Tyndaris

A copper-orange sun was disappearing under the black sea's distant horizon as ocean waves rippled in white swells. They rose and dissipated as they broke near the shore at the Roman army's seaport military base, Ostia.

A constant ringing emanated from a row of blacksmiths hammering molten iron blades into gladius form in the open air. Searing sparks flew off the swords with each strike and quickly flamed out just before the next could spring up to fill their place. Standing above them was a large statue of a metalworker with a long beard and a conical hat, holding an arrow. Dark amber lights in the windows traced the form of a barracks three stories high.

Moving in from the outer darkness surrounding Ostia, a red-tunic flow wound its way through the paths and spread throughout the port city. Legions of soldiers were on the move. Torches in the streets cast just enough light to illuminate the figures walking the cobblestone road with war horses, painted shields, and javelins.

A bronze dragon's head standard worked its way from the marching legionnaires to the deck of a quinquereme ship. Behind it, auxiliary soldiers hauled jars of fish, oil, and wine on board. Hanging crimson shields lined the railings. The ship is massive, constructed of solid elm with bronze plating. A hundred and sixty oars in sets of three stood ready to slash into the water. Large blue eyes painted at the front stared out. A blunt ram was attached at the water level. Above, a wolf's head formed the masthead. This is the Roman flagship Victory.

A studded leather sandal thudded over the timber planks. The consul, Dimas, stood over the prow in his purple-edged toga. Dimas struggled to comprehend the strangeness of the world as he looked out on the water. He had finally settled on an understanding: It was absurd, but unavoidable. The full might of the empire would fall mercilessly down upon an island outpost. If it had been any other place in the world, it wouldn't be worth the effort. Strategically, Josef and his armies represented a threat to Roman trade. More importantly, he was in a position to block grain shipments from flowing in through Africa. Josef was a mere captain, Dimas used to think, a sub-general who happened to rise to rule Sicily, almost by chance. The real concern was his ally, Carthage. This unique nation, settled by a runaway princess, had managed to challenge Rome for military dominance. Rome had never seen such a bitter and capable arch enemy, and likely never would again. Yet, before anything could be done about Carthage, the island would have to be taken.

That was the problem. It is not a simple thing to land on enemy shores, and it is exceedingly difficult to storm a beach without losing thousands of men. That is why the plan was put in place several months ago. A plan so perfect, Dimas couldn't help but smile when he thought of it. If not for a few nagging worries, he might almost be happy. Josef was clever, and he had a talent for drawing people close to him. This is the kind of man who finds a way to win. At least, he always had before. Everyone knew of the island king, with his flawless military exploits and famed charisma. It wasn't that he tried to entertain or win over others. Instead, he had a natural authority that was impossible to question, something that wasn't so much seen, but experienced. Why had he dared to challenge Rome? It defied logic that such a man, severely outnumbered, would begin a war he couldn't hope to win. It must be pride. What else could it be?

Dimas staggered across the ship, trying to free his mind from pondering the enigma that was Josef, with his loyal Sicilian armies.

Strabo the Centurion approached unnoticed from the darkness, as usual. In fact, that is why Strabo was chosen. Stealth was his greatest skill, and to penetrate Josef's base, he would need to rely on it as never before. He could not go himself. It was doubtful that he had the patience or diplomacy for this commission, but he had a role to play. For months he had trained spies and planned details, never knowing whether the consuls would give him the approval he needed to complete his work. Now, he thought, his opportunity appeared imminent. Creeping closer, his red wool tunic, the covering that fits under his armor, became visible. By instinct, he turned his face away from the light. "Everything is in order, Prefect."

Dimas scowled at Strabo. "I'm trusting you to prepare the way."

Strabo's body coursed with excitement. "We're not too late?"

"That depends entirely on your work, and the others we sent before you," Dimas mused.

"Then consider the matter resolved," Strabo declared. This would be a turning point for Strabo. If he were to succeed, his reputation would be established. There was no limit to the heights he could reach. It was also personal. Everyone knew someone who had died fighting Carthage, a friend, a comrade, an uncle. Wars were common, and men were often lost, but Carthage was no ordinary foe. It represented a threat to Rome's existence. No enemies had ever captured Roman imaginations in the same way. For Strabo, Josef's rule, and his preference for Rome's enemies, was a personal insult. How could an independent military rule be established so close by, and why would it side with Carthage?

As Strabo gritted his teeth, raging at the thought, Dimas stared out into the black water, pondering the short stretch of ocean between him and his enemies. "The island that defied us will pay a heavy price."

Strabo nodded. "I desire nothing more."

Outside the harbor, ships rowed in. From the roof of the barracks, the military seaport appeared to be a massive machine, with parts moving by fire: loading, forging, preparing.