The sound of the bucina, the long and shrill Roman war trumpet, shattered the dawn's silence over Salona. A proclamation of war. Within the city walls, four thousand soldiers of the Legio I Illyrica's ground force had assembled in the main streets. They did not form ranks with the usual legionary clamor. They emerged from their barracks in perfect silence, shields on their left arms, pilum and spear in their right hands, gladius sheathed at their waists. In minutes, a column of deadly armor had formed, ready to march.
Ulixes rode his jet-black warhorse near the main gate. At his side, Flamma sat erect on his own mount.
"All cohorts are ready, Legatus," Flamma reported, his hoarse voice clear in the morning air.
"Open the gates," Ulixes commanded.
With a heavy creak, Salona's massive wooden gates swung open, revealing the vast plain that stretched before them. In the distance, under the reddening sky, the enemy was waiting.
The column of Spartan soldiers began to move forward. The only sound was the synchronized, rhythmic thud of four thousand pairs of caligae hitting the cobblestones, a beat that radiated power and singular purpose. A few of Salona's early-rising residents peeked from their windows, staring with a mix of fear and awe at the procession of soldiers marching out of their city.
As they emerged onto the open plain, Ulixes saw the full enemy force for the first time. It was a chaotic sea of men. Over five thousand Delmatae warriors filled the horizon, an intimidating sight of mismatched hide shields, crude iron spears, and tribal banners adorned with bones and feathers. The air was filled with their constant roaring and the relentless pounding of war drums, a symphony of raw hatred.
Ulixes was unfazed. He gave a series of brief commands. The Centurions roared the orders back, and the Roman column seamlessly fanned out into their battle formation. A perfect, red shield wall, three ranks deep, stretched across the plain, silent and motionless, a sharp contrast to the restless horde before them.
Ulixes and Flamma rode their horses along the front line, conducting a final inspection.
"They are confident, Legatus," Flamma said, his eyes sweeping over the sea of enemies. "Their numbers are superior."
"Their confidence is our weapon," Ulixes retorted, his cold eyes analyzing the non-existent enemy formation. "Look at them, Flamma. No discipline. Only rage. Rage makes a man stupid."
He stopped his horse in front of the unit led by Centurion Cassius. "Centurion. What is the spirit of your men?"
Cassius pounded his fist against his chest. "They have no spirit, Legatus," he answered, his voice a harsh, sharp bark. "They have only purpose. Awaiting your command."
Ulixes nodded in satisfaction. He completed his inspection and returned to his command position behind the front line. He looked one last time at the roaring Delmatae horde, which was now beginning to move forward impatiently. He turned to Flamma.
"They have come to die in front of our walls," he said. "We will not make them wait."
He raised his hand, then brought it down swiftly. A single long, blaring bucina blast cut through the air. Across the field, the Delmatae war cries grew louder as the first wave of their fiercest warriors began to charge forward. They ran towards the silent, motionless Roman shield wall, running towards their deaths.
The first wave of Delmatae warriors were the best they had—giant veterans, their faces painted with grotesque patterns, many wearing only animal hides and carrying heavy battle axes. They ran across the plain, the ground shaking beneath a thousand feet, their roar a sound storm designed to spread terror.
On the Roman side, nothing moved. The four thousand Spartan soldiers stood still like stone statues. They let the storm come. Their red shields formed a solid, seamless wall. Over the shield wall, thousands of eyes stared straight ahead, cold and emotionless. Between the gaps of the shields, the sharp tips of their spears jutted out, turning their front line into a giant, bloodthirsty hedgehog.
When the distance was only a few meters, the Delmatae warriors let out their final roar and leaped for the killing strike.
And they hit the shield wall.
CRACK!
The impact was the wet, sickening sound of thousands of pounds of flesh and bone hitting wood and bronze at full speed. The Roman shields were pushed back slightly by the force of the impact, but the line did not break. Not a single soldier fell. The Delmatae fighters in the front line were instantly killed, their bodies crushed between their comrades pushing from behind and the immovable Roman shield wall.
Before those in the back could realize what had happened, the first command was heard from the Roman Centurions. "Thrust!"
From between the gaps in the shield wall, the second and third ranks of the Spartan legion thrust their long spears. Their movements were synchronized, efficient, and merciless. Screams of rage turned into screams of pain and horror. The first wave was not repulsed. It was annihilated. When the Delmatae trumpets finally sounded for a retreat, they left hundreds of their comrades' bodies in front of the barely-scratched Roman line.
A terrifying silence fell over the Delmatae army. Their chieftains screamed, trying to rally their warriors, but the momentum was gone.
Ulixes saw it. He gave a single sharp hand signal to the trumpeters. A long, deep note from the bucina sounded—the signal to advance. The Centurions roared a single word that echoed along the line. "Forward!"
The meat grinder began to move. This was not a quick charge. This was a slow, methodical, and unstoppable advance. The Spartan shield wall began to inch forward, their synchronized footsteps creating a heavy, rhythmic thud.
The Delmatae ranks broke under the immense pressure. The Roman shield wall pushed them back, while gladii stabbed out from the gaps with deadly efficiency. Panic began to spread like a disease.
The cracks in the Delmatae tribal morale quickly turned into a total collapse. A chieftain in the back rank was the first to turn, shouting a panicked order to retreat. The battle turned into a slaughter. The once-mighty warriors now threw down their shields and fled in a wild rout.
"Break formation! Pursue them!" Flamma roared.
The Centuries that had moved as one unit now dissolved into smaller, faster units, chasing their fleeing prey, cutting them down from behind.
Ulixes observed the scene. He could have let his army wipe out every remaining enemy. But he had another plan. He raised his hand to the trumpeters.
TOOOOOOT!
The signal to halt and reassemble sounded. The Spartan soldiers, even in the heat of battle, instantly obeyed, allowing the few hundred most terrified Delmatae warriors to escape.
Flamma rode his horse back to Ulixes' side, a hint of confusion in his eyes. "Legatus? We were so close to annihilating them all."
"Death is an end, Flamma," Ulixes said. "I don't want them to die. I want them to go back to their villages. I want them to tell of what they saw today."
His eyes looked to the north, to the heart of Delmatae territory, where the survivors were now running.
"I want them to spread the story of an unstoppable legion of demons," he continued, his voice cold. "I want them to spread fear. Because fear is a much sharper weapon than any sword. The first lesson has been given. The pursuit will begin soon."
The plains of Salona were now silent. The thick scent of blood and death hung in the cool air, an invisible blanket over thousands of Delmatae corpses. In the Roman camp, the soldiers moved with silent efficiency, cleaning their weapons, tending to minor wounds, and collecting the spoils of war. The victory was total, but there was no celebration. For these Spartan-spirited soldiers, battle was a job, and the job was done.
Inside his spacious command tent, Ulixes sat in front of a small table. Across the table, tied to a sturdy wooden chair, sat his captive. He was no ordinary soldier. He was Bato, the only son of Verzo, the main Delmatae chieftain. His young face was covered in bruises and arrogant hatred, his wild eyes staring at Ulixes with a murderous gaze.
Ulixes paid him no mind. He calmly poured two goblets of wine. He pushed one towards Bato. The young man only snorted.
"I don't drink with Roman dogs," he hissed.
Ulixes sipped his wine slowly. "A pity," he said, his voice calm. "It's good Falernian wine. Taken from your father's supplies after the last battle four years ago." He paused, letting the insult sink in. "I heard Verzo was furious when he lost his wine cellar."
Bato's eyes narrowed. "Do not speak my father's name."
"Why not?" Ulixes asked, setting down his goblet. "He's a great warrior. A bit old-fashioned in his tactics, but his spirit is great. He sent thousands of his warriors to die today bravely. But he wasn't among them. He led from the back, as usual. Safe. Comfortable."
"He is a king! He does not fight on the front lines!" Bato retorted, his voice rising.
"Really?" Ulixes raised an eyebrow. "I fought on the front lines when I reclaimed the legion's standard from Spartacus. My soldiers saw me bleed with them. They don't just respect me. They would die for me." He leaned forward, his voice becoming a piercing whisper. "Would your warriors die for your father, Bato? Or did they die because of your father?"
Bato was silent, his jaw tightening. Ulixes could see the first doubt appearing in his hateful eyes.
"Your father sent you here," Ulixes continued, his voice now softening, as if full of sympathy. "He placed you on the most dangerous flank, in the thick of the fiercest fighting. Why? To prove your strength? Or because he knew you would be captured?"
"Nonsense!"
"Is it? Think about it. You are his only heir. If you die, there will be no one to carry on his name. But if you are captured..." Ulixes smiled thinly. "...then I will have the perfect bargaining chip. He can negotiate to get you back, perhaps by surrendering some useless plots of land. He will look like a caring father, a king who saved his son, while getting his greatest rival out of his way forever."
"I am not his rival!" Bato roared, the struggle against his binds futile.
"Aren't you?" Ulixes asked gently. "I saw the young warriors. The way they look at you. They don't see you as Verzo's son. They see you as Bato the Brave, Bato the Young Lion. Your father saw it too. And it scared him."
The seed of doubt Ulixes had planted began to take root. Bato stared at the floor, his breath heavy, his mind racing. He remembered how his father had placed him on the most dangerous wing. He remembered how his father had never praised him in front of the other chieftains.
"He would never surrender Delminium," Bato whispered, more to himself than to Ulixes.
"Of course not," Ulixes agreed. "That fortress is the symbol of his power. An impregnable fortress." He paused. "At least, that's what he tells everyone. But you and I know that's a lie, don't we?"
Bato lifted his head, his eyes now filled with new confusion and anger. "What do you mean?"
"Every fortress has a weakness," Ulixes said. "A crack in the wall. A forgotten supply gate. An old underground waterway known only to the royal family..." He let the words hang. "A secret that would ensure his own son would never be able to seize the throne from him."
Ulixes stood up, walking towards the tent door. "Think about it, Bato. I will return at dusk. You can tell me about that waterway, and I will give you a new life, far from your father's shadow. Or you can remain silent, and I will send your head back to him as a gift. The choice is yours, Prince."
He left the tent, leaving Bato alone with the poison he had just planted in his mind. The war to take Delminium would not be won with swords, but with words.