CHAPTER 194: CHAPTER 194: TIMASON’S AMBITION

It was nearly a forty-meter pass!

The ball arced high through the air, fast and floating. Supporters followed its flight with wide eyes, groaning—That’s going out of bounds. Another turnover...

But just then, a flash of blue streaked along the right sideline, cutting past the red team’s defense like lightning. He charged forward and leapt—soaring.

"My gods, look at that jump!" Gasps erupted from the stands. The player stretched his long arm, intercepting the ball mid-air. As it dropped, he clutched it tightly with both hands—just meters from the end zone.

"Stop him!" Red jerseys shouted frantically, their voices loud enough for the crowd to hear.

The nearest defender lunged. The blue player didn’t dodge—momentum carried him forward. He dove headlong, dragging the tackler with him as both crashed heavily into the end zone. The ball was still secure in his arms.

Touchdown!

The stadium erupted. Theos, like every supporter from Niutum, shot to his feet, fists pumping the air as he roared in excitement. He even drained half his beer in one gulp, the cold foam washing away his earlier irritation. He collapsed back into his seat, realizing his palms were slick with sweat.

This game—this rugby—was more nerve-wracking than any traditional contest he’d ever seen.

Beside him, Dicbolis chuckled knowingly. "So you’re rooting for Niutum?"

Caught off guard, Theos scratched his neck sheepishly. "Someone’s got to back the foreigners. Makes the match more exciting, doesn’t it?"

Dicbolis nodded in agreement.

On the field, referees rushed into the end zone. The scorer still hadn’t stood up.

"What happened?" Theos’s chest tightened again.

Doctors hurried over with a stretcher. The player refused to lie down, cradling his left arm while struggling to his feet.

"Looks like a dislocated shoulder," Dicbolis muttered.

As the injured man limped off, he waved his good hand apologetically to the crowd. The audience responded with thunderous applause and cheers—honoring his fearless play like a hero.

"Rugby truly is a warrior’s sport," Theos sighed.

A man sitting nearby burst out, unable to hold back his excitement: "Tonight, I’m calling on the citizens of Castellon to train in rugby! Next time, Castellon will show its own brilliance on the field!"

Meanwhile, while most eyes in the Dionian Alliance—and even among foreigners—were fixed on the rugby match, in a cramped house within Amendolara’s poor quarter, Timasón, Kleianor, and Torikos were gathered in secret council.

"My lords, I’ve spoken with all the brothers," reported Trolax, Timasón’s trusted lieutenant and a former officer among the mercenaries. "Around one thousand seven hundred men are willing to follow us."

"Only seventeen hundred..." Kleianor frowned. "Too few."

"It’s enough to take Krimisa," Timasón replied calmly, eyes sharp with resolve. "I’ve scouted it. After the last war, Krimisa has barely a thousand fighting citizens left. Defeating them won’t be the problem—the challenge is how to seize the city quickly."

"Then we prepare siege engines carefully, and keep the plan absolutely secret," Kleianor warned. "If Davos learns of it, not only will he stop us, but Krimisa will be alerted."

"I haven’t told anyone the truth," Trolax assured him. "I only followed your advice—told them we’re heading to Syracuse. That Dionysius will hire us to fight Carthage, and when the war’s won, we’ll become citizens of Syracuse."

"As for Xanthipolis and Tolmides," Kleianor sneered, "don’t bother. I’ve tested them—they’re too comfortable here. They’d rather haul cargo at the docks than take up arms again. Once warriors, now cowards."

"They’ll regret it once we hold Krimisa," Timasón said, his gaze burning with conviction.

"But what if Kroton marches against us?" Trolax asked nervously.

"That’s simple," Kleianor laughed bitterly. "The moment we seize Krimisa, we send word to Davos that Krimisa wants to join the Dionian Alliance. He won’t refuse. Even if he did, can he ignore the voices of Philesius, Agasias, Hieronymus—all his fellow veterans turned senators? Or the rank-and-file soldiers who once fought with us and are now citizens? Davos claims to be chosen by the people—he won’t dare oppose so many."

Timason’s voice rang firm: "Exactly. How did Davos and his men gain Amendolara and rise to power among Magna Graecia? The same way we’ll take Krimisa—with experience, with strategy, with their help if necessary. We’re no less than they are! Why should they sit high above while we sink into obscurity?"

For the first time in weeks, the usually quiet Timasón laid bare his heart. His face was alight with fighting spirit.

Days later, Davos received reports from Aristilas that Timasón and Kleianor’s men were stirring. But before Davos could summon them, Timasón himself came requesting an audience.

"You want to leave the Alliance?" Davos asked, startled.

"We’re going to Syracuse," Timasón said firmly. "To fight for Dionysius against Carthage. He’s promised citizenship and fertile land to all who serve him."

Davos fell silent. Through Aristilas, he knew much of Syracuse, and Dionysius’s promises to mercenaries were no secret.

Seeing him quiet, Timasón pressed on. "Davos, we’re grateful for all you and Agasias have done for us. But we’re too used to freedom. We can’t adapt to these strict laws, nor can we wait years to become citizens. Some of the men are restless. If we leave, it’s better for both of us."

Davos studied him, saw the unshakable resolve in his eyes, and finally nodded. "Very well. If you’re determined to go to Sicily—do you need my help?"

Timason didn’t hesitate. "We want our weapons back from your armory. And... could you guarantee a contract for ships to carry us to Syracuse? Maybe spare us some tents—for when we arrive before finding work. And, if possible... a gift of grain."

News of seventeen hundred mercenaries leaving the Alliance caused a stir in the Senate.

For Kuno Goras, Cornelius, and Protesilaus—senators who had suffered the mercenaries’ constant troubles—it was a relief, even a blessing.

For veterans-turned-senators like Philesius, Agasias, and Hieronymus, it was a bitter disappointment.

Davos outwardly expressed regret as well—but inside, he felt relief. Too many already whispered about his "Persian comrades." Any time Timasón’s men caused trouble, critics pointed fingers at Davos. Their departure spared him that burden.

On the day Timasón led his men away, many veterans gathered at the harbor to see them off.

Agasias clasped him in a tight embrace. "I’m sorry we couldn’t do more. You were my brother in arms."

Timason’s grip was fierce. "Of all the comrades, I’m most grateful to you—for your sincerity. By Zeus, we’ll repay your kindness!"

Kleianor, meanwhile, smirked at Xanthipolis and Tolmides. "One day, you’ll realize staying here was a mistake. Then you’ll come begging us."

The ships pushed off, sails filling as they carried the mercenaries away. Agasias watched them vanish over the horizon, heart heavy. "Davos... did I make a mistake, bringing them here in the first place?"

Davos laid a hand on his shoulder and pointed. "No. Look."

On the docks, Xanthipolis and Tolmides were already dispersing with their men, heading back to their daily labors.

"They’ve chosen differently. Not every mercenary craves endless war," Davos said quietly. "With your help, they chose the Alliance. That was no mistake."

His tone deepened. "We are no longer who we were in Persia. But Timasón and his men... they still are. Those willing to change, we welcome. Those unwilling—leaving is for the best."