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The centurion and Pilus Prior, Agrippa Lealius Mellitus, sat about the cook-fire, and presented his hands to the dancing flames to soak the heat. His breath billowed in a thick, wispy cloud that lingered for some time in the still evening air. The trees around him stood like frozen sentinels, seemingly made all the more static by the biting chill. There was a quiet within the forest that belied the existence of the thousands of men within its confines that had made it their temporary home, and Lealius had little distraction to keep him from the bastion of his own thoughts.

Alone in his sphere of contemplation, Lealius did not hear the approaching footsteps that sounded with the crunch of fallen leaves from behind him. When the Legio Legatus himself emerged from over the centurion’s right shoulder, Lealius started, and jumped to stand.

“Sir!” Lealius said. “I did not hear you there. Forgive my inattentiveness. The shadow of the Carthaginian’s presence has drawn heavily upon my attentions.”

Pomponius, warded against the cold with a thick cloak of furs, reached out a muscled arm to clap upon the centurion’s shoulder. “Be at ease, my dear Lealius. It does me well to know that I still possess enough finesse of movement to surprise a soldier of your caliber.” The legate smiled, and bade his companion to resume his seat. When Lealius did, Pomponius joined him.

“Hannibal’s machinations also command my thoughts.” Pomponius said with a hollow sigh. “This son of Carthage is no minor foe, and he possesses a force that makes his cunning all the more lethal.”

Lealius appraised his commander with a clenched jaw and a furrowed brow. “Sir, if I may be so bold, in regard to Legate Cossus Argentus…?”

Pomponius looked to the centurion in silence, with only the curious expression on his face calling for Lealius to continue.

“The men, they trust in your judgment implicitly, and they respect your election of Argentus. Yet, there are grumbles among the Ironclad that he is ill-suited to the task of leading the combined legions against Hannibal.” Lealius said, his gaze respectful yet confident.

Pomponius nodded sagely, the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes deepening as he thought upon his response. “Argentus is a capable man,” the legate said at last. “He has led as best as could be expected, given the circumstances. Hannibal has us at disadvantage, of that there is no doubt. It is only a matter of time before he crosses the Rhone, and we will be impotent to stop him. Rome and her legions are drawn too thin.”

“What of the Senate? Surely they will recognize the futility we yet pose to Hannibal’s threat?” Lealius said. “The consuls must assign more legions to our cause. Certainly they must. What of the legions deployed to the east? The Illyrian King Demetrius is but a gnat at Rome’s face, when Hannibal looms as a lion to her belly.”

For a time, Pomponius said nothing in reply. He let his gaze instead loom into the fire and regard the dancing tongues with a detached air. Lealius could almost see the commander of the Legio Sexta Ferrata’s mind churning, and he himself fell silent, not wanting to disturb the thoughts of his friend.

Following the Legio Sexta Ferrata’s arrival near Massalia, the four legions tasked with deterring Hannibal’s advance quickly came together to organize the effort. Marcus Cornelius Cossus Argentus, the legate of the Legio VII, was elected to command the Roman force, and soon had the legions deploy upon the eastern side of the Rhone in an effort to deter Hannibal from crossing the river near its southern reaches.

Following weeks of mirroring Hannibal’s movements, and constraining the Carthaginian ever northward, the two opposing armies were forced to separate as the terrain worsened due to the inland travel towards the heart of the Alps. Confident that Hannibal would find it near impossible to locate a crossing so far north among the mountains, the VI Legion, along with the rest of the Roman contingent, halted their advance.

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