over the tent. All eyes were now on Ulixes. He did not falter. He looked at Tiberius calmly.
"Courage is courage, Dominus Tiberius," Ulixes replied, his voice flat. "The enemy does not care where we learn it."
Before Tiberius could retort, another voice, calm and precise, cut in.
"Legatus Mummius," Caesar said, his eyes fixed on the map. "If we attack from the south as you suggest, what prevents Spartacus from simply retreating to the north side of the mountain and disappearing into the hills?"
The question was logical. The question was deadly. And it instantly undermined Mummius's entire plan. The Legatus's face flushed with anger.
"Nonsense!" Mummius barked. "Those slaves won't think that far! They will flee in terror when they see our eagles!"
As Mummius continued his rant, Ulixes's and Caesar's eyes met across the table. Just a fraction of a second. No words were exchanged, no nods. Just a silent acknowledgment between two minds working on the same level, two predators who had just identified the weakest prey among them.
The meeting was dismissed shortly after with a series of commands given without thought for their consequences. from Mummius. As Ulixes stepped out of the tent, back into the dusty camp air, the map of the battlefield in his mind was now much clearer. His greatest enemy might not be Spartacus. His greatest enemy was within this very camp.
Ulixes walked back to his tent, his steps steady on the dusty ground. The sounds of the camp around him seemed to fade, replaced by cold calculations within his mind. The battlefield map had now unfolded, and it was far more complex than just the hills around Vesuvius.
He had seen it clearly.
Mummius, the Legatus. A man who led with shouts, not by example. His rash plan would be a slaughterhouse for the soldiers under him. He was a disaster waiting to happen.
Tiberius Crassus. The commander's son. He looked at Ulixes, and for a moment, a flash of something that resembled a child's envy crossed his face. He was not a strategic threat. He was a small, venomous snake that would strike at the ankle when no one was looking. He had to be watched.
Amidst the sea of contemptuous gazes, Caesar's gaze felt different. His look cut through the crowd, sharp and analytical.
Ulixes felt an unfamiliar tremor at the back of his neck. The man did not see him as a slave, but as a weapon being assessed.
A clear realization dawned on Ulixes. Before him was not an enemy, but a different kind of predator. Perhaps the most dangerous in the room.
Ulixes arrived at his tent. He did not go in to rest. He took out a wax tablet and a stylus. Under the red glow of dusk, he began to etch lines on the soft wax. Not words. Formations. A tougher training schedule. A plan to turn a group of farmers into a unit that could survive the foolishness of their own commander.
He knew his first war was not against Spartacus. His first war was within this camp, against folly, jealousy, and ambition. And he would not let his men be the first casualties.