Death Caller
Clay Warrior Stories
Book #13
J. Clifton Slater
Death Caller is a work of fiction and part of the continuing Clay Warrior Stories series. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. I am not an historian although I do extensive research. This book is about the levied, seasonal Legion of the mid-Republic and not the fulltime Imperial Legion. There are huge differences.
The large events in this tale are from history, but the dialogue and close action sequences are my inventions. Some of the elements in the story are from reverse engineering mid-Republic era techniques and procedures. No matter how many sources I consulted, history always has holes between events. Hopefully, you will see the logic in my methods of filling in the blanks.
Hollis Jones has attacked the manuscript for Death Caller multiple times. With each assault, she and her red pen have tightened and adjusted the story. Her editing notes are the reason the story makes sense and flows. For her work and, sometimes not so gentle insistence on changes, I am grateful.
Bravo! You have read a dozen books in this series and have made Alerio’s adventures a success. This book is lucky #13. I hope you avoid the wrath of ancient gods while reading it or, at least, end up on the winning side.
Euge, to you!
Table of Content
Death Caller
Table of Content
Death Caller
Act 1
Chapter 1 – My Good Deal
Chapter 2 – A Worthy Donation
Chapter 3 – Changes in the Legion
Act 2
Chapter 4 – The River of Forgetfulness
Chapter 5 - Ingot Iron or Fish Heads
Chapter 6 – Haul from the Sea
Chapter 7 - Infernetto
Chapter 8 – Sacrifice and Stupidity
Act 3
Chapter 9 – Needs and Misdeeds
Chapter 10 – Duty Delays the Blade
Chapter 11 – Coins for Blind Eyes
Chapter 12 – Weight of Expectations
Act 4
Chapter 13 – The Customer
Chapter 14 – Accused Not Convicted
Chapter 15 – Vengeance of the Wronged
Chapter 16 – Race for Results
Chapter 17 – Field Justice
Act 5
Chapter 18 – Better than a Cross
Chapter 19 – Messages for Three
Chapter 20 – Sharp Edge of Reason
Act 6
Chapter 21 – Southern Coast of Sardinia
Chapter 22 – A Deadly Efficient Plan
Chapter 23 – A Narrow View
Chapter 24 – Noric Steel
Act 7
Chapter 25 – Spoils of Sulci
Chapter 26 – Staging for the Assault
Chapter 27 – Good Steel, Better Tactics
Chapter 28 – Let Momentum
Act 8
Chapter 29 – Skills and Luck
Chapter 30 – Anxiety in a Small Town
Chapter 31 – Ragged Rider
Chapter 32 – Funeral Announcement
Act 9
Chapter 33 – Wax Masks
Chapter 34 – Funeral Procession
Act 10
Chapter 35 - The Capitoline Triad
Chapter 36 – Homecoming
Chapter 37 – Dirt and Identity
A note from J. Clifton Slater
Books by J. Clifton Slater
Death Caller
Act 1
With no separation between religion and government, priests were ubiquitous during the administration of the Republic and in daily life. They generally served in one of two capacities. Some clerics told officials how to worship the Gods and Goddesses to get the most favors from the deities. Others, called Augurs, interpreted signs from the deities and translated the meanings. Whether ceremonial sacrifice or word of God, no one in a command capacity would perform any action without consulting a priest.
Thucydides of Athens, 430 B.C. - “Whatever comes from God is impossible for a man to turn back.”
Ship Captains assisted by priests sacrificed and prayed before starting a journey and prayed again at the end of the voyage. Military Commanders along with priests offered sacrifices to the deities asking for success in battle. Afterward, Legion Commanders and priests made public displays in front of the Legionaries thanking the Gods and Goddesses for victory.
However, before ships sailed or Legions marched, the Senate debated foreign affairs and treaty negotiations. For help, the Senate required guidance from a God. Who better than Jupiter, the Sky Father? And to interpret the God of Good Faith and Thunder, the Fetial-Priests from Jupiter’s Temple were called to translate Jupiter’s words on foreign affairs. In the process of speaking for the divine, the Fetiales gained exceptional power and prestige.
Plato of Athens, 388 B.C. – “The measure of a man is what he does with power.”
As custodians of an emerging Mediterranean power, Rome’s Senators found themselves dealing with a list of growing problems. One of the issues was evolving the Legions to meet the demands. Once limited to regional garrisons with the ability to create four marching Legions when threatened, the expanding foreign involvement required activation of the four marching Legions every year. Training and equipping the Legions created a burgeoning industry. Unfortunately, the Republic’s military held tightly to tradition. Thus, they attempted to manage the changes without modifying their systems.
Welcome to Spring, 258 B.C.
Chapter 1 – My Good Deal
“You will keep up with the oxen and keep the line straight or I will beat every third man,” a voice threatened. “Now, get back to work.”
“What about noon rest and food?” an older worker inquired.
Sweat dripped off the old man’s face and neck. Using a rag, he wiped his forehead while peering up at the sun. The glistening on his skin highlighted his thin frame, adding to his already starving appearance.
“Your noon repast is the seeds trampled underfoot by the laggards,” the farm manager bellowed. After a moment, he bristled as of someone had called him an insulting name. Then he charged down the line. “I’ll just have to make an example of you.”
The overseer reached the old man and clubbed him to the dirt with a single blow. When he raised the truncheon for another bash, a youth, barely large enough to be a planter, raced to stand between the boss and the old man.
“I said I’d beat every third man,” the overseer sneered at the boy. “But you’ll do.”
He drew his arm back, cocked his wrist, and brought the club around. Before it reached the lad, a forearm, marred with a scar from a knife blade, slammed into the manager’s elbow.
His arm and the club shot up with force enough that the overseer was jerked to the side. His large gut twisted as tight as the animal sinew on a bolt thrower. And, like a ballista released, the torsion spring of his gut unwound and pulled his broad shoulders and the club back around. In every fight, the quickness of the big man surprised his victims. Unwinding, he aimed the backhanded swing at the interloper’s head.
Most farm workers would stand in shock at having touched the overseer. Or they would step back trying to avoid the knob of wood at the end of the club. But the farm worker who shoved the arm stepped up.
When the manager rotated back, Alerio Sisera ducked under the club, stood, and shoved his nose into the overseer’s face.
“I would stop right there, Ipsimus,” Alerio warned.
“You are a dead man, cūlus,” the farm boss cursed. “You will not be good for riding a mule to Tusculum after I thrash you
.”
“Ipsimus, for a swindler, you aren’t very smart,” Alerio suggested to the overseer.
“Teamsters get over here,” Ipsimus called to the men on the seed cart and the manure wagon.
Without taking his eyes from the overseer, Alerio’s arm shot out and, with an open hand, pointed towards the animal handlers.
“Life is hard enough already,” he cautioned the teamsters. “Come over here and it will become unbearable.”
Handlers who worked with beasts developed animal sense. Part of it was knowing the difference between an animal that would accept the lash and an alpha that would fight against the abuse. Based on the scars, muscles, and the attitude of the man facing Ipsimus, they recognized his type.
“Not our fight,” the teamsters begged off.
“I don’t need them to…” Ipsimus didn’t finish.
In mid-sentence, he snapped his wrist and swung the club at Alerio.
The garden spade in Tribune Sisera’s hand arched up, blocked, and then knocked the club off to the side.
“Don’t you realize I am holding an edged tool,” Alerio pointed out. “You really aren’t…”
Alerio flipped the spade and positioned the handle so it protruded from below his fist. With a single blow, he knocked Ipsimus to the ground. Sprawled on the planted soil, the overseer blinked to clear his vision and watched for his next opportunity to attack.
“When the Goddess Minerva runs her fingers through your mind,” Alerio remarked to the overseer, “one should listen.”
Twice Alerio had thought the farm manager was a bull and not overly intelligent. The second time Alerio had to block the man’s attack with no acknowledgement of the feat or respect for his opponent, Alerio realized the significance of the notion. Ipsimus did not have the brains to back away from a losing fight or to mastermind stealing from the farm.
“What do I care if your personal deity is the Goddess of Wisdom and Defense,” Ipsimus remarked.
“You are lucky it was Minerva prompting me,” Alerio stated. He kicked the club from Ipsimus’ grip. “Because if it was my Goddess, I would have used the sharp edge of the spade.”
***
The farm manager sucked in air and stumbled. Alerio took his arm and guided Ipsimus across the field to the backdoor of the farmhouse.
“You need some conditioning,” Alerio observed.
They moved through an equipment storage space before stepping into the great room.
“What are we doing here?” the overseer asked. “I have seeds to get in the soil.”
“Not anymore you don’t,” Alerio told him.
“Who do you think you are?” Ipsimus demanded.
A woman stepped through an archway and replied from the other side of the great room, “Why overseer, that is my son, Alerio Carvilius Sisera.”
“Lady Carvilius. I didn’t see you,” Ipsimus begged.
“Or shower me with honesty,” Aquila accused. “My son has uncovered discrepancies coloring your management of the farm in a sickly pale light.”
“I protest,” Ipsimus said switching from humility to indignation. “The Maximus farm has been profitable every year I have been in charge.”
“True,” Alerio acknowledged, “the farm has been profitable. But the story between the lines of the ledger tells a different tale.”
“There is your answer,” Ipsimus pointed out. “I don’t do the accounting. If there are issues with the numbers, you cannot blame me. Ask Mystacis if there are mistakes.”
“The accountant is in the Capital explaining his numbers to Belen and an accountant scholar,” Alerio told the manager. “You are here to tell me who is really in charge of the farm.”
Aquila coughed politely into her hand.
“Lady Carvilius, please feel free to comment,” Alerio urged his adopted mother.
“I don’t mean to interfere in your investigation,” Aquila offered. “But I had assumed Ipsimus was managing the farm.”
“In person maybe, Lady Carvilius, but he is getting instructions from someone else,” Alerio informed her. “How did General Maximus come to hire Ipsimus?”
“I do wish you would call him father,” Aquila requested. “Or at least Spurius.”
“I apologize, old habits are hard to put behind me,” Alerio explained. “You were saying about the farm boss.”
“Overseer Ipsimus came to us when our former manager left to run his brother’s farm. The priest at the Temple of Jupiter recommended him,” she told Alerio. “Not the one in the Capital. Jupiter’s Temple here in Alban Hills. Cleric Evandrus is the priest.”
“The Honorable Evandrus is not a man to cross,” Ipsimus advised. “Why make a big affair of him collecting a fee for his guidance. What’s the harm in that?”
From the backdoor, a voice called into the farmhouse.
“Ipsimus. Someone reported you taking a worker into the house,” one of the farm guards commented. “Is everything alright?”
The farm manager, emboldened by the support of the guard, stepped close to Alerio, and puffed out his chest.
“I’ll be leaving now,” he said. With one hand he untied a pouch from Alerio’s belt. Then he approached Aquila. Bending his face close to hers, he sniffed her perfume. “You’ll excuse me, but that necklace looks valuable.”
Ipsimus’ hand reached for Lady Carvilius’ throat. Before his dirty fingers could touch the jewelry, Alerio kicked the manager’s legs out from under him. Both feet slipped on the tile and the man fell, hard.
“No, please,” Aquila gasped.
The farm manager grunted before snarling, “I’m going to…”
He stopped talking in mid threat. His focus shifted from pushing off the floor to the tip of the dagger poking him between the eyes.
“Thank her,” Alerio instructed.
Ipsimus assumed the ‘no, please’ was a delayed reaction to his attempted theft of the necklace.
“Thank her for what?” Ipsimus demanded. “Having you come around and ruin my good deal.”
“The last man to threaten my adopted mother, I gutted,” Alerio described to the manager. “She just spared your life.”
“Who are you?”
“Tribune Sisera, Legion raider and weapon’s instructor,” Alerio replied.
“I have nine loyal men at the backdoor,” Ipsimus warned. “You can’t take us all on.”
“I’ve faced worse odds,” Alerio assured him.
From outside, the sounds of a horse trotting up to the front of the farmhouse reached the great room.
“Who is that?” Aquila inquired.
“I believe it’s twenty Legionaries and a Centurion,” Alerio responded. He stepped back. “You can stand Ipsimus.”
The farm manager pushed off the floor and righted himself.
“I’m leaving,” Ipsimus declared.
“You are correct,” Alerio said. “You and your men are going to Ostia. The fleet needs rowers.”
“I’m not a slave,” Ipsimus bragged. “I am a citizen of the Republic.”
“That’s a good thing because the fleet cannot spare Legionaries to guard slaves,” Alerio informed him. “You’ll be paid and fed. But you will be among strong men. Try to raise a club to a group of oarsmen on a warship and they will hurt you.”
A pair of hobnailed boots clicking on the tile floor preceded the entrance of a Centurion.
“Tribune Sisera?” a scarred, limping combat officer asked.
“I’m Sisera,” Alerio replied, “and this is Lady Carvilius. Your new boss.”
Chapter 2 – A Worthy Donation
“I’ve been told Centurion Accantus is a decorated officer and a cultivator of grapes,” Alerio explained to his adopted mother.
“Unfortunately, I have a bad hip and can no longer march with the Legion,” Accantus remarked. “Battle Commander Claudius had pity and allowed me to do training. But now, he’s traded me for Tribune Sisera.”
“Excuse me? Traded,” Aquila questioned, “like horses?�
�
“No ma’am. It’s more comparable to swapping skills,” Accantus clarified for the lady. “I am an experienced manager and grower. When Colonel Claudius heard your son would have to manage the Maximus farm, he decided there were better uses for our talents.”
“If you’ve come to manage the farm,” Aquila asked. “What is my son going to be doing?”
“The Colonel just said he needed the opinion of a staff officer he trusted,” Alerio replied. “Let’s assume, it is a good assignment.”
The Lady Carvilius’ eyes glossed over for a moment before she turned her full attention to the Centurion.
“Accantus, you are an experienced grower of grapes,” she commented. “I’ve always wanted a vineyard. Is that possible?”
“I have to warn you, Lady Carvilius,” Accantus explained. “You’ll need land on a higher elevation, and it will take four or more years before you have grapes worth pressing.”
“Alerio?” Aquila asked.
“I’ll write and have Belen buy the hills to the east of the farm,” he promised. “Then after a stop, I need to report to the Legion.”
“After what stop?” Aquila questioned.
“After the Maximus family makes a donation at the Temple of Jupiter,” Alerio responded.
“Are we doing that?” she inquired.
“Yes ma’am, we are,” Alerio told her. “In a manner of speaking.”
***
Alerio Sisera nudged the chestnut stallion and the big horse responded. Together, they trotted along the lane. Glancing to his right, Alerio studied the empty fields. Soon, crops would grow, turning the land green and golden. The Maximus farm stretched from the farmhouse to the property line five miles away. Soon, once Belen received the letter, the farm would encompass the hills beyond the border.
They reached a larger trail and Alerio reined in the horse and stopped. To his right was the community of Tusculum and the Maximus country estate. He was tempted to visit Aquila Carvilius and say goodbye. Instead, Alerio guided Phobos to the left and allowed the horse to pick his gait. They rode in the shadow of a summit for part of the morning.
Death Caller (Clay Warrior Stories Book 13) Page 1
