Mediterranean Hegemon of Ancient Greece Chapter 907: The Battle of Gela (4)

Once the two cohorts arrived, Astemis presented his predetermined battle plan. After discussing and refining it with the two cohort commanders, they immediately put it into action.

The light armored cohort charged at the very front, followed at a set distance by the light infantry cohort. The cavalry remained in position, waiting for the two cohorts to pin the enemy down before circling around to attack their rear flank.

The soldiers of the Eighth Legion's light armored cohort angled their leather shields above their heads to ward off incoming stones. Spread across a broad front, they charged rapidly toward the enemy.

Composed mostly of Sicels who had already become Daionian Citizens, the light armored cohort advanced at blinding speed. The Balearic Slingers only managed to hurl two volleys of large lead bullets before the cohort closed the distance, suffering minor casualties.

Most of the Lusitanian javelin throwers missed the chance to loose their weapons. Because the heavy, barbed javelins were difficult to manufacture, each man carried only three. Having exhausted most of their supply during the earlier light infantry skirmish, they held onto their single remaining javelin to use as a melee weapon for the looming clash.

While the Lusitanian javelin throwers held back, the Celtic Warriors could no longer contain themselves. Roaring in fury, gripping wooden shields in their left hands and raising greatswords high with their right, they swarmed forward.

The Daionian light armored soldiers couldn't help but feel a surge of dread at the sight of the disheveled, bare-chested hulks charging toward them. The warriors ran as fast as horses, bellowed like thunder, and brandished gleaming greatswords. According to their standard training tactics, the light armored troops were supposed to seize the initiative, close in, and unleash the lethal close-quarters power of their short swords. Intimidated by the sheer ferocity of their foes, however, many hesitated and dared not close the gap.

In that fleeting moment of hesitation, the Celtic Warriors were upon them. With a howling rush of wind, their greatswords cleaved downward.

The light armored soldiers raised their leather shields to block.

Some of the Celtic Warriors' greatswords bit directly through the leather shields, narrowly missing the soldiers' arms.

The terror surging through the light armored troops was immense. Involuntarily, they scrambled backward.

Relying on their height and long strides, the Celtic Warriors stuck to them relentlessly. They chased them down, hacking continuously with their greatswords until they shattered several leather shields. Many light armored soldiers were slashed. The terrifying power of the greatswords left gruesome wounds, and the injured lay wailing on the ground, further dragging down morale. Were it not for the strictness of the Theonian Military Law, some soldiers would have likely broken and fled.

The commander of the light armored cohort paced anxiously. He internally cursed the scouting cavalry for their blunder:

The purpose of the Daionian light armored troops had never been to fight in tight formations. Instead, they relied on their nimble footwork to strike at enemy weak points and chase down stragglers. Speed was a primary focus of their military drills, making armed long-distance running one of their most common routines.

The moment the officers relayed the orders, the light armored soldiers—who had barely been holding on under the Celtic Warriors' assault—instantly turned and ran.

To their surprise, although the Celts were massively built and carried heavier weapons and shields, their running speed was not the least bit inferior. Even at a full sprint, the light armored soldiers could not widen the gap.

The astounded light armored soldiers naturally had no way of knowing that these Celtic Warriors lived in the northern mountains of Iberia. Sustaining themselves primarily through hunting and pillaging, their long history of chasing prey across rugged peaks had given them exceptional leg strength and stamina.

However, the belligerent and quick-tempered Celtic Warriors clearly lacked any sense of the larger tactical picture. The majority of them were in such a rush to chase down the Daionian light armored troops that they completely forgot their original mission.

The Balearic Slingers lost their protection just as the Eighth Legion's light infantry cohort closed in. The duel between the slingers and the light infantry began anew, though this time at a much shorter range. Seeing that the Balearic Slingers carried nothing but daggers, some Daionian javelin throwers simply gripped their javelins like spears and braved the rain of stones to charge straight into close-quarters combat.

Fortunately, nearly three hundred Lusitanian javelin throwers were still mixed within the ranks of the Balearic Slingers. They rushed out just in time. Both sides used their javelins as improvised spears, but the Lusitanians were distinctly superior. Relying on their height and physical strength, they quickly gained the upper hand in the melee.

For the Balearic Slingers, their advantage was not limited to long-range saturation fire; pinpoint accuracy at close range was their true specialty. Amidst the chaotic melee, they scattered and sought out individual targets. Hurling large lead bullets at Daionian archers and javelin throwers from only thirty to forty meters away, their lethality multiplied.

Watching from afar as his light armored troops were chased off by foreign warriors, his light infantry lost ground, and his soldiers continuously dropped dead, Astemis, Commander of the 4th Cavalry Legion, grew extremely anxious. He immediately spurred his cavalry forward, intending to exploit the Balearic Slingers' distraction while their attention was drawn to the light infantry cohort, flank around to their rear, and utterly crush them.

...

"Carthage kept a reserve of several hundred foreign warriors behind their battle lines to protect their Balearic Slingers. Our light armored cohort was actually driven back!..." When Adjutant Muklu heard this news from the scouting cavalry, he felt a spike of fear. He hurriedly turned to Leotychides. "Lord Commander, the Carthaginians have actually learned to use reserves! The Camarinans are clearly struggling to hold the line right now. What should we do?!"

As if he hadn't heard a word, Leotychides sat upon his horse like a statue. However, his gaze remained fiercely locked on his front right: that was where the Eighth Legion, upon which he had placed his highest hopes, was deployed. Yet, the surging black tide had crashed against a reef, slowing their forward advance to a crawl. This was likely due to the heavy casualties the Eighth Legion had suffered in the battle of Minoa, which had forced them to replenish their ranks with numerous reserve recruits, thus degrading their overall combat effectiveness. Naturally, this also proved that the mixed Phoenicia-Numidia infantry facing them was no weak army... It was all because the Carthaginian army had performed so poorly at Minoa, leading him to subconsciously misjudge their combat capabilities this time around...

At such a critical juncture, Leotychides found his mind involuntarily searching for the reasons behind his error in judgment. Ever since he had come of age and begun fighting in battles—including those in Sparta—he had never experienced a single defeat. Because of this, it was inevitable that he would lose a bit of his composure.

Gripping the reins tightly with both hands, he abruptly turned back and shouted, "Bring me a long shield and a spear!"

The guard behind him immediately handed over his own.

He reached out to accept them, leaped off his horse, and swung the weapons forcefully a few times to test their weight. Raising the spear, he bellowed, "Soldiers, follow me to slay the enemy!"

According to the stipulations of the Theonian Military Law, a Legion Commander was entitled to a personal guard of fifty men, whereas a regional commander received a guard of one hundred.

As a commander, Leotychides technically should have had a hundred-man guard. However, because he only had a single legion under his direct command, he had chosen not to expand his detail in order to commit as many soldiers as possible to the frontline fighting. These fifty guardsmen immediately answered his call.

Carrying his shield and spear, he took the lead and broke into a heavy sprint. With every step, his body's familiarity with the weapons increased. He wasn't just a commanding general; he was also an elite warrior. He was the only member of the royal family of the King of Sparta to have undergone the brutal Agoge training since childhood, and he was the very same man who had once stunned the senior Daionian officers with his outstanding combat skills in the recruit boot camp!

Just as his blood began to boil with fervor, a warhorse lunged out diagonally, blocking his path. Atop the horse, Muklu shouted loudly, "Lord Prosous, you are the commander! Please remain at your post to direct the army. Do not abandon it without authorization!"

Leotychides glared at him coldly. "I have already lost the ability to direct the whole army. The only thing left to do is join the fray and add another sliver of hope to our victory! Do not waste my time! Move aside!"

"Lord Prosous!" Muklu didn't budge an inch, his tone resolute. "It is written clearly on the very first page of the Theonian Military Law: 'A leader of armies must not grow arrogant in victory, nor become disheartened in defeat. Do not let anger cloud your reason, and do not let sorrow weaken your will to fight... Cast aside all external disturbances like a deity, and calmly analyze the tides of battle. These are the essential qualities required of a great general!'

"Lord Prosous, you are the kingdom's commander in Sicily! Your duty is to protect the safety of the entire Sicily Territory. You should not fixate so deeply on the loss of one or two battles! If you abandon your post and the battle truly ends in failure, who will command our soldiers in a safe retreat?! Who will minimize our casualties?! If the Eighth Legion suffers catastrophic losses, will we still have the strength left to defend Sicily?!..."

Muklu's words rang like a twilight drum and a morning bell, freezing Leotychides right where he stood. A flurry of changing expressions flickered across his face...

After a long moment, he wordlessly returned the shield and spear to his guard. Then, he vaulted back onto his horse and flicked the reins.

Under his firm control, the warhorse began to trot toward the front right.

"My lord, what are you doing—" Shock gripped Muklu's heart, thinking his counsel had fallen on deaf ears.

"I am heading to the right wing to oversee the battle lines. Until the final moment arrives, it's still uncertain who will emerge victorious." After speaking with a frosty expression, Leotychides spurred his horse into a northern gallop.

Muklu felt a wave of relief wash over him and immediately spurred his own horse to catch up.