A/N: As can be seen in what has already occurred to this point, this war is becoming brutal. Both sides have contributed to this and as has been seen, things are escalating. By my estimation, I believe we have several chapters to go in this Greek campaign. That is not, however, the end to this story and it will continue. As a repeated warning, I do not advocate for the type of total war seen within this story, but I am attempting to show Roman warfare as realistically as I can.

Caput XIX

***CCXV***

The former Tiberius Claudius Nero, now called Tiberius Claudius Caesar, turned upon his horse and cast his eye over the conflagration his horsemen left in their wake. It was the seventh day since his departure from Perseus' side. The column of cavalry's maneuvers to the north-east had removed them from the area of current conflict, but also not so far east as Jason's column now terrorizing lands of the eastern Locris. Tiberius' standing orders directed that he would meet with Percy's force outside Thebes, providing Percy's army had succeeded between the Oeneos and the Daphnus. The valley of the river Cephissus could not be seen behind the towering plumes of dark smoke. The summer's crop of wheat, barley, and vegetables fed the flames. Villagers and farmers fled for the cities, abandoning their livelihood and land which for generations their families tilled and cared for. Boeotia would starve this winter because of the actions coming out of Attica.

"The fires are set, sir." The final agricultural village in the valley added yet more smoke to the haze that nearly blocked out Apollo's chariot in the sky.

"Those that fought?" a contingent of farmers and Greek soldiers had earlier in the day ambushed the column. Twenty had been killed straight away. Ten were captured.

"Bound and left in the houses as we set light to them."

"So be it, we move south for Megaris. We burn everything that the Greeks could use."

***CCXVI***

"You fools!" hissed Zoë. Before her stood three of the usual suspects, with them were more. "Artemis pulls me away and in response you launch more attacks."

"They had killed…" began Myrinne. Zoë cut her off.

"They did not start this until you four started this! They fought battles, but they did not burn Greece to the ground. They were not crucifying captives. They did none of this until vengeance clouded your mind and you risked us all."

"Have you not sought vengeance for the wrongs done to you, Zoë Nightshade?" Helen of Carthage began, her voice too silky for real conversation and Zoë knew a velvet dagger would soon emerge. "Herakles convinces you to do so much with him, then leaves you behind because to him you were no more than a few days and nights companion for him, yet you fell for him. No wonder heroes incite such a negative reaction in you. Here we have a brother of Herakles, yet you claim to put your own pursuit of vengeance aside? Why not take advantage of an opportunity and claim revenge on the cursed gender?"

Zoë felt two diverging spikes of icy rage diverging within her. One directed itself at Helen. The other appeared despite many years of attempting to melt it with the affection felt for her fellow Huntresses. It appeared that had failed and her rage at men, Herakles, heroes, and the King of the Gods himself grew again. She forced her voice to remain level.

"Because unlike you, I am watching all of Greece suffer because of this war. The eastern shores in particular cry out to the gods for salvation, but you made an enemy of Jupiter's son, and none answer. You rage against an idea, against the very existence of a thing, against the being that is Rome. My anger is directed at those who abuse us, monsters in human form, only now that abuse is directly targeting our people. You turned this from a war of the legions against rebels to one of Rome seeking the destruction of Greece.

We serve to hunt monsters for Lady Artemis. Instead, you have created the monsters that hunt the innocent citizens of this land. They will not stop. More crosses. More massacres. More savagery. All because you decided not to attack a monster, but a nation. This is not a village hunting party assembled because we gelded a rapist. This is not a town guard sent to track us because we preformed justice. This is a nation, with tens of thousands of soldiers ready to not only fight us, but to eradicate us. They will hunt us as far as they need to, to ensure that we are not a threat. They will not stop, because they cannot stop. This is a hunt, make no mistake, but we have become the prey, not the predators."

***CCXVII***

"POSEIDON! Why are you cursing the Greeks!" shouted Pallas Athena, her voice causing the throne room to vibrate. The bearded god did not turn from a large table, the great storm in the Gulf of Corinth having supplied a plethora of Greek prayers and he again took that form. The table's top was carved into the entirety of the Mediterranean Sea. Real water formed the rivers and lakes and the seas themselves. The Sea God controlled his realm from the marble carved table. Even now he watched a storm strike the Pillars of Herakles while great waves threatened the islands of the Aegean, courtesy of his daughter Kymopoleia. Somewhere south of Sicilia, Triton brooded. It has been centuries since Zeus' jealousy had killed Athena's dearest friend, his daughter. The sea did not forgive easily.

"This is not your father's court, niece." He turned. "Nieces, I suppose. The fact remains, this is my realm. One does not enter it and insult its master lightly." It was not the first time that Poseidon's baritone pitch and level delivery induced more fear in the listener than his brother's preferred raging. They were in his realm, visitors of Atlantis only through his allowance. "Artemis Agrotera and Pallas Athena, why do you come here? Are not your acolytes under threat on the surface?"

"Only a child of Neptune could harm Greece as this Roman has." Poseidon's green eyes studied his nieces. He turned to the one that had spoken last.

"Does not a Son of Jupiter attempt to end the violence your girls started?" Anger flashed in her eyes, but the Goddess of the Hunt held her tongue. "And you," he looked to the gray eyed deity, "Your daughter of war seems only to have adopted Ares' form of it. Blood and death alone have accompanied her, for I have seen no strategic victory for Greece."

***CCXVIII***

The men of the newly named Legio XXI Rapax led the column. The Predators, Perseus' Predators if you asked any legionary, now numbered just thirty-five hundred- and sixty-one-men effective fighting men. They had borne the brunt of both Percy's brutal pace of attack as well as the fighting itself. Lepidus' arrival with the recovered wounded from Dodona had helped fill out the ranks, but the losses were not insignificant. Legio X's strength was also below thirty-six hundred and the Second's manning below four thousand. The Roman cavalry, with Lepidus' arrival, had been divided amongst the legions. That barely gave them a third of their original strength. Amongst the auxilia, the losses were lighter. The Gauls' only real test had been a massed charge that routed the enemy rear guard. They, with the Germanic horse, overwhelmed the fifteen hundred Greeks protecting the enemy's retreat. Percy did not believe all those fighters to be dead, but what he did believe is the survivors had slunk into the hills and would never be seen again.

Another seventeen hundred- and forty-six Roman, no my, soldiers died between the Daphnus and the Oeneos. The Son of Poseidon expected nearly all his men were wounded in one way or another. The number of those that would never recover from their wounds was still being counted. And that will only reduce my force more. But now is the time to push.

Nearly three thousand Greek bodies littered the banks of the Hylaethus, another four thousand shared their place of death with most of his men, and, contrary to their reports, just eight hundred bodies had been discovered at the place of the rear guard's demise. Seven thousand, six hundred and forty-two Greek dead, he thought. If not for the bastards of a broken cohort and their cavalry, the numbers would be reversed and I scurrying for home. Instead, near defeat had turned into a rout, the legions losing discipline and unleashing death upon the Greeks scrambling for their avenue of escape. The men could not have been controlled, not that Percy had felt any compulsion to the victory, Percy felt pain at the losses of men. Gods help me if I have to feel a loss, if victory hurts like this. There was little time to mourn for the dead. He most definitely did not mourn the loss of Messalla. His death would be reported as a courageous attack on the enemy, not as a murder which had probably saved lives. Already the army moved south. Their speed of advance suffered due to the high numbers of casualties, but Percy knew that any movement would only enhance the other prongs of his advance.

A trident formed by three Roman forces stabbed Attica. Along the eastern shore, Jason's Thirteenth destroyed everything they could find. A few bands of rebels nipped at his command annoyingly, but without the numbers to induce heavy losses. The violence escalated with nearly every missive, but as Percy's eyes fell upon a line of crosses, that was not just their problem. Equally it was not something Percy felt any obligation to curb or stop. This was war, he would do what he must.

The center prong fell under young Tiberius, now reinforced with the Gallic cavalry. With his Iberians and Gauls, Tiberius plunged deeply into the Attic hinterlands far ahead of either flanking prong or even the Greek main body. They burned what they could not eat or use. Any village opposed them or Greek patrol that ran across them were swiftly dealt with, and as the Greek army retreated south, they were forced to march along roadways flanked by the crosses of their countrymen and friends. For many of them, despite the battles and lifetime of Roman rule, this was their first encounter with the reality that "Rome has come."

The western prong, under Perseus, kept close to the Gulf of Corinth. They would slice through the Megaris before descending upon Athens from the north, for there was little doubt at this point the Greeks fled for the city of Athena. The western prong was the most weighted. Despite their losses, three legions, over twelve hundred archers, Roman and Germanic cavalry, along with their train of slavers, blacksmiths, and other assorted followers on moved steadily southward. Roman cavalry scouted ahead while Germans flanked the landward side of the formation. The Greek army marched just twenty miles ahead of them. I can't catch them, but I can make them fucking suffer. His bastards were Romans, more than capable of marching all day, setting up their camp, and waking to do it again.

"Let's see how good your bastards are," he muttered to himself, while directing the comment to the Greek commander not even seven leagues ahead of him.

***CCXIX***

"Prepare yourself, boy," Marcellus looked to his future father-in-law and uncle. "Soon we leave for Hispania. The Cantabris and Asturis are rising up. I hoped Tiberius would join us, but he has found himself in quite the war in Greece it appears."

"Should we not go there then? A war against Greece, our natural enemy for years." The eagerness of battlefield glory seemed to grow in Marcellus' voice with each word. Augustus laughed slightly.

"You will find going to war with me a much more enjoyable endeavor than going to war with Perseus. The man came from the ranks and lives like it."

"What is he like? The rumors say he beds another man's wife and is the true father of her children. They say that…" his uncle cut him off.

"They will say many things. The augurs will call him bloody, that he cares not for his soldiers and watches them die. What woman he takes to bed is his own matter, for whatever he lacks in morality there he makes up for in loyalty and honor. He possesses gods' given abilities to make war. War brought him out of a lacking life and gave him purpose and recognition. He may be born of the sea, but Bellona herself would consider him a deserving heir." Marcellus recognized the truths between the words. The adopted of Bassus was rumored to be a child of the Sea God, likewise his battlefield record was pristine. Whether or not he routinely fucked the wife of Octavian Varus appeared to be of little consequence for his uncle.

"Is he to be Agrippa's replacement?"

"That is not a matter to be discussed at this time. Go prepare, we leave for Segisama in Hispania soon enough."

***CCXX***

Malcolm stared at the dispatch in his hand. "Fuck," he muttered and looked at Chiron across the table from him. "That damned Roman did it again. Maneuvered his forces in a way that Annabeth was forced to withdraw or be wiped out. She marches with the survivors for Athens."

"It would seem to me that a commander like this would follow her to the gates of Hades to assure himself victory."

"I would agree. We must find a way to get the women and children out of Athens, particularly those of our kind. I am not confident that even with the ten thousand garrisoned here or the two thousand at other cities it will be enough."

"I must make my way to the Acropolis; it was once riddled with such passages for very population of which you speak." Chiron began to leave before turning back to the Son of Athena, "I will ensure your daughter is among those that I take into that passage."

"Thank you, Chiron." After all the years, the old centaur could still read his intentions. He was one of the leaders of Athens, his place was with his city. Even in its death, should it come to that.

***CCXXI***

Twelve fucking years, Jason thought. He brought a cup of wine to his lips and drank heavily. Twelve years fighting beside, well more accurately for, Percy. First, the navy off Sicilia, campaigning in Illyria, Actium. A brief hiatus occurred while Percy chased Antonius to Egypt, before the campaigns in Gaul with the Sixteenth, and now Achaea. He knew Percy had been fighting for at least four more than that, following Antonius at Philippi and into the east before impressing Bassus so much that he brought him to Rome with him with the intention of adopting him the rumors stated. His murder had delayed that, but Augustus had seen it through eventually. After the war with the Parthians and Pompeiians, jaunts north to Gaul and Germania under Agrippa where he again distinguished himself. And despite all that he still found time to father children with another man's wife.

Damn him, Jason could not truly wish ill upon the man that had given him command of his own legion, but there were parts of his life which Jason truly envied. Percy's position came from martial prowess, not a name or family. Military success purchased Percy's place amongst the leaders of Rome, not the mere existence of Jupiter and the fact that Lucius Cornelius Balbus had a wife that enticed the great god. Jason would be eternally grateful to Balbus, despite being Jupiter's bastard the man had truly treated Jason as his son. It was not Balbus' fault either that the Cornelius name carried a heavy weight in denarii. But his name coupled with both his fathers had opened doors for Jason that Percy had kicked open in his rise. Percy, without a name, was not bound to the politicalization of marriage, nor did it seem to its sanctity. Despite being Poseidon's son, Percy never used it to amass position or authority. He preferred to earn it.

Thoughts of marriage returned Jason's mind to Claudia Marcella Minor. She was half his age, another victim of political unions. She waited for his return in Rome. A house, gifted by Caesar though paid for with Balbus' money, was already theirs. Missives from Rome revealed that Claudia had established herself as domina already and, using Jason's war spoils, had an excellent home awaiting him.

"Sir, report from the scouts." Jason recognized the voice as that of Marcus Junius Silanus, his tribunus iaticlavius.

"Enter," Jason snapped. His voice was calmer when he spoke next. "Gallo, get the tribune a cup wine." The slave moved quickly and soon the son of the man recently elected to serve as the next year's consul with Augustus held a cup. "Sit, Marcus." The man did so and began his report.

"Praefectus, the silver clad bitches, apologies, the girls we have been fighting for the last weeks have vanished. The scouts cannot find any evidence of them near us, and our assumption is they have fallen back to prepare ambushes in Attica." Seven of them had been crucified at Jason's command. Though they appeared to be in their teens at the oldest, the silver clad bitches were vicious. They could, however, thank Claudia Marcella Minor for their crucifixion. Had Jason not associated their youth with that of his to-be wife, he might have instead followed the requests of his men and turned them over to the soldiers whose friends they killed. The fate that awaited them there would have been worse, passed contubernium to contubernium until they died of induced natural causes or were killed by a legionary. Jason could watch them die on a cross, but he could not watch that happen.

"That would track," Jason answered. "Between Tiberius in the center and Percy, uh, the Praefectus Achaea on the western side of Greece, their ability to withdraw is becoming threatened." The man nodded, he was not a professional soldier as Jason and Percy had become, he was merely serving his time in pursuit of the cursus honorum, the ladder of officers for all men of the senatorial class.

"Do you know the Praefectus Achaea well, sir?"

"As well as anyone, I suppose."

"Some of the other, um, senatorial officers expressed hesitancy to follow a Greek into Greece."

"Tell them if anyone questions his loyalty or his capability to lead this campaign, they can expect a challenge to single combat with me. Should they survive that, I am quite certain the prefect will be equally dismayed in his honor being questioned."

***CCXXII***

A ragged looking group of Hunters entered the Greek camp. They followed their lieutenant to the grove of trees where Annabeth had established her command post. Two years earlier, at their first interaction, Zoë had reported her numbers at seventy-four. Annabeth looked over the ensemble of young women. They numbered far less than seventy-four. Annabeth met the eastern looking woman outside of her tent with a cup of wine.

"For the gods," they muttered together and tipped some of their beverage to the ground.

"I do not think they have been overly pleased with our sacrifices thus far," Annabeth remarked, her gray eyes resting on the dark patch in the dirt where the wine had spilt.

"I am inclined to agree." Annabeth looked at the circlet-wearing Huntress. While it was clear she had not grown older, she had aged.

"I noticed your numbers were low." Zoë drained the wine.

"Five between our meeting and the start of this war, monsters and natural beasts. Since this began, some of my Hunters became over-enthusiastic at the prospects of revenge for past wrongs. They began the escalations which now threaten to burn the entire east of Greece to the ground. Since then, another thirty-four." Zoë ceased talking for a moment to prevent herself from crying. "Just thirty-five remain. But we will remain, as we are partially to blame for the brutality here. Your army though, it appears…" she could not come up with the correct words.

"Shattered," Annabeth responded. "This Roman bastard fights unlike a Roman. Both with sword and as a commander. Twice he has beaten me, high losses. We should gain another two thousand men from garrisons on our way to Athens, my brother has ten thousand men there."

"The survivors from Pelion on are there."

"Was it as bad as they said?"

"The Son of Jupiter burned it all but the stone."

"Bastard. But he is a Son of Jupiter?"

"There is no doubt."

"If they put a Son of Jupiter in charge of just a single legion, who is this fucking bastard here?"

"His use of the cavalry to attack Greek farms and supplies reminds me of a tactic in the east," Annabeth nodded.

"Yes, Bassus used it against the Parthians."

"They say he has a son, adopted." Clarisse walked up to them.

"We have a report from our rear scouts, the Romans are heavy on our heels."

"Does this son of a bitch ever quit."

"The Hunters will fight any man necessary to protect Greece." Clarisse looked at her. Anger showed in Ares' daughter's eyes. Her husband was dead and the woman who had never once lost a fight had now done so twice.

"You have never fought someone like him." Annabeth could sense the animosity growing. "It seems his men have begun to call him the blessed of the storm bringer, that he prayed for our ships destruction and the gods answered."

The newly arrived Hunter lieutenant answered with a question, her look wary. "What does he look like?"

"Tall and broad," began Clarisse and Zoe's fear began to be confirmed. "Darkest of hair and I would assume a darker soul. And finally, the most piercing of..." Zoe cut her off.

"Green eyes." Zoe swore. She looked at Annabeth, "You know him too, he commanded Bassus' cavalry. I met him once, there, years ago on the coast of Syria. He was younger, of course, but even then, he was strong. He is not blessed by the stormbringer. He is his son."

***CCXXIII***

To pass from Boeotia to Attica, one had to pass under the shadow of Pasta. Just forty-six hundred feet in height, the peak served as the border for the two ancient regions. From Eleutherae, the five hundred men had, until recently, served as a garrison force at the ancient fortification. Three other garrisons, all a lochoi in strength, marched directly for Athens or waited further south.

As they marched, they saw a collection of horses beneath them. Quickly they determined them to be Roman and the five hundred men spread out. The horsemen had chosen to rest along a stream, allowing their mounts to feed and drink. In their expectation that the gully would hide them, they had destroyed their own line of sight. The nearly one hundred auxiliaries, three turmae, did not see their approach.

The first sign of an approaching enemy was the pricking of equine ears. However, having spent most of the last three weeks as hunters, not hunted, the Iberians did not notice the warning. Next came the whistle of arrows, as the score and a half of Cretan marksmen put arrows to string and released their shafts. The arrows were aimed at the sentries and at the few true Romans, the officers. Eighty percent of the weapons found their mark and twenty-four cavalrymen died before the Romans knew they were under attack.

The Greek infantry surged forward. They left their spears in the shrubbery that had masked their approach. The Roman cavalry was not mounted, and the coming fight would be close in. The Iberians carried a variety of weapons and gladius, spatha, and javelin all found lodgment in Greek bodies. Despite the Iberians' ferocity, soon they found themselves overwhelmed and the tyranny of numbers outweighed their spirit.

The Greek victors roamed the carnage, thrusting with their xiphos and kopis anytime a Roman cavalryman moved. In just twelve minutes, nearly one hundred Roman invaders were dead. The Greeks congratulated each other and debated how best to display the spoils of their victory along the road so that the Greek army could see that garrison troops knew how to fight as well.

Their first sign of another force nearing them was the thunder of hooves.

***CCXXIV***

Tiberius had watched the ambush of his men, the advance guard for the column of Iberian and Gallic cavalry he commanded. It was the Iberian commander, stone-faced as his men died beneath them, that encouraged patience. "They will attempt to celebrate their victory and they will be vulnerable." The man had been right.

Over three thousand cavalrymen formed along the road. The Iberians formed behind Tiberius, his stepfather may be Augustus, but he had witnessed how the soldiers reacted to Perseus' personal command. The Gauls took the Greek distraction as opportunity and moved under the military crest of a ridge to a position opposite the Iberians. Perseus' instruction in Salona had educated Tiberius on the use of the military crest. There the demigod demonstrated how by avoiding the actual crest of an elevated area and placing soldiers instead just below the peak one could occupy the high ground without the enemy's knowledge. His orders, he remembered with pride, maneuvered the Gauls in that manner to their position above the Greeks. He looked to the Praefectus Equitatus to his right and nodded. Tiberius drew the sword given to him by his stepfather and thrust it forward. He heeled his horse and nearly eight thousand hooves thundered on his tail.

It shocked Tiberius that only forty-five seconds passed before his eyes locked onto a Greek archer attempting to put arrow to string. His vision suffered restriction from the cheek guards of the Attic style helmet, but his arm moved forward in an arc before descending and moving forward. A great gout of blood shot into the air, covering the right side of his body and the flank of his white horse. His sword arm's power, combined with the momentum of the stallions forward movement, resulted in Tiberius barely feeling as the blade cut through flesh and bone. He continued forward, his eyes unable to track the headless corpse fall to the ground or see the skull flatten under the hoof of an Iberian mount.

A group of four Greeks caused the stallion to balk. It reared on its hind legs and lashed out with hooves, opening a man's face. Tiberius struck with his sword again, this time hewing a thrusting arm and sword from their owner. He thrust to his right and with satisfaction watched as another spurt of blood painted the left flank of his horse as a Greek's carotid artery opened wide. The horse spun and Tiberius took in the small battlespace. He estimated that a third of the Greeks lay dead already, a third of them attempted to hold off the more numerous Iberians, the final third ran. That third, led by a commander who recognized that the tyranny of numbers had reversed fortune, suffered annihilation.

Roughly one hundred and seventy Greeks soldiers raced down the road, hoping to distance themselves from the carnage behind them. Upon these men fell the iron of Gallic horsemen. Twelve hundred strong, the Gauls killed most of the retreating men in their first charge. In the stream-side gully, one hundred and twenty-five Greeks had thrown down their arms. The leader of the Gallic cavalry offered no such mercy. The auxiliary cavalry rode down all survivors of the first wave. All the retreating Greeks were put to the sword. That commander reached the gully as Tiberius issued orders.

"Find timber. The Greek army must retreat along this road. We will leave them a message." He looked to the one hundred and twenty-five prisoners; the wounded had already been dispatched. "Crucify them all."

***CCXXV***

Their ears filled with the sound for some time before they identified it. Eventually, it became apparent the noise belonged to a human, though as they recognized it, it became muddled with what appeared to be the cries of birds. They closed within a quarter mile, their vision still blocked by hills, when the cacophony of sounds became distinguishable.

Men's cries of pain now stood out against the calls of carrion fowl.

Clarisse and two of Zoë's most trusted Hunters, girls named Phoebe and Kassandra, looked at one another. They signaled for their following soldiers to halt and encouraged their horses into a gallop. They rounded the hill shading their view and pulled up suddenly.

"Gods," muttered Kassandra. There was no better reaction.

Across the road, in macabre mockery of defensive walls, bodies were stacked to a height of nearly six feet. They blocked the road and would only have been emplaced to force the Greeks that they knew would follow to move their dead kin. Carrion gorged themselves on the supply of recently deceased flesh. The cries of pain instead came from the over one hundred crosses lining the sides of the road. Every fifty yards, a dead or dying man looked upon the road in agony. They disappeared beyond the next hill, though the three women doubted that the spectacle ended.

"How long have they been here?" Phoebe asked, unsure she truly wanted an answer. Movement from the wall of bodies startled the trio and weapons appeared before a Greek covered in grime and blood appeared crawling from behind it. It looked like his left leg had been broken in multiple places. The man's right arm ended above the elbow. The bandage showed it was a recent injury. The binding was filthy and the arm above it red and swollen as yellow pus oozed from it. Other wounds covered his body, and it was clear to the three women that he would not live long.

"They…ambushed…" he coughed and spat out blood. "They ambushed us…yesterday… We were the garri…garrison from Eleutherae."

"What happened?" Clarisse asked as she dismounted and attempted to reach the man.

"Roman cut off my arm as another hamstrung my horse. It fell on me. Please, I've been hearing them… suffer and am… in pain… just… end it…please." Clarisse did not know how to respond. But the Huntress Phoebe needed little encouragement to kill a man. She dropped from her horse and drew a knife.

"First time I have done this in mercy," she muttered and opened the man's throat. Mere seconds later a look similar to relief remained on his face even as he died.