The Rise Of An Empire In Ancient Europe
Chapter 87 Choice

Chapter 87: Chapter 87 Choice

The drawings were crude, but Phelicius could discern their meaning: a map of Thurii and its surrounding lands. There was the Crathis River, branching into its tributary, the Cosentia. At the rivers’ confluence, a square symbol marked the city of Thurii. Another fine line led away from the Cosentia—was that the Tinatus River? Nearby, dots and circles clustered along the banks. What could they signify?

As Phelicius studied the patterns, a sudden cry broke the air. Juleios shouted something in a language foreign and strange, his voice rising with fervor. Startled, Phelicius looked up to find Juleios’ face alight with a fervent, almost divine intensity.

Could he have spoken with Hades himself? Phelicius recalled whispered rumors of Juleios’ uncanny insight, a chill coursing down his spine.

"Phelicius!" Juleios snapped, his voice brimming with authority. "Summon every unit leader and sub-leader to my tent at once. We have no time to waste!"

The command was so forceful, so absolute, that Phelicius hesitated only briefly before nodding and hurrying to comply.

When Phelicius had gone, Juleios cast a long, final look at the map scrawled in the dirt. He repeated his words to himself, low and resolute, as if binding his fate to them: "Victory or defeat hinges on this battle. I will wager everything!"

With one decisive motion, he dragged his foot across the ground, erasing the markings. Then he sat in his chair at the heart of the tent, spine straight as a spear. His hands rested on the wooden arms, steadying him as he waited for the officers to gather, his heart a tempest of anticipation and steel resolve.

When the officers arrived, the tent grew crowded and stifling. Juleios had anticipated such moments and ensured the main tent was spacious, yet even so, the press of bodies left little room to move. Still, none complained. The weight of recent defeat and the uncertainty of their future hung heavy in the air. All eyes turned to Juleios, the man who had led them through desperate straits before, their unspoken plea etched in every face: Show us the way.

Juleios rose, his voice clear and steady. "Brothers," he began, "we have suffered a bitter defeat. Though the Lucanians have retreated, they will return tomorrow. They will not surrender their claim to the Sybaris Plain, this fertile land they have twice waged war to possess. What, then, should we do?"

His gaze swept the room, inviting no response yet demanding attention.

"I have kept this secret for too long," he continued. "But you have all suspected it, and you have worked tirelessly for it. Amendolara—that is our goal! That is where we mercenaries will settle in Greater Greece. That will be our home, our future!"

A ripple of surprise passed through the room, though many faces remained stoic, as though this revelation merely confirmed what they had already guessed.

"But understand this," Juleios warned, his voice sharp as a blade. "If the Lucanians secure the Sybaris Plain, Amendolara will become our graveyard, not our sanctuary. Even if we take it, we will be their primary target. Our numbers are too few, our resources too scarce. The Lucanians will return again and again, and even if we repel them, their shadow will always loom over us. So I ask you again—what should we do?"

The silence was broken by a bold voice. "Fight them and defeat them!" It was Matonis, ever the fearless one.

"Exactly!" Amintas echoed. "The Lucanians aren’t as invincible as Thurii made them out to be. We’ve seen their weakness. If we strike hard, we can break them!"

Their defiance sparked murmurs of agreement, but other officers—Kapus, Alexis, and Phelicius among them—looked ready to object.

Juleios laughed, a deep, hearty sound that filled the tent. "Well said, my bold brothers! Yes, we must fight. But not to scatter their forces in piecemeal skirmishes. No, we must strike decisively. We will annihilate the Lucanian coalition in a single, sweeping blow!"

The declaration stunned the room into silence.

"Annihilate the Lucanians?" Phelicius asked, his voice betraying his disbelief. "Leader, we number only 2,000. How can we hope to destroy an army of 15,000?"

"It is not just us," Juleios replied. "We have Tarentum’s reinforcements and Drakos’ mercenaries."

"Even with them, we are still vastly outnumbered," Kapus interjected.

"And will Tarentum even agree to such a bold plan?" Antonios pressed.

"They will," Juleios answered with unshakable certainty. "Because I will make them see that they must."

His voice rose, commanding and impassioned. "Brothers, I have said this before: victory is not determined by numbers alone. It is won through superior strategy, unyielding morale, and a plan that turns the enemy’s strengths into weaknesses. This is how we shall prevail!"

The officers fell silent, digesting his words. Then, Amintas, ever impatient, urged, "Tell us your plan, Leader!"

Juleios called for the map, and as it was spread across the table, he outlined his strategy with meticulous precision. His finger traced rivers, hills, and pathways, painting a vivid picture of the battle to come.

When he finished, the tent buzzed with murmurs. The officers exchanged glances, weighing the audacity of the plan.

At last, Alexis spoke, his tone reverent. "Leader, I’ve never seen such brilliance. This plan... it is genius."

"Yes," another agreed. "It turns their numbers against them. It is a path to victory."

Juleios raised his hand, silencing the chorus of admiration. "Save your praise. This is no time for flattery. Speak now—share your concerns, your doubts. This is a battle for our very survival, and we cannot afford missteps."

The room plunged into earnest debate, questions and solutions flying back and forth until, at last, the plan was finalized.

Juleios rose once more, his voice ringing with determination. "Brothers, tomorrow we fight—not for Thurii, not for me, but for ourselves. For the land we have dreamed of. Hades will bless us, and we will triumph!"

A thunderous cheer erupted, shaking the very ground beneath their feet. Even Phelicius, usually so reserved, felt the spark of hope ignite within him.

Tomorrow, they would gamble everything.