After hearing Davos’s words, Agasias looked out at the departing fleet, the complaints of Cleanor and the others echoing in his mind. He finally nodded. “You are right.”

***

Half an hour later, the transport fleet was far from Thurii, sailing south on the sea route to Syracuse.

Aboard the lead ship, Timasion gave the order. His men sprang into action, seizing the captain and the sailors. “We will not harm you,” they announced. “We only wish for you to change course.”

While some of his men calmed the terrified crew, others hoisted a red flag up the mainmast. On the other ships, the company captains, who had been secretly notified of the plan just the day before, saw the signal and moved at once. Within minutes, all forty ships were under their control.

“To the beach between Crimisa and Castellum,” Timasion commanded the captain.

“What are you doing?!” the captain shouted, his voice trembling but defiant.

One of the soldiers holding him kicked him hard. “Do as the chieftain commands!”

Seeing their captain abused, the other sailors began to stir, but after two of their number were cut down by the mercenaries, they backed away in terror.

“We are all registered freemen of the Theonian League!” the captain cried, his voice filled with grief and rage as he looked at the wounded men writhing on the deck. “Do you not fear the wrath of the League?”

This was indeed a problem. In his two months in the League, Timasion had learned something of its laws. Even for men like these sailors, who were only registered and not yet preparatory citizens, the League was obligated to intervene on their behalf if they were mistreated by a foreign power. For full citizens, the protections were even stronger. If he were to kill them, he might be able to smooth things over with his former comrades in the Senate, but it would surely enrage that man who “spoke only of law, not of private sentiment.” His hopes of using Theonia’s strength to hold Crimisa would be dashed.

He ordered his men to bandage the wounded sailors and spoke to the captain in as placating a tone as he could muster. “I swear by Zeus, I, Timasion, have no intention of harming the League. As soon as you have put us ashore, you and your ships are free to go.”

The captain, though still suspicious, ordered the helmsman to change course.

“Get word to the other ships,” Timasion whispered urgently to one of his men. “Tell them to avoid harming anyone, if possible.”

If possible. He had to add the qualifier because this was a hastily assembled force of mercenaries. They had followed him and Cleanor out of respect for their reputations and a shared desire to escape the League’s constraints, but Timasion knew he had no real power to control them.

Another half an hour passed. Guided by two well-paid local pilots, and seeking to avoid being spotted from Crimisa, the fleet made landfall on a sparsely populated beach closer to Castellum.

While the captain was still worrying about damage to his ship’s hull, the soldiers shoved him and his crew overboard.

“You said you would let us go!” the captain screamed at Timasion.

“And so I will. Just not yet,” Timasion replied coldly. “To prevent you from rushing back to raise the alarm, you will stay here a while longer.” He ordered his men to drag the ships onto the beach, then bind the captain and sailors and throw them into the tall grass. There was some resistance, and there were more casualties, but Timasion had no time to worry about such things now. He, Cleanor, and the other captains quickly assembled the mercenaries. They pulled out the timber that had been hidden under the tents and grain sacks—gifts from Davos and their former comrades—and began to hastily construct scaling ladders.

Timasion knew that Davos was a meticulous man. His request for tents and grain had not only been to conceal the components of his siege equipment, but also to lull Davos into a false sense of security. As each soldier packed two days’ worth of rations, Timasion turned one last time to the captain lying in the grass. “The provisions on your ships belong to your Archon, Davos. Do not forget to return them to him when you get back.”

Then, ignoring the desperate pleas of the crewmen, he led the mercenaries south at a rapid march.

It was nearly impossible to hide the movement of seventeen hundred men across an open plain in broad daylight, especially during the bright, sunny days of the spring planting season. Their initial plan had been to land at night, but that would have meant the fleet of forty ships would have had to loiter at sea all day. Too close to shore, and they would risk alerting the patrol boats and merchant ships of Croton and Crimisa; too far out, and they would risk losing their way and missing their landing spot in the darkness.

So they had opted for a surprise attack, to strike Crimisa before it could react. The key was speed.

Between Castellum and Crimisa lay a large swamp, formed by the perennial flooding of the River Lacon and its tributaries. Timasion had scouted the area in early December and had found that the coastal side was easily passable. There were even ferries and a pontoon bridge to facilitate travel and trade between the two cities.

But what Timasion had not anticipated was that by late December, with the coming of spring, the melting snows, combined with unusually heavy rains in January, had caused the river to swell far beyond its normal levels. The swamp had expanded significantly, presenting a major obstacle to the mercenaries’ rapid advance.

As they slogged their way through the marsh, they began to see farmers and slaves driving livestock to the water’s edge to graze. The locals, seeing the distant column of soldiers, fled in panic. Soon, scattered horsemen appeared on the horizon. The element of surprise was lost.

Timasion immediately called a council with Cleanor, Thorax, and the other captains. Huddled in the middle of the swamp, they debated: should they abort the attack?

Cleanor, Thorax, and the majority of the others were adamant. They had waited so long, planned so meticulously, for this one perfect opportunity. To give up now and return to Theonia would not only be a humiliation; their intentions would be exposed. Davos would become wary of them, the Thurians would treat them with contempt, and they would be forced to leave Magna Graecia. They would never get such a chance again.

Seeing that they were of one mind, Timasion laid out his revised plan. They would quicken their pace, reach the city before its defenses could be fully prepared, and take it by storm. They would then defend against any relief force and, as quickly as possible, secure recognition from the Theonian League for their new city’s request to join the alliance. Under the protection of that great power, their safety would be assured.

The captains agreed.

“Brothers, faster! Faster!” Timasion roared, trying to rally the flagging spirits of his men. “Once we are through this mire, Crimisa will be like a ripe olive, waiting for us to pluck it!”

Cleanor, Thorax, and the other captains echoed his cries, urging the men on. The battle-hardened soldiers knew the urgency of the situation. Cursing the wretched terrain, they pushed onward, and finally, the main body of the force emerged from the swamp.

The horsemen who had been observing them now rode forward. “I am Timaeus, captain of the patrol of Crimisa!” their leader shouted. “Strangers, you have trespassed on the lands of Crimisa! You are ordered to halt at once—”

His words were cut short as a javelin pierced his chest. He tumbled from his horse, and the other riders, terrified, wheeled their mounts and fled.

“Damn it, who threw that javelin?” Timasion roared, seeing what had happened. He had hoped to bluff the patrol, to buy a little more time, but one of the bloodthirsty, undisciplined mercenaries had ruined his plan.

“What’s done is done,” Cleanor murmured at his side. “Do not blame them now. It will damage morale.”

One setback after another since landing had left Timasion deeply frustrated, but he forced himself to swallow his anger. Cleanor was right. They had to press on. He spat on the ground and turned to the guide. “How much further to Crimisa?”

The guide, seeing the savage look on his face, swallowed hard. “About… about ten miles,” he stammered.

Timasion looked at the sky. “Tell the men to push on,” he said to his herald. “We will rest when we reach the city.”

***

They saw no one else on the road. The farmers and slaves who had been working the fields had clearly gotten word and fled to the safety of the city.

Half an hour later, Timasion could just make out the distant shape of Crimisa. He immediately ordered the army to slow from a forced march to a steady advance.

Crimisa was situated south of the Cape Alice, on the north bank of the River Umbrian. Two centuries ago, it had been a native settlement, conquered by the Sybarites who had founded the city. It remained a dependency of Sybaris until Sybaris itself was destroyed a hundred years later, at which point the weak city had no choice but to submit to its powerful neighbor, Croton. Decades later, with the founding of Thurii, an agreement between Athens and Croton had granted independence to both Crimisa and Castellum. However, the war between Thurii and Croton last year had shattered Crimisa’s neutrality. Siding with the powerful Crotoniates in the hopes of sharing in the spoils of victory, they had instead shared in their defeat, suffering the catastrophic loss of nearly two thousand men.