The Mistake

The grand hall of Tiberius Cassius’s villa gleams in the flickering glow of the candles, their light casting warm hues on the cold stone walls. Around an expansive marble table, Rome’s commanders and strategists stand absorbed in the detailed map before them. Bold strokes of ink mark roads, rivers, forests, and enemy positions.

Syrus lingers at the edge of this gathering, his lean frame half-hidden by towering columns. Although his dark eyes study the map intently, his presence is an unspoken anomaly among these hardened soldiers and seasoned tacticians. Tiberius Cassius insisted Syrus attend, calling it an opportunity to observe and learn. Yet Syrus suspects it is more than that, a test.

At the head of the table stands Decimus, his grizzled features set in a smug grin as he gestures broadly at the map. His rough voice carries over the murmurs in the hall. “The plan is clear,” he declares, his hand hovering over a choke point on the main road. “We take the central pass here, strike fast, and force the enemy into retreat. Their reinforcements cut off, and we’ll claim the high ground.”

Several commanders murmur their agreement, though a few cast uneasy glances at the dense forest around the pass. Syrus’s brow furrows as he steps closer, noticing something off in the arrangement of forces. That main road is obvious, but it also seems dangerously exposed.

Sensing the shift in mood, Decimus puffs out his chest. “My son, Porcius, would already be leading the charge if he were here. A loyal soldier, disciplined, sharp, and loyal to Rome. Unlike some who insist on harbouring cursed strays, sullying the dignity of our legions.”

A ripple of laughter follows, and Syrus tenses. Decimus’s barb lands, belittling the teen. Tiberius’s face remains composed, though his eyes harden briefly before he speaks.

“Porcius is indeed a fine soldier, but we are here to discuss the battle at hand.”

Syrus exhales and steps forward. “Dominus,” he says, voice steady. “May I speak?”

The room stills, all eyes turning his way. Decimus sneers, folding his arms over his chest. “A boy dares to interrupt the council?” he scoffs. “This is no place for a child’s musings.”

Tiberius raises a hand, silencing the older man. “Speak, Syrus.”

Syrus moves closer to the table, gaze locked on the map. “The central pass is the most direct route,” he begins, tone calm. “But it’s also the most predictable. The enemy will anticipate our movement. They could set ambushes along the road or use the high ground to rain arrows on our forces. A frontal attack risks heavy losses.”

Decimus bristles, but Tiberius gestures for Syrus to continue.

“We must divide our forces,” Syrus explains, pointing to two alternate routes on the map. “Send a smaller contingent through the central pass, enough to draw the enemy’s attention. But the primary force should split into two flanks. One moves north through the forest here,” he taps a dense woodland, “while the other advances south along the riverbank. The northern group can climb this ridge,” he indicates a raised section, “and watch enemy movements. To block their retreat, the southern group secures the river crossing.”

With: The map under scrutiny, the commanders lean in, their scepticism giving way to interest.

“But how will we coordinate three forces without confusion?” a captain asks.

Syrus nods, having expected this. “Signal fires,” he answers. “The northern group uses smoke to show the enemy’s position and readiness. The central force holds until they see the signal. Once the enemy commits to the front, the northern and southern forces strike from the flanks, boxing them in on three sides.”

Low murmurs of approval spread through the hall, though Decimus’s expression darkens. “And if one group fails to arrive in time?” he demands.

“We plan for that, too,” Syrus says. “The central force must be ready for a prolonged fight. The southern group’s control of the river lets them reinforce the centre quickly if needed, while the northern vantage point lets them adapt based on what they see. Each force has a role, but none depends entirely on the others.”

Tiberius’s lips quirk into the hint of a smile. “A layered strategy,” he says thoughtfully. “One that prizes both flexibility and precision. Well, done, Syrus.”

Decimus scowls, fists clenched. “Dominus, this is unorthodox, ”

“It is sound,” Tiberius cuts in. “And it will be carried out. You have your orders.”

Syrus exhales quietly, relief mixing with a faint warmth of accomplishment. He senses Decimus’s resentment and the grudging respect of others. Not everyone welcomes his ideas, but Tiberius’s support is enough.

When the council disperses, Decimus lingers, muttering about the insolence of a “cursed boy” challenging veteran. Tiberius ignores him, turning to Syrus instead. Resting a firm hand on the youth’s shoulder. “You have done well, Syrus. Remember, a sharp mind can cut through arrogance as cleanly as any blade.”

Syrus nods, keeping his voice humble. “Thank you, Dominus.”

Soon, the hall empties. The candlelight glow softly in the hush, and Syrus lingers by the map, replaying the tense moments of the council in his head.

“You’re still here?” comes Annabeth’s voice.

He looks up to see her in the doorway, curls bathed in the golden light. She steps closer, sandals making barely a sound on the stone floor. “I thought you’d be celebrating your victory,” she teases.

“It was no victory,” Syrus shrugs. “I only offered a suggestion.”

She lifts a brow, dark eyes bright. “A suggestion that even my father approved of. That’s no small feat.”

His cheeks grow warm, and he pretends to examine the map. “I only did what anyone would have done.”

Annabeth laughs softly, coming to stand beside him. “Not anyone, Syrus. Decimus may bark like a lion, but you outmatched him with a man’s voice and a sharper mind.”

He hesitates, then glances at her. “Do you think it was the right call?”

She tilts her head, a small smile curving her lips. “I think you see things others miss,” she says. “And I think that frightens them.”

Her words hang in the air. She reaches out, her fingers brushing his arm. “You’re not a boy anymore, Syrus. They’ll have to see that, whether they want to or not.”

He looks at her hand, then at her face, a tightness building in his chest. He swallows and nods. “Thank you, Annabeth.”

She smiles, curls bouncing as she moves away. “Just don’t let it go to your head,” she says, tone playful. “And don’t keep me waiting too long for the next council. I’m tired of not seeing you till then.”

Syrus chuckles under his breath, watching her fade into the corridor. When she’s gone, he exhales deeply, gaze falling back to the map. He has passed this test, but her words echo louder than any praise from the council.