Death Caller (Clay Warrior Stories Book 13)

by J. Clifton Slater

  “Buy a healthy horse and a fine cart,” Alerio offered. “Then you too can be a wealthy man.”

  “Are you saying you are better than me?” the infantryman challenged.

  Legionaries were trained to fight. The aggression and lack of fear driven into their hearts and minds came out at odd times. It seemed Alerio was facing one of those instances.

  As a weapon’s instructor, Alerio could teach the young man the error of poking at an unknown enemy. Or as a Legion officer, he could beat sense into the infantryman. But as an independence porter, he needed to remain meek.

  “I apologize if I gave you that impression,” Alerio begged. “Please accept my word that I meant no harm or insult.”

  “You aren’t such a big deal now, are you?” the Legionary sneered.

  While they talked, the second loitering infantryman strolled to the side of the cart. When he reached between barrels and grabbed, Alerio rolled over backward to avoid the hands.

  As Alerio’s feet arched over, he made a slight adjustment in the position of the balls of his feet and rapped the first infantryman in the forehead. The Legionary hit the ground as Alerio rolled out of the cart.

  “Excuse me,” Alerio gasped in shock. He bent down and offered a hand. Except the hand became a fist and unseen by the two on duty, he punched the man in the temple. Dazed, the infantryman rolled over and moaned.

  The other Legionary came at Alerio.

  “Help,” Alerio yelped. “There’s something wrong with him…”

  The Legionary lowered his shoulder, turned the corner of the cart, and rushed at Alerio.

  “He needs help,” Alerio shrieked loud enough for the two men on sentry duty to hear.

  Sidestepping the charging infantryman, Alerio wrapped an arm around the man’s neck while punching him in the gut. The Legionary stumbled but with Alerio’s help, he stopped and stood over the groaning man on the ground.

  “Listen to me,” Alerio threatened. He pounded his fist into the infantryman’s midsection again. “I am not going to kill you. But if you harass me again, it will be my knife in your side and not my fist.”

  The infantryman vomited all over his partner. Feeling the wet, warm chunks, the man on the ground began crawling away.

  “Help! He’s ill,” Alerio summoned the guards. “Come here. Help him.”

  Both jogged across the road just as Alerio eased the infantryman to the dirt.

  “Look, I’ve been on the road for two days,” Alerio pleaded. “Can you point me to the armory?”

  While one of the sentries tended to the two Legionaries, the other pointed to the supply area.

  “Thank you,” Alerio said.

  He did not bother climbing back into the cart. Taking the reins, Alerio snapped the leather straps from beside the cart. Then, he and the horse walked into the Legion post.

  Behind the teamster, an Optio marched from a building. A big man with a nose broken too many times, the NCO appeared relaxed until he caught sight of the sentry post. Seeing two men on the ground and his sentries out of position, the NCO ran to see what was wrong at the gate.

  Relief flooded Alerio from having dodged a confrontation with the Sergeant of the Guard. While Alerio could explain himself, he knew the Optio would back men from his Century over a civilian porter. Brawling at the main gate was not a great way to stay undercover or healthy.

  Unfortunately for Alerio, the loyalty of the Optio with the crooked nose extended beyond his duty as the Sergeant of the Guard.

  ***

  The military camp had grown. From a naval base guarding the mouth of the Tiber river, it spread to include permanent fortifications against an invasion and structures for housing men and warehouses for supplying ships and Legions.

  “What do you have?” a Centurion asked.

  Alerio pulled the reins. The horse and cart stopped in front of a long building.

  “Barrels of steel spearheads,” Alerio replied. Seeing an odd look on the combat officer’s face, he added. “from the Capital, sir.”

  “I figured as much,” the Centurion complained. “What do I need with them? They should have gone to Central Legion for recruit training and equipment. I have metalworkers here who forge everything the fleet and the Marines need.”

  “The supply Sergeant in Rome said to deliver them to Ostia,” Alerio assured the Centurion.

  “I don’t know what’s wrong with the procurement department,” the officer mumbled. “They send excess gear and then I have to ship it back. Deliver the barrels to the rear of this building. See the clerk at the depot’s shipping and receiving department for payment.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Alerio acknowledged.

  On the trip around the building, Alerio admired a garden the supply men had planted. The plot was lined in a double row of large river rocks placed in artistic wavy lines. At the rear, several Legionaries helped unload the six barrels. Once they were rolled into the storage building, Alerio went to the office.

  “You are new at this,” ventured the clerk after looking over the invoice. “At one bronze per mile, I’m tempted to hire you to transport them back.”

  “I was told the minimum is two per mile,” Alerio countered.

  “It could be a half bronze a mile and I still couldn’t use you,” the clerk admitted. “My Tribune wants us using porters secured by Tristis.”

  “Where can I find the broker?” Alerio asked.

  “In town,” the clerk replied. He counted out nine and a half bronze coins, then advised. “Almost any teamster can tell you where to find Tristis.”

  Alerio’s experience with supply consisted of a few weeks working as an officer at a depot. But for most of his career, he performed as an infantryman or a combat officer. Both placed him at the terminus of the supply chain as an end user.

  The problem with his load of steel spearheads made him realize the complexity of shipping gear to various units. And the drudgery of having to make good on bad shipments by forwarding the gear to where it rightfully belonged.

  He stepped out of the backdoor of the supply building and all thoughts of the supply system faded.

  ***

  Lingering next to his cart were four off duty Legionaries and the Sergeant of the Guard

  “Good morning, Optio,” Alerio greeted the NCO.

  “Is that the porter?” the Sergeant asked.

  Unlike the Optio in his armor, the four men wore civilian wool tunics. But their physiques and mannerisms identified them as Legionaries.

  “You don’t want to do this,” Alerio warned.

  “That’s the teamster, Optio Noxalis,” one of the infantrymen confirmed.

  “You laid hands on two of my men,” Noxalis accused Alerio.

  “It was self-defense,” Alerio protested, “and I went easy on them.”

  “Then we’ll go easy on you,” Noxalis promised. But there was no grace in his tone. “Or we can take your cart and horse.”

  “On the road from the Capital, I expected to meet bandits,” Alerio stated. He took several steps away from the building. “But I never expected to meet Legion robbers in Ostia.”

  “You hurt my men,” Noxalis scoffed. “Now we are going to hurt you.”

  “That may prove to be more costly than you can imagine,” Alerio declared. He tossed off his hooded robe.

  From a porter in a long robe, Alerio emerged as a scarred and muscular man. His appearance might have caused a normal citizen to hesitate. But Legionaries were trained to be tough and robust. Alerio’s level of fitness and the battle scars had no effect.

  The Legionaries spread out and moved towards Alerio. No weapons flashed, so no one countered with a blade of their own. It would be fist and feet. Based on the odds, Alerio assumed a painful aftermath. One positive, he would retain his horse and cart.

  In a shield wall, a shoving match, or a group attack, weight matters. As does the absence of mass. Shifting to his left, Alerio lined up on the biggest infantryman. Once the man was down, Alerio stood a be
tter chance against the other three. Provided the Sergeant remained a bystander. If not, then armor mattered.

  Big men were accustomed to people avoiding them. As a result, he under reacted when Alerio ran at him. Planting a foot on the large infantryman’s hip, Alerio vaulted to his head, dropped an elbow on top, and continued over while the heaviest Legionary crumbled to the ground.

  The other three spun to face Alerio.

  “What in the lower reaches of Hades is going on here?” a voice demanded.

  “Tribune Flamma,” Noxalis blurted out. “Like you, sir, I just arrived. You men separate. What is the meaning of this?”

  “A case of mistaken identity,” Alerio submitted to the staff officer and the NCO. “They thought I was a thief. But I am not, I can assure you, sir.”

  Tribune Flamma strolled away as if he had not stumbled across the fight.

  “You were saved by the river Lethe,” Noxalis exclaimed.

  “The staff officer has sipped from the river of forgetfulness?” Alerio asked.

  “No, he is studious,” the NCO replied. “Always has his head in a scroll. Too smart for a Legion officer, if you ask me.”

  “I’m getting my cart and leaving,” Alerio stated.

  “This is not over,” the Optio threatened. “I’ll see you in town sometime. And we will settle this.”

  Alerio didn’t reply. He got the horse in motion before jumping onto the cart. Soon, the warehouse and Legionaries were far behind. The horse trotted through the gate and Alerio guided her towards the town of Ostia.

  Chapter 5 - Ingot Iron or Fish Heads

  Alerio had a revelation as he rode through the streets of Ostia. Porters were specters. If not complete shadows, they were faceless forms barely rating a second glance. People stepped out of his way, but they also did that for swarms of gnats.

  Unnoticed by the population, he urged the mare to a northward running street. At the end, he waved to Hamus Ivo and headed his rig towards the other teamster’s camp.

  “Sisera. I thought you would land a military contract and a bed,” Hamus teased. “You know, live the good life for a day or so.”

  “No bed for me, and certainly no Legion commission,” Alerio reported while unharnessing his horse. “It seems the supply depot only uses teamsters brokered by Tristis.”

  “Ingot iron or fish heads,” Hamus muttered.

  “What?” Alerio inquired. His shoulders and head vanished into the storage box. When he stepped back, he held a package of salted pork and a sack of beans. “I didn’t catch what you said.”

  “One is a heavy load that pays well but requires allegiance to a questionable master,” Hamus replied. “The other, a smelly low paying job where you keep your self-respect even as your dignity gets tarnished.”

  “What’s wrong with fish heads?” Alerio asked. He squatted and restacked the logs in the campfire. After a few powerful blows on the embers, the fire caught properly. “Not only can’t you cook, you lack fire building skills.”

  “Do not insult your host,” Hamus scolded. “It’s uncivilized.”

  Alerio glanced at the back of the houses and businesses in the town and the open meadow where they were camped.

  “Let me apologize for insulting your grand villa,” Alerio offered as he shoved a stick through the pork.

  “Apology accepted,” Hamus stated.

  “That’s a first for today,” Alerio told him. “You were saying?”

  “Fish heads and fish guts smell,” Hamus exclaimed, “and after you unload, you must scrub your cart. It’s a terrible load.”

  “At my father’s farm, he plows fish heads into fields he is resting,” Alerio described. “He finds them as useful as manure.”

  “Also, not a load most porters want to deliver,” Hamus added.

  They were silent while the meat cooked. When the skin browned, Alerio cut slices and placed them on plates with the beans.

  “I noticed something on the way here,” Alerio mentioned as he handed a plate to Hamus. “We are not acknowledged on the streets.”

  “Like a bird on a branch,” Hamus started to explain. He took a bite and declared. “I so hate my own cooking. This is delicious.”

  “A bird on a branch?” Alerio questioned.

  “There are hundreds of birds all around us,” Hamus answered. “Yet, you don’t notice them unless you are hunting. We are like birds, we fly around.”

  “If people don’t pay attention to us, how do we find work?” Alerio inquired.

  “Some submit to a broker,” Hamus commented. “Or, if you are independent, you use other methods to be recognized. Me, I sing like a bird.”

  “Singing,” announced Alerio. “I am also fond of singing. Sing us a song.”

  Hamus Ivo, in a clear high voice, began.

  “Hear me administrator

  I have an empty cart

  You have craftsmen’s art

  From the bench

  Products from forge or loom

  Even a tanning room

  Delivered to a factory floor

  A retail store

  or the seashore

  From hay to manure

  Barrels to iron ore

  Regulator be smart

  I have an empty cart.”

  “You are suggesting to businesses how to use your services,” Alerio exclaimed. “What a great idea. Sing it again.”

  “There’s more verses because some days are slow and I don’t want to be a nuisance,” Hamus informed Alerio. “Potential customers should be drawn to my availability. Not driven off by the repetition of my song.”

  Then he started another verse.

  “Hear me administrator

  I have an empty cart

  And a will to depart

  A strong back

  A sturdy horse ready to go

  But alas no cargo

  Not seeking to agitate

  Just a crate

  Some Freight

  Anything to accelerate

  All at a fair rate

  Regulator have a heart

  I have an empty cart.”

  “Tomorrow, I will sing for my loads,” Alerio declared.

  “Singing works for me,” Hamus confirmed. “Now tell me about your delivery to the Legion complex.”

  ***

  The next morning, Alerio and Hamus packed up and drove their rigs into town. Once near a group of commercial businesses, Hamus sang.

  “Hear me administrator

  I have an empty cart

  From here to the mart

  Are miles apart.”

  Proprietors came from their buildings and waved at Hamus.

  “Nothing this morning,” one promised. “But swing by this afternoon. I’ll have a load for the docks.”

  “I’ll be back,” Hamus pledged.

  Other owners called for him to come back later or tomorrow or the day after.

  “I can see the advantage of a fine singing voice,” Alerio complimented the porter. “Let me try.”

  “Have at it, Sisera,” Hamus encouraged.

  “You have contracts to uphold

  Time is a threshold

  Don’t have your freight wait

  I will expiate

  For a tiny rate.”

  “Hold up,” Hamus begged. “I just remembered. I have a shipment that needs to be hauled. We should split up.”

  “Afraid I’ll take all of your business,” Alerio guessed. “I consider you a friend Ivo and not competition. Out of respect, I’ll take my rig and my flowing voice to the docks.”

  “Yes, yes,” Hamus urged. “It’s only fair.”

  “I am blessed of Canens,” Alerio explained. “Having the help of the Goddess of beautiful singing truly is an advantage.”

  “Most unfair,” Hamus agreed as he snapped the reins.

  Alerio started singing and Hamus hunched his shoulders as if he could discretely cover his ears.

  “From your door to the gate

  And never late


  Regulator be smart

  I have an empty cart.”

  After finishing the verse, Alerio fell silent so as not to attract any of Hamus’ customers. Two streets from where he parted with the teamster, three rigs parked at a restaurant drew his attention. He eased the mare to the side of the café and pulled her to a stop.

  “Let’s see if any of the porters know where I can find this Tristis guy,” Alerio suggested to the horse.

  He tied her to a post and walked into the eatery.

  ***

  Stacks of vino casks filled one wall and across the room salted hams, cured meats, sausages, and rounds of cheese hung from the ceiling. Between the seasoned wood and the aging delicacies, the aromas caused Alerio’s stomach to rumble.

  “Quiet, my fine friends. Here’s what I propose,” Alerio said quoting lines from the Odyssey by the Greek poet Homer. Although in the poem it was Antinous speaking to the suitors’, here Alerio spoke to his stomach. He finished the passage as he headed for a table. “These goat sausages sizzling here in the fire, we packed them with fat and blood to have for supper.”

  His mission briefly forgotten, Alerio sat at the table.

  “Sausage and bread,” he ordered from the proprietor.

  “You’ll want watered vino to wash it down,” the owner added.

  Alerio nodded his agreement while he glanced around the cafe. He was not dependent on the rig for his future. The horse and cart were subterfuge to allow him to move around freely. Oddly enough, the three teamsters in the corner of the restaurant seemed relaxed as if they had nowhere to be. Hamus and other porters Alerio had seen needed to keep moving to make a living. But it didn’t seem to apply to the trio in the corner.

  The sausage and bread arrived. While he ate, Alerio’s focus returned as his belly filled. Once the mission overcame his hunger, Alerio dumped bronze coins on the table and went to converse with the teamsters in the corner.

  ***

  “Excuse, me,” Alerio said to the three men. “I’m a porter and I’m looking for a broker named Tristis.”

  “For a porter you eat good,” one remarked.

  The man had a burn scar on his right wrist. At some point, he had gotten to close to a glowing hot piece of iron.