The Roman patrol was spotted three days later, fifteen miles south of the main camp.

  Marcus got the news from one of Maharbal's scouts—a young Numidian who'd ridden his horse half to death getting back with the information.

  "Forty men," the scout gasped. "Roman heavy infantry. Moving north along the river road. They have a standard—eagle and all."

  Marcus felt a weight settle on his chest with a sense of expectation.

  Finally.

  "Just forty?" he asked.

  "That we saw, lord. Could be the vanguard of a larger force. Or could be a patrol."

  Either way, it was an opportunity.

  Marcus found Maharbal near the cavalry lines. "How fast can you put together a strike force?"

  "For what?"

  "There's a Roman patrol fifteen miles south. I want them gone before they report our exact position."

  Maharbal's eyes lit up. "How gone?"

  "Completely. No survivors. No one carrying information back to their commanders."

  "Give me twenty riders. We'll handle it."

  "Take fifty," Marcus said. "And take me with you."

  Maharbal blinked. "Lord, you don't need to—"

  "I'm not asking." Marcus was already moving toward the armor stands. "If I'm going to command this army, I need to see how Romans fight. Need to understand their doctrine, their tactics, their weak points. Reading about it isn't enough."

  "You've fought Romans before," Maharbal pointed out.

  Hannibal had fought Romans. Marcus had fought PowerPoint presentations and Excel spreadsheets.

  But he couldn't say that.

  "Not in Italy," Marcus said instead. "Not on their home ground. Things are different here."

  Maharbal looked like he wanted to argue, then shrugged. "Your funeral, lord. We ride in ten minutes."

  They caught the Roman patrol in a river valley two hours before sunset.

  Marcus watched from a hillside as Maharbal positioned his cavalry—fifty Numidian riders spreading out in a loose crescent, staying just below the ridge line, invisible to the Romans marching along the road below.

  The Romans looked professional. Tight formation. Regular spacing. Scouts out front and rear. These weren't green recruits—these were veterans who knew their business.

  Which made them dangerous.

  Also made them predictable.

  Marcus had studied Roman doctrine extensively in college. Had written papers on how their tactical rigidity was both their greatest strength and their critical vulnerability. In open terrain with room to maneuver, Roman heavy infantry was nearly unbeatable. But in broken ground, against mobile enemies who refused to fight on Roman terms...

  He signaled Maharbal.

  The Numidian grinned and gave his own signals.

  The cavalry split into three groups—one to hit the front, one to hit the rear, one to arc around and cut off retreat.

  Then they moved.

  Numidian light cavalry didn't charge like European knights. They swept in like a storm—fast, fluid, throwing javelins and wheeling away before the enemy could respond.

  The Roman formation tried to react. Officers shouting. Shields coming up. Men moving to form a defensive square.

  But they were too slow.

  The first volley of javelins punched through the front ranks. Men went down screaming. The formation buckled.

  The rear guard tried to turn and defend, but Maharbal's second group was already on them—more javelins, more chaos.

  And then the third group cut off their line of retreat.

  The Romans were trapped.

  To their credit, they didn't panic. Formed up. Locked shields. Prepared to sell their lives expensively.

  But against cavalry in open ground with no support?

  It was a slaughter.

  Marcus watched it happen with clinical detachment. Watched how the Romans moved. How they communicated. How their officers tried to maintain cohesion even as men fell around them.

  They fought well.

  They died anyway.

  The whole engagement lasted maybe ten minutes. By the time Maharbal's riders pulled back, forty Romans lay dead or dying in the road.

  No survivors.

  Marcus rode down to inspect the bodies.

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  Young men, mostly. Early twenties. Equipment well-maintained. Personal effects that suggested families back home—letters, small tokens, things you carried into battle because they reminded you what you were fighting for.

  He felt... nothing.

  Or rather, he felt a distant academic interest. These were data points. Examples of Roman training and equipment. Evidence of how legionaries fought when caught in bad terrain.

  Not people.

  Not anymore.

  When had that changed?

  "Lord." Maharbal appeared beside him. "We should move. If there are more patrols in the area—"

  "There will be." Marcus pointed at the Roman equipment. "This is a reconnaissance screen. Standard doctrine—light patrols to map enemy positions before committing the main force." He looked at Maharbal. "Strip the bodies. Take the armor, the weapons, the standard. I want everything."

  "The standard?" Maharbal's eyes widened. "Lord, if we take their eagle—"

  "It's not an eagle. That's for legions. This is a vexillum—a unit standard." Marcus walked over to where the red banner lay in the dirt. "But it'll still send a message."

  He picked it up. Felt the weight of it. The symbolic weight as well.

  In modern warfare, capturing an enemy flag was ceremonial. Symbolic.

  In ancient warfare, it was psychological devastation.

  Rome sent its soldiers out with standards. Expected them to protect those standards with their lives. Losing one meant disgrace. Meant the unit was dissolved. Meant everyone associated with it carried the shame forever.

  Taking this standard and parading it through the Gallic camps would be worth a thousand recruitment speeches.

  "Take everything," Marcus repeated. "And send a rider back to camp. I want the Insubres to see this. Want them to understand that Romans bleed just like everyone else."

  Maharbal was grinning now. "You're learning."

  "I'm adapting."

  They loaded the captured equipment onto spare horses and rode back to camp as darkness fell.

  Marcus should have felt triumphant. Should have felt something about his first victory in ancient combat.

  Instead, he felt cold. Calculating. Already thinking three moves ahead.

  Forty Romans dead meant Rome would send more. Would commit larger forces. Would start taking him seriously instead of treating this as a minor border incursion.

  Good.

  He needed them aggressive. Needed them to commit forces piecemeal instead of waiting to mass everything at once.

  Historical Rome's greatest strength was its patience. Its willingness to lose battles while winning wars through attrition and time.

  Marcus needed to deny them time.

  Needed to move fast enough that they made mistakes.

  Needed to turn their strength—their rigid doctrine, their centralized command—into weakness.

  They reached camp after dark. Word had already spread—Maharbal's riders had been talking. By the time Marcus rode through the gates, soldiers were gathering to see the captured standard.

  He handed it to Magalos personally, in front of the assembled Gallic warriors.

  "Rome bleeds," Marcus said simply.

  The roar was deafening.

  The next morning, Marcus called another war council.

  Different tone this time. Not planning—executing.

  "Rome knows we're here," he said without preamble. "That patrol was part of a larger reconnaissance effort. They're mapping our position, our strength, our composition. Within a week, they'll have a clear picture."

  "So we move," Mago said.

  "So we attack." Marcus pointed at the map. "Before they can consolidate. Before they can bring overwhelming force. We hit them while they're still organizing."

  "Where?" Maharbal asked.

  Marcus traced a line on the map. "The Ticinus River. There's a Roman force mustering there—reports say maybe fifteen thousand men under Publius Cornelius Scipio."

  He knew that name. Knew it intimately.

  Scipio—father of the man who would eventually defeat Carthage at Zama. One of Rome's best commanders. Experienced. Competent. Dangerous.

  Also: overconfident.

  Historically, Scipio had engaged Hannibal at the Ticinus with mostly cavalry. Had gotten mauled. Had learned too late that facing Hannibal required different thinking.

  Marcus intended to make sure that lesson was fatal.

  "Fifteen thousand versus our forty-six thousand?" Mago frowned. "Why would they engage us with those numbers?"

  "Because they don't know our numbers," Marcus said. "Their intelligence is based on what they expected—maybe twenty thousand survivors from the Alps. They think we're weak. Desperate. Vulnerable."

  "We're not."

  "No. But we let them keep thinking that." Marcus looked around the table. "We move in three days. Light force only—cavalry, light infantry, skirmishers. We leave the heavy infantry here to look like we're digging in defensively."

  "You want them to think we're afraid to engage," Maharbal said, catching on.

  "I want them to think we're conserving strength. That we're too battered to risk a major battle." Marcus smiled without humor. "And then when Scipio commits his cavalry to what he thinks is a reconnaissance in force..."

  "We destroy him," Maharbal finished.

  "Completely."

  Mago leaned back. "Bold."

  "Necessary." Marcus met his brother's eyes. "Mago, we can't fight Rome's war. We can't sit here and let them mass legions until they have three-to-one odds. We have to make them fight our way—fast, mobile, hitting them before they're ready."

  "Father would have loved this," Mago said quietly.

  Marcus wasn't sure if that was approval or concern.

  Didn't matter.

  "Three days," he repeated. "Maharbal, I want every cavalry unit ready to move. Mago, organize a screening force of light infantry—Iberians and Gauls who can keep up with horses. The heavy infantry stays here but looks active. I want the Romans to think we're fortifying, not preparing to attack."

  Orders were given. Plans were made.

  The council broke up, and Marcus was left alone with his maps.

  The Ticinus would be his first real battle. First test of whether modern tactics translated to ancient warfare. First chance to see if he could actually do this.

  Forty Romans in an ambush was one thing.

  Fifteen thousand in a pitched battle was something else entirely.

  He studied the terrain around the Ticinus. River crossing. Open ground. Good cavalry country.

  Perfect for what he had in mind.

  In modern warfare, you talked about "kill chains"—the sequence of events from target identification to destruction. Find, fix, track, target, engage, assess.

  The Romans were about to experience a very old kill chain delivered with very new thinking.

  Marcus rolled up the maps and stepped outside.

  The camp was alive with purposeful activity. Soldiers sharpening weapons. Cavalry checking tack. Officers drilling their units.

  His army.

  Getting ready to fight Rome.

  He walked through it all, and something settled in his chest. Not peace—never peace. But certainty.

  This would work.

  Or it wouldn't, and they'd all die in Italy.

  Either way, he was done hesitating.

  Somewhere to the south, Publius Cornelius Scipio was organizing his forces, confident that Rome's military superiority would prevail.

  Marcus smiled grimly.

  You have no idea what's coming, he thought.

  And by the time you figure it out, it'll be too late.

  Three days until the Ticinus.

  Three days until history got its first real taste of what happened when modern warfare met ancient Rome.

  He was almost looking forward to it.