Death Caller (Clay Warrior Stories Book 13)

by J. Clifton Slater

  “Top Coin get in there and help with the loading,” the head porter instructed.

  Silenus turned to the man in the shadows and said something. They laughed. As Alerio shuffled towards the building, the man turned, probably from curiosity about someone named Top Coin, to face Alerio.

  His features were blank in the dark although he appeared short and stocky. Then the clouds parted and Alerio saw a patrician nose and aristocratic features. Other than the black orbs of his eyes from the dark night, the man would not look out of place in the Senate of the Republic. Or leading a trade delegation. Where he did look out of place was at the back of a Legion shipping and receiving area in the middle of the night. Alerio lost sight of the man when he entered the building. But he would not forget the nobleman’s face.

  The carts rolled away from the building when thirty containers and barrels were loaded. Behind them, the nobleman and Silenus closed the doors to the shipping and receiving department. The Head Porter caught up to the rigs as they left the Legion Post.

  Agent Tristis joined them for a short stretch. At the crossroads, the agent took the road to the town while Silenus and the caravan continued northeast on the road heading away from Ostia and the coast.

  Chapter 12 – Weight of Expectations

  They traveled the dark road, moving slowly to protect the horses’ hooves and the cartwheels from obstructions. At the six-mile marker, the sides of the roads became dotted with the embers from hundreds of campfires. The ten-man tents at each campsite and the evenly spaced sentries were familiar to Alerio. They also tipped him off as to why Tristis chose this night to move the goods. The newly formed Legions, under the command of Consul Paterculus, were marching to Ostia.

  In the morning, shipping and receiving and the supply depot would be overwhelmed by the arriving Legions. Whatever had been taken, would not be missed for months, if ever.

  “First Maniple,” Alerio noted when Silenus rode up next to his cart.

  “How can you tell in the dark?” the head porter inquired.

  “The lines of the tents must be straight,” Alerio said sounding reasonable. Silenus was taken aback by the clarity of Top Coin. But then, the teamster added. “Straight lines, straight pegs, or someone will break a leg. See here Optio, the tents must be straight, lest there be a mistake. And our Tribune marches the Second Maniple in with the first wave.”

  “That’s the Top Coin I know,” Silenus stated before riding back to the head of the convoy, “spouting nonsense.”

  Alerio looked again at the uneven rows of tents and nodded at his observation.

  “Definitely, the tents of inexperienced First Maniple Centuries.”

  ***

  By daylight, the tail end Centuries of the Legions were breaking camp far behind the line of teamsters. Silenus signaled them off the road and ordered a rest period. While the porters were hungry and stiff, before stretching their legs, the men tended their horses. A little discomfort was nothing compared to losing a horse and trying to pull a cart by yourself.

  “How far?” Alerio asked another of the porters.

  “We’ll raft the rigs across the Tiber at Mostacciano,” the teamster responded. “From there it’s seven miles to the workshops at Malagrotta.”

  “Forges?” Alerio inquired. “Metalworkers?”

  “You like ironworks, do you?” the porter commented. “Sorry to disappoint. But all you’ll find there are barrel makers and a few armorers to check and repackage the equipment.”

  Alerio nodded and went back to feeding the mare. Whatever they were hauling was not broken or used equipment. And if armorers were involved, the cargo must be armor, helmets, gladius, arrowheads, and spearheads. But what foreign government or tribe would be a customer for stolen Legion equipment?

  The caravan finished resting the animals and the rigs snaked back onto the road. Ahead was Mostacciano, the waystation, and the ferry. The men would cook and eat while waiting for their turn to board the raft and cross the Tiber. At least that was Alerio’s assumption.

  ***

  Ordered to cross first, Alerio backed the mare and cart onto the raft.

  “A little further,” a pole man directed.

  “I am right here, girl,” Alerio coached the horse. He tugged at the bridle. “Step back. Good. Good.”

  “Hold there,” a ferry crewman ordered.

  Alerio pulled the horse’s head down and scratched her ear.

  Once the cart and horse were centered, the rivermen untied from the anchor posts and, using their poles, shoved off from the shore. The polemen allowed the current to turn the ferry until the horse faced the other bank. But the mare could not see the land. Alerio stood beside her, holding a cloth over her eyes while gently stroking and talking to her.

  The opposite shoreline resembled the launch area they had just left. Access to the river and solid footing over the soft lowland, required a bedding of crushed rocks and gravel. While the land on either side of the roads leading to the raft landings looked rich, the damp, dark soil on the banks were unsuitable for building or planting.

  The color of the Tiber gave rise to a nickname, The Blonde. Alerio watched the yellowish water as the raft plowed through the deepest part of the river. Thankfully, the large raft barely rocked in the current. He had been up the Tiber from the sea to the Capital several times. On each trip, he watched the land slide by without a thought to the width of the Tiber. Further up on the bank, a tall post with hash marks noted historical highs. It gave a visual clue to why the farms and structures were built so far from the river’s edge.

  The normal flow level of the Tiber vanished several times a year when the ‘The Blonde’ flooded. According to notches on the post, the launching and landing points for the raft, and the surrounding land, would be 6 to 7 feet below the surging river.

  “You must be new,” a pole man remarked.

  “Why do you say that?” Alerio questioned.

  “You are first over,” the raft man told him.

  “Is first a good omen or a bad sign?” Alerio asked.

  “Some of those horses are skittish,” the pole man informed Alerio. He nodded in the direction of the launch ramp. “They can’t be trusted to stay on the raft while hooked up to the rig.”

  “If a horse goes over the side, the beast drowns,” Alerio summarized. “And the cargo and cart go into the river with it. What’s the solution?”

  “They send over the carts separate from the horses,” the riverman explained. “You have the job of unloading the carts.”

  “Like in the Legion?” Alerio guessed. “I unload the first cart and when the horse comes over, the teamster unloads the next cart.”

  “That would be fair and reasonable,” the raft man admitted. He pulled his pole from the water momentarily, pointed the tip at the rest of the caravan, and sank the bronze cap back into the water. “If teamsters were fair and reasonable.”

  Alerio gawked back at five cookfires and the two rigs already backed onto the ramp. Silenus noted Alerio. The head porter smiled and waved, then sat at his fire to stir the content of an iron pot.

  ***

  Two roundtrips across the Tiber later, the mare fought the harness. This was the fourth and last cart and her normal patience had stretched thin. Or maybe she was picking up on her handler’s attitude. Across the river the teamsters laughed at the antics.

  “Last one,” Alerio promised. Calming himself for the sake of the mare, he tossed a strap over her back. “We will eat soon, but first a little sabotage.”

  Alerio finished hooking up the mare and they pulled the rig off the raft. He guided her to a spot high on the bank where the other three rigs waited. With the carts hiding him from view, he rubbed a rope on one of the rigs with the side of his dagger. Just before the rope holding the barrels frayed enough to begin unwinding, he stopped. Then he led his horse away from the carts while the raft returned to the other side of the river.

  At an old fire pit, Alerio stacked wood and struck flint. Three
horses and a trio of teamsters boarded the raft. As they floated across, Alerio’s flames blazed to life and he hung a pot of vegetables over the fire. While his meal cooked, he pulled a sack of grain from the storage box and fed his horse.

  ***

  By midafternoon, the landscape changed. From flat ground, hills rose and fell, and the road became more rocky. The rolling and bouncing tossed the teamsters and the barrels around. On one rig, the rope holding the cargo in place began to unravel. As the fibers twisted loose, the tilt of the barrels increased.

  At the base of a steep grade, a bump caused the containers to leap off the bed and slam against the rear of the cart. As the rig started upward, a final rut shifted the entire load. The rope snapped and two barrels toppled off the back.

  “Perfututum, me,” the teamster shouted.

  “I am perfututum,” Silenus echoed when he saw the reason for the curse.

  The barrels split and the contents of both spilled down the hill.

  Alerio pulled the mare to a stop and leaped from his cart. Strolling forward, he took a quick inventory of gear sprawled down the slope. All of it appeared to be in good condition. Helmets, shoulder sections of armor, chest and back pieces, and sword belts. In the other barrel, he saw helmets, daggers, arrows, and spearheads.

  ‘None of it seems to be broken,’ Alerio thought while picking up pieces of barrel, ‘and not just repaired, but new.’

  “The rope broke,” complained the teamster who lost part of his load. “I checked the rope before we crossed.”

  Alerio froze and waited for Silenus to connect him with the damaged line.

  “Did you check the rope after the raft ride?” the head porter questioned. “Or when we reached the hills?”

  “Well, no,” the man admitted.

  “Stash what you can on your rig,” Silenus ordered. “And distribute the rest among the other carts. We can’t waste the rest of the day repacking the equipment.”

  Alerio dropped the barrel sections and snatched up an arm load of mixed armor. With the illusion of having helped with the disaster, he went to his rig. While stuffing the armor pieces between his barrels and the open spaces in the corners of his cart, he studied the tradesman’s marks stamped into the metal and leather. He didn’t recognize them or connect the equipment with a specific manufacturer. What he did notice was the absence of a second brand which would signify the gear had been reworked or repaired. The clean brands confirmed his initial impression. The gear was new.

  “Let’s move,” Silenus called to the porters.

  Alerio snapped the reins. As the cart rolled forward, he again pondered the subject of a customer with the coins and the need for stolen Legion gear.

  Act 4

  Chapter 13 – The Customer

  Malagrotta offered little in the way of attractiveness. Small patches of cultivated soil along the road testified to the unsuitability of the ground. Further evidence of poor conditions and lack of water were displayed by widely spaced stands of stunted trees. Rocky gullies and dirt mounds seemed to be the dominant features of the area.

  Yet, when the caravan topped a hill, a complex of small buildings and work lean-tos came into view. And despite the lack of local resources, the collection of structures resembled a thriving town complete with a walled estate to the east.

  “Take the carts to the storage building,” Silenus advised. He indicated a structure on the other side of Malagrotta. “Unloaded the cargo and meet me on the west side.”

  Silenus kneed his mount and rode towards the estate. The five carts, following his directions, weaved through the hamlet. As they moved, Alerio caught site of men standing at work benches. Some inspected gear before scraping and buffing away the existing stamps. Others applied new identification marks to the equipment and did a second inspection. Finally, young apprentices collected the rebranded gear and carried the helmets, sections of armor, and gladii to a packing area.

  ‘There are not enough planted fields to feed a village of this size,” Alerio thought as the rigs lined up in front of the storage building. Hopping down, he untied the rope, freeing the barrels. Then he asked a neighboring teamster. “What is this place?”

  “This, Top Coin, is the Malagrotta Armory Works,” the porter informed him before laughing.

  Other than a couple of metalworking stations and workbenches, the village contained little associated with a hot grimy armory.

  “Isn’t Silenus going to help us unload?” Alerio asked.

  “Silenus doesn’t sweat since he became Tristis’ head porter,” the man replied.

  “So where does he go while we work?” Alerio pressed.

  “Into the villa to drink vino and eat beef with the boss man. And to collect our coins,” the teamster responded. “Come on. Help me with my load and I’ll help with yours.”

  They took sides and lifted the first barrel. As the teamsters carried the container to the storage building, Alerio wondered how he could get close enough to lay eyes on the man buying the stolen goods.

  ***

  The sun rested low in the eastern sky and to keep it out of their eyes, the teamsters from Ostia sat facing westward. It was why the arrival of the convoy took them by surprise.

  One of them twisted around, peered into the bright sunlight, and inquired, “I wonder what they are hauling?”

  Alerio squinted eastward while lifting a hand to the brim of his hat to shade his eyes. It took several moments to make out the cargo on the rigs. Once sure of the loads, Alerio strolled to his storage box and exchanged the wide brimmed petasos for a snug fitting woolen hat. Then he lifted out a wineskin and hung the strap on his shoulder.

  “Are those your night caps?” a teamster joked.

  “Don’t need a brim at night,” Alerio stated with authority.

  “Top Coin, it is a miracle that you can feed yourself,” another of the porters teased.

  The four men shifted, once again placing their backs to the sun. Alerio, however, strolled away on a path that would intersect with the convoy.

  “Where is Top Coin going?” one asked.

  “I don’t know,” another porter replied. “And I don’t care where that fool goes.”

  One poked the campfire while the rest settled back to wait for Silenus and their pay.

  Away from the camp and out of sight, Alerio picked up his pace. He needed to choose the correct cart and make friends with the driver before the convoy reached Malagrotta.

  Of the six rigs, two lagged far behind as if hauling something heavier than grain, vegetables, or meat. Alerio gave the slower ones only a glance because he had selected his target.

  “Travel far?” he asked while falling in step with the second cart.

  “We left the high country two days ago,” the teamster replied.

  “My group came out of Ostia yesterday,” Alerio told him. Then he patted the wineskin. “Think we can trade?”

  “I can do an even weight,” the man offered. “If you help me unload.”

  “I have a taste for beef,” Alerio said before agreeing. “It’s a deal.”

  He handed the wineskin to the teamster. While the man took a stream of vino, Alerio reached under the goatskin cover and sliced off a section of meat.

  He held up a red mass of dried beef that covered his hand.

  “Good?” Alerio questioned.

  “Yes,” the teamster acknowledged. “I have three hindquarters and the guards never offer to help.”

  “Guards?” Alerio asked. “Who gets the delivery?”

  “The beef always goes to the villa,” the porter reported.

  “Who owns the estate?” Alerio asked.

  “Some priest from the Capital,” the teamster answered. “I don’t know which temple. All I care about is he pays and doesn’t cheat me.”

  “I can understand that feeling,” Alerio concurred.

  The convoy moved into the village and became visible to the Ostia porters. To avoid questions later, Alerio stooped a little to hide behind th
e horse as the rig moved away from the other carts.

  As his rig approached the estate, the porter called to the guard, “Open the gate.”

  “What are you hauling?” a household guard demanded.

  The guard’s mannerisms were odd. Most estate sentries were untrained muscle or men who had served in the Legion. This guard stood erect and only pivoted his head to look in the direction of the cart. His head movement, almost as if he were a statue, puzzled Alerio.

  “Beef for the villa,” the teamster replied. He pulled back on the reins and the horse stopped a cart’s length from the gate.

  “Wait there,” the guard ordered.

  He marched away and Alerio had his answer about the sentry. Legionaries marched to stay together during Century movements. The other reason to march was for parades or exhibitions. In those, Legion stomps were used to keep the ranks in unison.

  The measured gait of the guard, leaving no knee lift for the stomp, and his stiff neck revealed the household guard’s true profession. He was a Temple Guard. And not from a small Sanctuary to a minor God, but from a major Temple with lots of visitors. Enough worshipers that the guards needed to be visible to keep order, but unobtrusive to the inflow of bodies and coins, and accommodating to the outflow of blessed citizens.

  The observation did not tell Alerio who the priest was, but it did eliminate an easily dominated celebrant. The owner of the estate and the buyer of the stolen gear had the backing of a powerful Temple. While thinking about the delicate nature of accusing a priest of buying stolen gear, Alerio peered at the convoy’s last two carts.

  “For every unmarked barrel you take,” Silenus had warned. “You will lose the fee for that container.”

  Thinking of that remark, Alerio visualized the garden at the shipping and receiving building. River rocks outlined the garden, although the Tiber River at Ostia did not have any large rocks. Then, peering at the loads on the last two rigs, he realized the extent of the theft. And conversely, who the ultimate customer was for the stolen Legion gear.