Tenebris
We slipped through the bowels of Agrigentum like silent hunters in a tomb. I led the Umbra Cohors forward, one hand trailing along the damp limestone wall to guide me in the near-blackness. Behind me, eleven shadows followed—what remained of the fifteen I'd handpicked for this mission. The tunnels had already exacted their toll. Two of my men lay dead somewhere in the labyrinth above, caught by a clever pitfall trap and the mercenary ambush that followed. Another, Marcus, was badly wounded and had been forced to turn back under guard, carrying a slashed thigh and our initial dispatch for the generals. The rest of us pressed on, deeper under the city's heart. The loss of comrades weighed on us, but we did not hesitate or speak of turning. Every man in the Umbra was trained to give his life if needed; most had expected to leave their bones in these tunnels tonight.
Our torches were doused—we moved in darkness now, save for the faint reddish flicker of enemy lanterns somewhere ahead. I could taste the city above from the dripping ceiling: chalky dust, bitter smoke, even a tinge of blood seeping down through cracks—a grim cocktail of siege. Each reverberation from above reached us as a distant boom or quiver of earth. The Roman feint was in full fury; I felt the vibrations of siege engines ramming and heard the muffled thuds of fire-pots detonating overhead. Good. All according to plan. They were occupied up there, eyes fixed outward while we prowled behind their defenses.
A narrow shaft yawned before us, and I motioned for the cohort to halt. In the pitch dark, they needed no whispers—each man placed a steady hand on the shoulder of the one before him to signal the pause. I knelt and ran my fingers over the ground. Here the floor transitioned from natural rock to something shaped by tools: the mouth of an old service passage sloping downward. This would connect to the cisterns beneath the central palace. We were close.
I turned my head slightly and caught Kesseph's silhouette at my side. Even cloaked in darkness, the Egyptian moved with uncanny grace, his curved kopis sword held low and ready. He leaned toward my ear and breathed, "Ahead, how many?" He knew I had the best sense for these things.
I closed my eyes, listening. From down the passage, I heard the scuff of sandals on stone, the faint clink of mail. The Carthaginians would have stationed guards here at the entrance to their command post. My mind picked apart the echoes. "Four… no, five men," I whispered back. "Two directly ahead, close. Three more a little farther in, likely at the chamber gate." I could also discern a dim glow—firelight spilling around a bend in the tunnel ahead. Those guards would be alert, expecting perhaps a breach from above or saboteurs, but not an attack from deep underground. Not here.
Kesseph's teeth glinted in a feral grin. He held up five fingers to the shapes behind us, then pointed forward. In perfect silence, the Umbra Cohors fanned out into position. Two fighters pressed against the left wall, two against the right; I took the center with Kesseph flanking opposite. Our blades were drawn, blackened with soot to avoid catching stray glimmers. My twin gladii felt steady in my grip, their worn leather hilts familiar as an old friend.
We ghosted forward. At the end of this curving corridor, orange torchlight danced on stone. I could now make out low voices—Carthaginian guards murmuring to each other in hushed Punic. A joke to quell their nerves, perhaps. That was about to end. I caught the scent of olive oil from their lamps and the sour tang of sweat. We were near enough to strike.
With a swift hand signal, I sent two of my men creeping ahead of me along the walls. They were my swiftest blades, veterans of a dozen night raids. On my nod, they slipped around the final bend. There was a wet whisper of steel on flesh—then a strangled choke. I surged forward instantly. The first guard was already crumpling, throat slit, as I rounded the corner. The second guard opened his mouth to shout, eyes wide in alarm—my dagger flew from my hand before he could draw breath. The throwing blade buried itself in his chest with a dull thunk, quelling his cry to a mere whimper. He toppled backward, torch clattering from his hand and sputtering on the stones.
We rushed the remaining distance before the others farther in could react to the noise. I retrieved my dagger from the twitching man on the ground without breaking stride. Ahead loomed a stout wooden door—ajar, with light pouring from it—and in front of it three armed figures were scrambling, shadows cast huge on the tunnel walls. I heard one shout in panic, "Alarm! They're here—!"
We hit them like a black storm. An Umbra soldier hurled his weight against the half-open door, slamming it fully wide and knocking one guard off balance. I was through the doorway in the next heartbeat, Kesseph at my side. Inside was a wide, vaulted cellar chamber lit by hanging oil lamps. Maps, crates, and a rough wooden table cluttered the space—this was indeed the Carthaginian command post. And standing at that table, faces twisted in shock, were two richly armored officers—the enemy generals. But between us and them stood their last guards: three men now reeling from our sudden entry.
I didn't hesitate. The nearest defender lunged at me, a lean Numidian with a spear. I slid aside from his thrust with ease, the point grazing my rib armour. Before he could pull back, I raked my short sword across his belly. The blade bit through linen and flesh; he gasped and collapsed, entrails spilling at his feet. To my left, Kesseph's curved sword flashed in the lamplight as he engaged another guard. The man raised his shield, but too slow—Kesseph's kopis cleaved down into his collarbone with a grisly crack, nearly splitting him to the sternum. The guard dropped without a sound.
The third guard, a burly Libyan with terror in his eyes, backed toward the generals as we advanced. He thrust his sword wildly at one of my approaching Umbra. The young legionary caught the blow on his own blade, but the Libyan was strong; he forced the clash aside and in the same motion drew a dagger and rammed it under the young Roman's chin. I saw my soldier stiffen, a strangled gurgle issuing from his throat as blood bubbled around the buried dagger. The Libyan had no time to savour his grim kill—I was already upon him. He turned just in time for my gladius to punch through his heart. A hot mist of blood spattered my cheek. The big man crumpled, sliding off my sword, and our dying Umbra cohortary sank with him, eyes already glassy. Another life traded for progress forward. Another name I would remember in silence.
All this transpired in mere heartbeats. From burst door to final guard's fall—five corpses and one of ours—perhaps three breaths of time. Now only the two Carthaginian generals remained on the far side of the chamber, blinking in stunned disbelief at the carnage that had arrived at their very feet.
One of the generals was a stout man in his fifties, clad in fine scale armor, a gilded helmet askew atop gray hair. He had been bending over the map table when we barged in; now he stumbled back, nearly tripping over a clay amphora. The other was taller, younger and battle-scarred, his bronze breastplate engraved with a roaring lion. His dark eyes darted over us—six Umbra soldiers fanning out inside the chamber, blades dripping red—and he quickly drew his longsword. By his bearing and the old scar slashed across his nose, I recognised him: Hasdrubal Sarran, the commander who had given our legions so much trouble on the walls. So he had left the ramparts and rushed here… too late to escape us.
"You…," Hasdrubal snarled, as if he knew exactly who I was. Perhaps he did. The torchlight cast wild shadows across my face and armour—the black sun emblem painted on my cuirass flickered as if alive. To the Carthaginian general, I must have looked like some underworld shade, blackened and bloodstained, emerging from darkness to slaughter his hopes. He bared his teeth in a grimace somewhere between fury and fear. "Tenebris!" he spat my name like a curse. Yes, they knew me by now.
The older general, Bomilcar, recovered enough to draw a short sword from his belt. But his hands trembled and he edged farther away, putting the table between himself and us. I could see sweat beading on his brow. This one was no warrior—more a strategist caught without an army. Hasdrubal, by contrast, stepped forward to face me, raising his longsword in both hands. He was breathing hard from his run and the shock, but he showed no intent of surrender. "Demon!" he barked at me in accented Latin, voice echoing in the vaulted chamber. "You will not have us easily!"
I allowed myself a very small smile. Nothing about this had been easy for anyone. "Nor will resisting save you," I replied quietly. My words came out almost gentle, which seemed to enrage him. With a hoarse cry, Hasdrubal lunged.
He was fast and skilled—his blade came at me in a silver arc aimed for my neck. I met him head-on. Our swords clashed with a peal of iron that rang off the stone walls. He struck again, a savage flurry of blows. I parried and sidestepped, our movements kicking up dust from the floor. Sparks flew as our blades scraped and bound. He drove forward with surprising strength, pushing me back a step. For an instant, our eyes locked mere inches apart over crossed steel. I saw raw hate in his gaze… and behind it, the glimmer of mortal terror. He was fighting not just a Roman officer, but a legend that had haunted his nightmares. He fought like a man cornered by a monster, desperate to slay the thing he feared.
He was good—better than most I'd dueled in this war. But he was also frantic, wide-open to a feint. I gave one, dropping my left shoulder as if weakening. As expected, Hasdrubal seized on the moment and swung hard, seeking to capitalise. I twisted aside at the last breath; his longsword whooshed past my ear, grazing it. Before he could recover, I pivoted and drove my second blade (the one still slick from the guard's heart) straight into the gap under his raised arm. The gladius punched through mail and deep into his ribcage.
Hasdrubal Sarran gasped—a wet, terrible sound. He staggered, and his sword fell from his grip, clanging on the floor. I withdrew my blade from his side with a brutal yank. He collapsed to his knees, one hand flying to the gushing wound under his arm. Blood coursed through his fingers. He looked up at me, shock and agony etched on his face. His lips moved, struggling for words. Perhaps a prayer to Baal or a final curse upon me. Nothing but a red froth came out. I stepped past him; behind me I heard his body thud to the floor as he finally toppled. The "man who doesn't die" had claimed another life.