CHAPTER 195: CHAPTER 195 – THE AMBUSH ON CRIMISA

After listening to Davos’ words, Agasia looked out at the departing fleet. Remembering the complaints he had heard from Creano and the others in recent days, he nodded."You’re right."

Half an hour later, the transport fleet had left Thurii far behind, sailing south along the route to Syracuse.

On the lead ship, Timasone gave a sharp order. The soldiers moved at once, seizing the captain and sailors."We won’t harm you," one of them declared loudly, "but you’ll need to change course!"

As they reassured the terrified crew, a crimson flag was raised atop the mainmast. Officers scattered across the other ships—who had only received Timasone’s secret instructions the previous day—saw the signal and acted quickly. In no time, all forty vessels were under their control.

"Head for the beach between Crimisa and Castellon!" Timasone ordered.

The captain, though pale with fear, still mustered his courage to shout, "What are you planning?!"

A soldier guarding him silenced him with a brutal kick. "Do as the leader commands!"

The sailors stirred in anger at their captain’s humiliation. Two fell beneath mercenaries’ blades before the rest backed down.

"We are registered freemen of the Dionian Alliance!" the captain cried bitterly, staring at his wounded men writhing on the deck. "Do you not fear the wrath of the Alliance?"

The words made Timasone hesitate. He had lived under the Alliance for over two months and understood their laws. Even simple registered freemen—though not yet full citizens—were guaranteed the Alliance’s protection abroad. To mistreat them would force Dionia to intervene. Killing them outright would be even worse. The Senate might forgive him, but Davos—the man who placed law above all else—would never. And without Dionia’s support, his dream of holding Crimisa would collapse.

So he ordered the wounded sailors treated and said to the captain in a gentler tone:"By the name of Zeus, I, Timasone, swear we mean the Alliance no harm. Deliver us safely ashore, and you may sail away free."

The captain, uncertain but cowed, ordered the helmsman to change course.

Meanwhile, Timasone whispered urgently to his lieutenants: "Tell the others—avoid bloodshed whenever possible!"

Whenever possible. Because this force was a hastily gathered band of mercenaries, men who followed only out of respect for him and Creano, not out of loyalty. Controlling them entirely was impossible.

Another half hour passed. Guided by two locals bribed heavily for their services, the fleet avoided the main harbor of Crimisa and landed instead on a desolate beach near Castellon, where they would draw less attention.

As the captains fretted over potential damage to their ships, the soldiers shoved them ashore.

"You swore to let us go!" the captain shouted at Timasone in panic.

"I did," Timasone answered coldly. "But not yet. I can’t have you running back to raise the alarm."

He ordered the ships dragged onto the sand, their crews bound and dumped in the grass. Any sailor who resisted was cut down. Timasone paid them no mind. He and Creano quickly rallied the mercenaries, retrieved timber hidden beneath the tents Davos had once given him, and began fashioning long ladders.

Those tents and rations, he knew, had not just been for survival—they had concealed siege equipment from Davos’ suspicious eyes. Now, with every soldier carrying two days’ worth of grain, Timasone sneered at the bound sailors:"The supplies aboard belong to your Archon Davos. Return them when you get back."

Ignoring their desperate pleas, he led the mercenaries southward.

Seventeen hundred men marching in broad daylight across open plains could hardly hope to remain unseen, especially in the bright spring season.

Originally, the plan had been to land at night. But forty ships drifting aimlessly at sea all day would have aroused suspicion—from Crotonian patrols, Crimisan scouts, or passing merchants. Too close to shore and they’d be spotted; too far, and they’d risk losing their way.

So Timasone chose speed over secrecy: a sudden strike, to catch Crimisa unprepared.

Between Castellon and Crimisa stretched a wide marshland, swollen each year by the flooding of the Lacoeli River. Timasone had scouted it months ago and found the coastal edge passable, even outfitted with ferries and a floating bridge to aid trade.

But now, after winter snows melted and heavy January rains swelled the river, the marsh was larger than he had anticipated. Progress through it was slow and grueling.

At first, they only saw peasants or slaves grazing livestock at the marsh’s edge. When those folk spotted the marching army, they fled in panic. Soon, scattered horsemen appeared in the distance. Timasone knew then—their element of surprise was gone.

He quickly summoned Creano, Tolicus, and the other officers for council. Should they abandon the attack?

Most refused. Too much had been invested, too much time waited. To return now would mean ridicule at best, suspicion at worst. Davos would never trust them again, and Thurii would surely drive them out. They might never see such an opportunity again.

Timasone yielded. "Then we march faster. Before Crimisa can muster a defense, we strike! We seize the city, hold against reinforcements, and force Dionia to recognize us as allies. With their protection, no one will dare touch us."

The officers agreed at once.

"Faster, brothers!" Timasone shouted to his weary men. "Push through! Beyond this swamp lies Crimisa—ripe as an olive ready to be plucked!"

Creano and Tolicus echoed him, urging the mercenaries on. Hardened veterans cursed the mud but pressed forward, step by painful step, until at last the force emerged from the mire.

A patrol of horsemen watched them from a distance. One rode forward and bellowed:"I am Timaiatis, patrol captain of Crimisa! Strangers, you trespass on Crimisan land. Leave at—"

His words ended in a scream as a javelin pierced his chest. He toppled from his saddle, dead before he hit the ground. The other horsemen fled in terror.

"Damn it! Who threw that javelin?!" Timasone roared. He had hoped to bluff the Crimisans, buying precious time. But the mercenaries’ bloodlust had ruined everything.

"Enough," Creano muttered beside him. "Don’t scold them now—you’ll only sap morale."

Timasone spat in frustration, then turned to the guides."How far to Crimisa?"

The terrified man swallowed hard. "A-about ten miles..."

Timasone glanced at the sun and barked to the herald: "Tell the men—press on! No rest until we reach Crimisa!"

The farmland ahead was deserted. Farmers and slaves had already fled behind the city walls.

Half an hour later, the grey silhouette of Crimisa appeared on the horizon. Timasone slowed the march to a measured pace.

Crimisa stood at the southern edge of the Alicae promontory, on the northern bank of the Umbrian River. Two centuries ago, it had been a native village until seized and fortified by the Sybarites. When Sybaris fell a century past, Crimisa turned to Croton for protection. Later, with the founding of Thurii, Athens forced Croton to grant independence to both Crimisa and Castellon.

But last year’s war between Thurii and Croton shattered that neutrality. Crimisa had tried to side with mighty Croton, hoping to share in their spoils. Instead, Croton was defeated by the small town of Amendolara, and Crimisa paid the price—nearly two thousand dead.

And now, Timasone and his mercenaries had come to finish what that war had begun.