Reluctant Siege

by J. Clifton Slater

  Jumping off his horse, Alerio pulled his knife and walked down the ranks of horses to the first one with a young man tied over the horse’s back. He slit the cord and the body slid off the horse and crashed onto the dirt road. Following quickly, the other thee joined the first one in the dirt. After cutting them free, Alerio marched up to the Sergeant.

  “I am Lance Corporal Alerio Sisera of the Republic’s Southern Legion,” he announced.

  The Sergeant looked around the Legionary’s shoulders before asking, “Are they dead?”

  “A little beat down. And they’ll have headaches when they wake up,” explained Alerio. “The blood rushes to the head when you’re slung over a mount’s back. If I can get your men to take them and their horses, I need to get to the market and sell the other horses and the Syracusan gear.”

  “Where did you steal the horses?” the old Sergeant sneered.

  “I didn’t steal them,” explained Alerio. “The Syracusan riders had no further use for them. A Sergeant once told me never to let a resource go to waste.”

  “And I suppose they won’t need their armor, shields, javelins or swords?” inquired the Sergeant. “Are you sure about that?”

  “You could ride to Naxos and ask them,” advised Alerio. “But you’ll need to read their entrails as they aren’t able to speak.”

  “And suppose we decided to take the horses and gear. Say as, a tax to enter Messina?” challenged the Sergeant.

  This time it was Alerio who looked around the Sergeant’s shoulders. He made a show of examining each of the twelve members of the sloppy squad.

  “Four dead, five wounded, and three crippled for life,” responded Alerio. “And you’ll die with your guts in your hands. Interested in a demonstration?”

  “What makes you think you can take on the Sons of Mars?” demanded the Sergeant.

  “I’m a weapon’s instructor for the Legion. It’s my job to size up men’s fighting ability,” Alerio stated. “But I don’t have to do anything. If these undisciplined children are the Sons of Mars, the advance force for the Syracuse army will kill them for me.”

  “Go collect your comrades,” the Sergeant ordered the squad.

  “But he has insulted my unit,” one of the squad members whined.

  The Sergeant glared at the man.

  “The offer of a demonstration is still on the table,” Alerio promised.

  “As tempting as it is, I need to get you to the Citadel. Not embarrassing my Sons of the Sons of Mars,” the Sergeant said as if he were tempted to take the Legionary up on his offer. “Bring your spoils and come with me.”

  ***

  They passed through the gate and entered an old town of narrow streets. Rough bricks and wood covered in peeling layers of clay were the most significant architectural feature. At a center street that ran to the docks, they turned in the opposite direction of the harbor, and started climbing a steep incline.

  The residential and commercial buildings ended halfway up to the hilltop fort. On the uphill side of the buildings, merchants had built walls to enclose their compounds. Past the walls, the hill steepened considerably.

  Alerio looked back and, from this height, he could see the blue water of the harbor. Further south and across the strait, the top of the Legion’s tower at Rhégion was visible.

  “This hill would make for a hard run,” commented Alerio. “Your troops must hate it.”

  “You are assuming we train like Legionaries,” the Sergeant said as he breathed hard and continued to climb.

  A low wall surrounded the fortified position. Beyond a heavy gate, the Citadel itself was a two-story brick building with wide portals on the second floor. From Alerio’s point of view, the fort’s purpose was to protect the soldiers stationed inside, not the citizens living in Messina.

  Chapter – 42 The Citadel

  Captain Crius Nereus sat at a table with six other middle-aged men. On the table were seven platters of food which they nibbled on while discussing business. Adorning the walls around them were old shields, javelins with rusty tips, chipped swords and worn leather gear. The men seemed more interested on discussing trade routes of other cities than in caring for the tools of war. They were, after all, pirates, thought Alerio.

  “Captain Nereus. I’ve got something you’ll be interested in,” the Sergeant announced as he marched into the great room of the Citadel.

  Alerio stepped up beside the NCO. Instead of looking at the table and the men, he gazed around at the old, unmaintained weapons.

  “And who are you?” demanded the Captain. He pushed back his chair and stood. “I asked. Who you are?”

  After pulling his eyes off the sad display of weapons, he snapped to attention.

  “Lance Corporal Alerio Sisera, Southern Legion,” Alerio said with a crossed chest salute.

  “He’s a Legion weapon’s instructor,” the Sergeant added. “And he has information.”

  “If it doesn’t concern shipping,” Captain Nereus exclaimed. “I’m not interested.”

  “How about five phalanxes, six hundred soldiers,” reported Alerio. “and one hundred, no, make that ninety-four cavalry troops?”

  “What does that mean?” inquired Nereus.

  “It’s the composition of the advance force heading your way from Syracuse,” explained Alerio. “And the King is headed here in a month to hold a victory parade in Messina.”

  The six men at the table jumped to their feet and began talking over each other.

  “Silence,” Nereus shouted. “Where is this advance unit?”

  “Two or three days march from here,” Alerio stated. “Maybe more if the rain held them up.”

  Captain Nereus began shouting orders to the men. They were directed to get a head count of what forces they had in town. How many ships were due back and how many ships were available to block the harbor. Alerio stood waiting as everyone except he and Nereus ran from the great room.

  “Lance Corporal Sisera. Come dine with me,” Nereus invited. “Take your pick, there seems to be a selection of empty chairs.”

  ***

  “The Sergeant said you’re a Legion weapon’s instructor,” Nereus commented once they were seated. “Are you any good?”

  “I’ve never been laughed off a drill field, Captain,” Alerio replied as he speared a slice of beef with his knife.

  “Captain is an honorary title,” Nereus explained. “Fifty-three years ago, King Agathocles hired tribesmen from the central and western parts of the Republic. They called themselves the Sons of Mars. King Agathocles, that’s also was an honorary title, declared himself King of Sicilia. The citizens of Syracuse and the Qart Hadasht Empire didn’t recognize the title. With the Sons of Mars and mercenaries from Greek cities, the King built an army. They followed Agathocles all around Sicilia and to the coast of the Qart Hadasht Empire. That’s where I joined the army. We didn’t do too well there.”

  Nereus picked up a clay mug of vino and took a sip. Then he continued, “Agathocles treated his mercenary army well. He shared spoils and didn’t waste lives needlessly. He was a good General. Despite his tactical skills, the Empire handed Agathocles a good old-fashioned kick in the cōleī. He sailed his army back to Syracuse. By then, the King was old. He used the army a few more times but the old General didn’t have the heart. Plus, the Empire was always there when we attacked.”

  Selecting a piece of meat, Nereus held it up on the point of his knife.

  “When Agathocles, died the leadership of Syracuse was in turmoil,” he stated still staring at the hunk of meat. “Somehow, they got themselves together and decided to pay off the army. They even offered to row the soldiers home. A lot of soldiers took them up on the offer. But my Captain suggested we stay and have a little adventure. Besides, the climate was nice and we were young.”

  He bit the meat off the knife and chewed it slowly. Alerio figured the Captain had more to tell so he ate quietly and waited.

  “We took what we needed, did some trading with the spo
ils and generally traveled where we wanted. But we kept going back to Syracuse and the easy prey outside the walls. In time, the new leadership got tired of us. They called on the Greek King Pyrrhus for help. Luckily for some of us, Pyrrhus had his sights set on a bigger prize,” Nereus reported with a sour look on his face as if the memory of Pyrrhus was unsettling. “He unloaded his army, chased us down, turned his army around, boarded his ships and sailed away. I say lucky, because if Pyrrhus had the time or the inclination, the Sons of Mars would have been wiped out. As it was, over half the Sons were dead. Our equipment in tatters and the wounded dying daily. The survivors marched north seeking a place to rest and heal.”

  He picked up his mug and took a long pull of vino.

  “We arrived at the gates of Messina in poor shape,” Nereus described. “My Captain begged the Greeks of the city to at least grant us the protection of their walls while we regrouped. After a full day of negotiations, they threw open the city gates and we shuffled into Messina.”

  Nereus stabbed another slice of meat and shoved it into his mouth like a predator. He continued his tale while he chewed.

  “The remaining Sons limped into the city and around to an unoccupied area. With open ground, access to the water for fishing, and a safe space, we relaxed and tended our wounded.”

  The Captain stood and began to pace in front of the table.

  “And we did relax, for five days. A few Sons got caught stealing and they were brought in by the city guards. My Captain got them out of it by paying the merchants for their troubles,” Nereus related. “But events were set in motion. The Messina city guards began to harass us whenever we left our camp. Then, a pair of Sons got accused of assaulting a couple of Greek women. Another three killed some locals in a fight. All five were arrested. The guardsmen dragged them to the Citadel and staked the Sons in the sun while the city’s leaders debated the punishments.”

  Nereus picked up his mug and drained it. Reaching out, he grabbed a pitcher, refilled the mug and drained half of it before slamming the mug and pitcher down on the table.

  “What did they expect us to do?” he stated, obviously not expecting an answer. “We grabbed our shields and swords and went to get our men back.”

  He walked to an old set of armor and ran his hand over the cracked leather.

  “This is the armor from the first guardsman I killed,” he said while dropping his arm. “You see, the city guardsmen were used to collect taxes, break up fights, and restrain thieves. The Sons of Mars were frontline troops fresh off Agathocles’ battlefields. It wasn’t a fair fight. They died in the streets, alleyways, and in homes where they sought shelter. By early afternoon, the Sons of Mars controlled Messina.”

  Captain Nereus scrunched up his face and looked as if he had a gut problem or gas pains.

  “The Sons, just as we’d done in countless enemy towns, began to sack the city,” he explained. “Except, we had no master or King to call us back. A lot of citizens died before our Captain and Lieutenants got us under control. We gathered in the open field camp and the Captain laid down the law. Each man would choose a wife, or two if he wanted. We were told to spare tradesmen and sailors because we needed our city to function. That afternoon and evening, the Sons of Mars went through Messina selecting wives. Their husbands or defenders were cut down and tossed into the streets. By sunrise, the Captain held marriage ceremonies for the Sons. While our brides wept, the citizens were outside the walls digging graves for their dead.”

  Nereus sat down, stretched out his legs, and placed his hands behind his head.

  “That was twenty-four years ago,” he admitted. “Since then the Sons of Mars have become rowers and sailors. Denizens of the sea and no longer soldiers of the battlefield. Our sons are more comfortable with an oar than a sword. And the original Sons of Mars are middle aged, elderly or dead.”

  “You control an important harbor on the coast of Sicilia,” observed Alerio. “It seems to have worked out just fine. Except for the Syracusan army.”

  “Do you know why the Qart Hadasht Empire, the Republic and, until recently, the Syracusans, leave Messina to the Sons of Mars?” asked Nereus. Then he answered his own question. “Because we are neutral and without prejudice. We take cargo from everyone. And we don’t have the will, or the means, to wage war on our neighbors.”

  “That’s all very interesting, Captain Nereus,” Alerio assured him. “But why did you ask about my skill as a weapon’s instructor. There isn’t enough time to teach your Sons to fight, even if I had the inclination.”

  “I received a letter a few months back from my nephew,” Nereus revealed. “He’s with the Southern Legion near the Capital. In the letter, he mentioned a Lance Corporal, a weapon’s instructor. A man he was afraid to fight.”

  “I know Private Nereus. He’s not afraid of anyone,” Alerio responded.

  “He’s a Lance Corporal and a squad leader now,” Captain Nereus corrected. “And, he is afraid of one Lance Corporal Alerio Sisera.”

  “I don’t understand why that’s important?” Alerio inquired. “There isn’t time to teach your Sons to be Legionaries.”

  “I have at my command almost a thousand men,” Nereus informed the Legionary. “Most are rowers and sailors. They can swarm and act as irregular skirmishers. What I need are four squads to hold the center of my line. I want you to teach them as much as you can before the Syracusans arrive. Train them to hold the center. You do that, and you’ll leave Messina a wealthy man.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  “You will never leave Messina,” Nereus promised.

  Alerio picked up his mug of vino and looked into the cup. As he swirled the contents around, he watched as the wine formed a whirlpool.

  “You’ll need fifteen-man squads. Ten squads in the best armor with the best shields you have,” Alerio advised while still observing the red liquid flowing around the inside of his mug. “Two for each of the Syracusan’s phalanxes.”

  Chapter – 43 Floating Centers

  Before the sun rose, five old Sergeants marched one hundred fifty grouchy men out of the city’s gate. While the NCOs rode, the men shuffled and complained. Too early, too dark, too hungover, too little sleep - all the woes of men forced from their beds before dawn.

  The Sergeants rode silently after the initial shouting to get the swords, shields, and armor distributed. Their destination flickered in the distance. Light from a single brazier acted as a beacon and the line of men angled for the bright spot.

  As directed, upon arrival the Sergeants formed the men into a giant circle around the fire. The rising sun revealed a pile of woolen blankets on the ground below the brazier. Boredom set in and if it weren’t for the Sergeants, the men would have laid down and gone to sleep. Again, per instructions, the men were forced to stand and wait.

  ***

  The blankets moved. As if a specter from the earth, they rose from the ground to the height of a man.

  “Silence,” ordered the Sergeants when the men began talking about the strange vision. “Lock shields! Hold your positions!”

  Legionaries would have snapped the edges of their shields together forming an impenetrable barrier. Some of the one hundred fifty men managed to touch the side of their neighbor’s shield, but most left their shields resting on the ground in front of them.

  “What’s this?” a voice demanded from under the blankets. “You invade my campsite? I should jump on you all and slay you where you stand.”

  At the threat, more of the shields lifted. The blankets began traveling around the brazier.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” the blankets stated. “Because back in the city, your best friend is under the covers with your girlfriend. While you stand here like an idiot, she is crying out in passion. Repeating your friend’s name again and again and again. It seems, he is a better lover than you.”

  Several men shouted for the apparition to keep his mouth shut about their girlfriends. The floating blankets stopped and faced in the direct
ion of a man who had protested.

  “Is it my fault you have a tiny mentula?” inquired the ghost. “If he has more stamina than you?”

  One man tossed his shield aside, drew his sword, and ran from his position. The Sergeants didn’t have time to react before the man, with his sword held high for a downward slash, reached the specter.

  A sheath, old with gashes in the leather letting the underlying wood show, swung up from under the blankets. The blunt instrument snapped forward as the blankets stepped to the side. It slapped into the charging man’s thighs. While he stumbled trying to change the angle of his sword, the sheath whipped around and slammed into the angry man’s neck. He sprawled on the ground and the blankets hovered above him before lowering over the prone figure. When the blankets rose, the man lay still on the earth.

  “You break your circle over an insult? You are no better than a pack of rats,” the blankets ventured. “Small frightened rodents with funny teeth. Let me look.”

  The blankets spun slowly around as if examining the men in the circle. “Toothy. It’s a wonder you can drink vino between those fangs. And why don’t you rinse out your mouth once in a while? Your breath smells like rat merda. Oh, maybe you eat rat merda.”

  Two men from separate sections charged forward. Whether it was that insult or a combination of insults, and the early morning, wasn’t clear. What was for sure, the men were out for blood. They came for the blankets with swords and shields.

  With his sword held high overhead, the first kept his shield forward. Five steps from the offender, the blankets sprouted legs and ran at the man before leaping up. Flying horizontally, the specter’s feet slammed solidly into the shield. The man and his shield arced back while his legs continued forward. Before he could recover from impacting with the ground, the blankets settled momentarily over him.