Vellica’s main gate was actually the one farthest from the Roman encampment, at the northwestern end of the fort. The slope of the hill was far less steep there, and the existing main road would surely speed any Roman troops who approached from that direction. The Cantabri, aware of this, had dug significant trench works to narrow the field along which they could be engaged, and they’d built a high defensive tower beside the gate in order to repel any attack. From the reports of the Cantabri prisoners they’d taken—many of whom had been released earlier in the day to spread Caesar’s offer of a reward for Corocotta’s capture—it seemed that the second tower visible within the hillfort helped guard a second defensive wall that had been built in case the initial gates and tower were overcome.
The second gate, smaller than the first, stood midway along the eastern side of the fort. The terrain was very steep there, and approach could only be made by means of a narrow path that hugged the side of the hill, making a final switchback right at the foot of Vellica’s walls. It was a natural choke point, and Juba was certain that the Roman dead would make the way impassable long before they could breach the stout entrance.
That left the third gate, which was essentially the rear entrance to Vellica. It was, by plan, the gate closest to the Roman encampment, on the southeast end of the fort. In some respects, it suffered from the same problem as the second, since it could only be engaged from a ramping sweep of earth that started to the west. Anyone attempting to breach the gate by such an approach would have to do so by marching uphill, under relentless assault from the walls of the fort above them. On the other hand, there was no final switchback, and a stretch of trees in the valley below would give the Romans at least some measure of cover as they readied for the final push.
In light of these facts, Octavian’s plan was simple but sensible. The Roman forces would march west out of the encampment, crossing the valley on a direct path for the woods below Vellica. There the three legions would divide, with two continuing their march, paralleling the walls of the fort as if intending to come around to assault the main gates. This was a diversion, intended to draw defenders away from the rear gate. At a signal, the third legion left behind in the woods would then make a direct assault on that minimally protected gate, bringing up battering rams beneath the cover of their shields.
It was a good plan, Juba felt. He certainly couldn’t think of anything better.
All eyes were on Carisius, who took a long, steady breath, his own eyes still riveted to the map. “The plan is a sound one, Caesar. No man here has ventured a better one.”
There was a murmur from around the table, but it was true: they’d spoken against it, but no one had offered an alternative except delay. “Yet you hesitate,” Octavian said.
Carisius finally looked up from the table and met Caesar’s eye. Then he nodded once, slowly. “I do. For the same reason we all do, the reason that has gone unspoken.”
Juba quickly scanned the room and saw that many of the men suddenly appeared frightened, as if fearful of what Carisius might say.
“I speak of the ghost,” Carisius said. “That’s what the men call him. The ghost who haunts—”
From the head of the table, Caesar cut him off. “You mean the rat. The slinking, hiding rat who feeds on the crumbs of a much larger force. Corocotta. You’re scared of him.”
Juba saw Carisius instinctively open his mouth to deny the accusation, but then he stopped, apparently recognizing that honesty would serve him best. Though the other men all seemed to be looking everywhere but at Octavian, Carisius continued to look him in the eye. Juba felt a great deal of respect for him. “Yes, Caesar.”
Octavian nodded. “I understand your concern. A rat he may be, but a rat that has proven difficult to catch.”
Carisius took a breath, then gestured to the map. “The legions will be exposed as we march on Vellica. We don’t know how many men Corocotta has with him. He could easily attack our flank.”
Young Tiberius, like Juba, had been silent the entire meeting, watching it unfold from his brooding darkness. But now, at last, he spoke up. “Corocotta is a brigand, Carisius. We don’t know if he would expose himself to help the Cantabri.”
Juba saw a touch of heat flush the commander’s face, for Carisius to be addressed so informally by such a young and inexperienced man, but the commander was too politically astute to make any attack of his own. “It is true that we do not know if he would do so,” he said. “But it would be prudent to be prepared if he were to do so.”
“And I think he probably will,” Octavian said. His gaze was leveled at his stepson, and his tone was both authoritative and instructive. “His actions have indeed shown him to be supportive of the Cantabri cause. Even if he isn’t working from Vellica, he is clearly taking any opportunity to attack our weakness.” He turned his gaze now to Carisius, and as he did so his tone shifted to respect. “So as you have wisely said, we should expect an attack on our flank during the assault.”
“But how?” one of the other officers said. “We don’t even know how many men he has.”
“I think not many,” Octavian said. His eyes flicked over to Juba for an instant before they took in the whole of the room. “Perhaps a dozen men at most. Maybe even less.”
Several voices rose up at once, incredulous at the thought that so few men could cause such devastation and terror.
Caesar held up a hand, and the silence was almost immediate. “Corocotta will likely attack, but he should not be your concern. I will deal with him.”
“One million Sesterces,” someone whispered.
Octavian smiled. “It may be that this will be enough. But there are solutions even if it is not.”
His stepbrother wasn’t looking at him, but Juba could feel the press of his thoughts focusing in his direction. Juba was the solution, after all. The weapon to counter Corocotta. If the ghost indeed had the Shard of fire, what better defense than the Shard of water, the Trident of Poseidon, which he alone knew how to use?
A silence fell over the table for a few moments. Juba could hear the sounds of the encampment outside, and it made him yearn all the more to get up and run from the tent, run to the arms of the woman he loved.
Finally it was Carisius who spoke. “So we will assault Vellica in the morning,” he said.
Octavian nodded. “Yes. You know your men. You know the plan of assault. Make ready the attack.”
There was a murmur among the men, but at whispered commands several of the lower-ranking officers turned and hurried from the tent. Most of the men around the table began to rise.
Carisius had not moved. “I understand that Caesar intends for us to ignore it,” he said, and for a moment all movement stopped and everyone turned to him. “But may I ask from what direction you think Corocotta will attack?”
“Perhaps you will ask him,” said a small voice.
Heads turned once more, this time to the entrance of the tent, where one of the officers, who had been holding it open while he turned to listen to Carisius, stepped aside to allow a little girl to hobble into view. She appeared to be lame in her left leg, walking with the aid of a cloth-topped crutch of wood placed under her right arm. She had a dirty face and dirtier brown hair, and her clothing was hardly more than a tattered, soil-stained shift covered by a patched cloak. Behind her strode a bearded man with dark, shoulder-length hair and furred boots that matched his wolf-fur cloak. He carried what looked like a wooden spear in his right hand, the iron point held up as if he used it as a kind of walking staff. He had the bearing of a man of great importance. Both of them had the dusted complexion of the Cantabri.
Juba saw that three legionnaires and two praetorians walked in a half-circle behind him, their swords drawn and ready to plunge into his back. Another legionnaire, who’d been carrying a torch to mark their passage through the dark encampment, fell away behind them.