The plan was simple. Too simple, Sextus would later think. But there was no time for anything better.
Titus circled the camp with feline stealth, wearing no armor and carrying only a short knife. Meanwhile, Sextus crawled toward the shed where the Roman officer lay bound. He quickly cut the ropes and whispered in the man's ear:
"Quiet. We're here."
The man gave a weak nod. He could barely stand.
They were just a few steps from retreating when one of the fake peasants turned his head.
"Hey! Who are y—?"
He never finished the sentence.
Titus leapt from a bush and drove the knife into his throat. But the cry had escaped—short and sharp, just enough to alert the others.
The clearing exploded into chaos.
The disguised men lunged for their weapons hidden beneath branches. They weren't many, but they fought like beasts. Sextus shielded the fallen officer while deflecting blows with his gladius. Titus fought like a wild creature, slipping between enemies as if dancing through flames.
One after another, the attackers fell. The fight was dirty, quick, and brutal. The ground ended up smeared with blood, broken branches, swords buried in mud, and lifeless bodies.
In the end, only one was left alive—the one who seemed to be their leader. He had thrown down his weapon and knelt, hands raised, gasping for breath.
"I surrender! I surrender!"
Titus pointed his spear at him.
"What do we do with this one?"
Sextus didn't answer immediately. He was helping the tribune recline against a rock, checking his pulse.
"We need him alive," he finally said. "He knows why a Roman officer was being held prisoner. And who ordered it."
Titus spat on the ground but lowered his weapon.
"I always wanted to bring a dog to camp."
"Then today we're bringing one," Sextus replied, heart still pounding. "But on a short leash."