The Rise Of An Empire In Ancient Europe-Chapter 143: The Ambush Unleashed

Juleios rose, his piercing gaze sweeping over the gathered officers. His voice was calm but laden with authority:

"Tomorrow at dawn, we shall fight not just for our city but for the soul of the Sybaris Plain. The stakes are clear—our land, our people, and our future depend on this battle. When the signal comes, there will be no horns, no shouting. We will strike with precision and ruthlessness, advancing at full speed. The tighter our ranks, the greater the enemy’s confusion. Once we close the trap, we’ll force them to surrender. Imagine this camp as a pot of fragrant barley porridge. Let’s see which brigade devours it the fastest and most thoroughly!"

The officers exchanged silent nods, their eyes ablaze with determination.

A Silent March Under the Stars

The night was cool, typical of early summer in the southern Apennines. The sky was a vast black void, devoid of moon or stars, providing perfect cover for the operation. Amendolara’s army began its silent march, regiment by regiment, each led by a torchbearer to illuminate the narrow paths. Over five thousand soldiers moved with practiced discipline, their footsteps muffled by the sounds of rushing rivers, chirping insects, and distant howls of wild beasts. From a distance, only the faint flicker of torches betrayed their presence.

Crossing the pontoon bridges posed the first challenge of the night. The troops advanced in two columns to maintain balance on the unstable planks. The first brigade, composed largely of veterans from Juleios’s Persian campaign, set the tone with their seamless crossing. Their confidence bolstered the rest of the army.

When the third brigade approached, however, progress slowed. Arsinis, one of the newer recruits, felt his steps falter as the planks swayed beneath him. Gazing down at the dark, churning waters, his imagination conjured the river’s icy depths. Just as he began to sway dangerously, a firm hand gripped his arm.

"Don’t panic. Look ahead, not down," whispered Kritipus, his squad leader, his calm voice cutting through Arsinis’s fear.

Reassured, Arsinis focused on the path ahead, his steps steadier. A splash and cries for help echoed behind them as a comrade fell into the water. Panic surged within him, but Kritipus’s steady voice urged him forward. "Don’t look back. Keep moving."

After crossing the second bridge, Epitenes implemented a clever strategy to aid the Lucanian contingent, pairing each Lucanian with a Greek veteran. With this guidance, even the inexperienced Lucanians crossed successfully.

Upon reaching the southern bank of the Crathis River, the soldiers’ tension eased as solid ground met their feet. Arsinis, now calmer, asked Kritipus, "What about the men who fell into the water?"

"Rescue teams are stationed along the riverbanks," Kritipus replied. "As long as they ditch their gear and remember their swimming drills, they’ll make it."

Approaching the Enemy Camp

Two hours later, the army neared Castro. The torches were extinguished, leaving the soldiers to rely on Izam’s squad to guide them to the Trionto River. Here, the river was wide but shallow, no deeper than their waists. The soldiers waded through without issue, their progress unhindered.

As they drew closer to the Crotonian camp, the officers crept forward to confirm its layout, comparing their observations to the reconnaissance reports. When the eastern sky began to pale with the first hint of dawn, the soldiers were roused from their brief rest. They donned their armor and prepared their weapons, the officers delivering quiet words of motivation.

For the veterans, a few fiery phrases—"The Crotonians insulted our land and our governor. Make them pay!"—were enough to ignite their resolve. New recruits, like Arsinis, received detailed reminders: "Stick with your squad. Don’t waste time retrieving a stuck spear—switch to your sword and keep moving." ƒгeewёbnovel.com

As the soldiers formed their lines, Arsinis donned his Corinthian helmet. Peering through its narrow eye slits, he saw the enemy’s tents just a hundred meters away. The sight of his comrades’ battle lines curving around the camp filled him with both excitement and apprehension.

The Ambush Begins

Suddenly, a chorus of screams erupted from the right flank—the first brigade had launched their attack. Kritipus whispered, "Advance!"

Arsinis marched with his comrades, their tightly packed shields clanging softly. His sandals sank into the dew-soaked earth, leaving clear imprints as they closed the distance. Outside the tents, Crotonian soldiers lay sleeping. Arsinis hesitated, his spear poised above a sleeping enemy.

"Do it!" hissed a comrade, driving his own spear into another soldier’s throat. Blood spurted, and the man’s eyes bulged in silent agony. Arsinis froze, nausea rising in his throat.

"Now!" urged the comrade.

Summoning his courage, Arsinis thrust his spear, piercing the enemy’s chest. His comrade gave an approving nod before advancing. Suppressing his revulsion, Arsinis followed, dispatching more enemies as they advanced through the sleeping camp.

A tent blocked their path, and Kritipus signaled for a coordinated attack. Ten spears jabbed into the fabric, eliciting screams from within. Arsinis crawled inside to assess the aftermath. Emerging pale but determined, he reported, "Four enemies. Two severely wounded, two dead."

"Leave them. Move forward!" Kritipus commanded.

As they pressed on, disoriented Crotonians stumbled from their tents, some half-dressed, others unarmed. Panic spread as they realized their camp was under attack. Many fled aimlessly, their cries echoing through the chaos.

The Battle Intensifies

In another section of the camp, Kapus’s first brigade had already reached the southern supply depot, where wagons and loot cluttered the area. Meanwhile, Drakos’s second brigade faced fierce resistance from Crotonians attempting to rally near Castro. Epitenes and Bagul’s forces from the north successfully blocked retreat routes, driving the disorganized enemy toward the river.

As the sun’s rays pierced the horizon, Amendolara’s forces tightened their encirclement. The Crotonian camp, once filled with arrogance and confidence, was now a chaotic battlefield of screams, blood, and fire.

For Arsinis, the ambush was a baptism of fire. Each enemy felled by his spear added to his resolve. By the time dawn fully broke, he was no longer the hesitant recruit who had faltered on the bridge but a soldier of Amendolara, forged in the crucible of battle.

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