Death Caller (Clay Warrior Stories Book 13)

by J. Clifton Slater

  “What are you doing?” Mattia screeched as coins scattered across the floor.

  Unlike the other apartments, the Fetial Priest had expanded his suite to include the neighboring unit. The cavernous space echoed with anything above a whisper.

  Alerio held the priest off the ground then dropped him straight to the floor.

  Mattia landed hard between Alerio sandals and grunted.

  Alerio knew about intimidation and dropping a man from chest height usually elicited a fear response. In that case, they could negotiate. Or the drop got you a fight. And that was fine as well.

  “Who are you? What do you want?” Mattia demanded as he raked in coins with an arm. “Surely you don’t think you can rob a Fetial Priest at the Temple of Jupiter.”

  “I am Alerio Carvilius Sisera,” Alerio told him. “And we need to talk.”

  “No. You need to leave and get me the rest of my gold,” Mattia ordered. Cocking his head to the side, he mentioned. “I thought you were dead.”

  “Not yet,” Alerio replied while stepping back half a step.

  The intimidation had not generated a reaction. And practically straddling an enemy left too many vulnerable spots exposed.

  “It doesn’t matter,” the priest scowled. “As long as that old crow pays up, she can adopt as many dirt diggers as she wants.”

  “Please do not refer to Lady Carvilius as an old crow,” Alerio suggested.

  “You cost me a profitable enterprise and three hundred gold coins with your meddling. Because of you the Legion demolished my country estate, dismantled my organization, and took my gold,” Mattia accused. “I was only looking to get my coins back. But now that you have invaded my sanctuary, I’ll squeeze the crone for another three hundred gold.”

  “She won’t pay you,” Alerio informed the Priest.

  “Oh, she will pay. Or I will ruin her social standing,” he threatened. “And bring down the Senator. And you. I will see you back in the dirt. You crossed the wrong man. I am a Fetial Priest of Jupiter.”

  “You don’t know me,” Alerio advised the Fetial Priest. “You claim to speak for the Sky Father. That must give you an amazing feeling of power. But Mattia, the Goddess Nenia speaks through me. And it is not a feeling of power. In fact, the voice of death creates a sensation of hopelessness.”

  Most people never survived the fang strike. Untrained and unaware, the average person missed the thin tight set of his lips and the tip of his tongue when it flicked as if tasting his victim. Or the hooded eyes and the tension running through the muscles as Mattia’s limbs prepared to strike.

  As quick as a snake, the priest drew a thin dagger from a wrist sheath. Faster than the blink of an eye, the blade snapped around and stabbed at the inside of Alerio’s thigh.

  But the thigh shifted. And Alerio’s hand shot downward to trap the priest’s fist. His other hand captured Mattia’s left arm.

  “I am known as Death Caller,” Alerio exclaimed. The priest looked up in horror at a man who moved quicker than the fang could strike. “A servant of the Goddess of Death, and often her instrument.”

  Muscling the arms together, Alerio guided the dagger until the blade pointed at Mattia’s opposite arm.

  “I assume the blade is poisoned,” Alerio remarked. Then his eyes became unfocused as if he had drifted off. When he refocused, Alerio said the most frightening thing the priest had ever heard. “Nenia Dea is looking over my shoulder. I wanted to spare your life and reason with you. But she demands a soul.”

  The dagger known as the fang stabbed Mattia in the left wrist. The cleric rolled over and foamed at the mouth while his eyes turned red.

  “Nasty stuff, priest,” Alerio remarked while raking in handfuls of gold coins.

  Alerio’s coin purse could not hold enough. In a frenzy, he searched and located a larger pouch. Although uncounted, to Alerio it felt like three hundred gold coins. Leaving the rest of the silver and gold strewn on the floor, he tied the bag around his hips, shifted it under the smock, and jogged to the office.

  ***

  At the gate to the complex, a sentry braced for the funeral procession. A couple of times a day some noble died and a procession of death masks staggered from the Shrine of Minerva to the Temple of Jupiter.

  “Who seeks to consult with the God of Good Faith?” the sentry demanded.

  “I, Alerio Carvilius Sisera, need the guidance of the Sky Father,” a mourner replied.

  “Then pass through, Alerio Carvilius Sisera,” the sentry stated. “The Temple of Jupiter awaits you.”

  Spurius Maximus led the way into the complex. Behind him, the swaying mass of moaning masks followed. Next came citizens who were just as inebriated as the procession. Belen and the beverage donkey were the last to pass through the gate.

  “You deliver the line well,” a guard complimented the gate sentry.

  “Practice,” he disclosed. “I get lots of chances to practice.”

  “Do you ever count the members in the funeral processions?” the guard inquired.

  “By the time the mask wearers reach the last temple of the Capitoline Triad, they are so unsteady, it’s almost impossible to get a proper count,” the sentry informed the guard. “The Sisera group was more stable than most. Not by much, but none fell or puked. That is a testament to the respect they have for the deceased.”

  As the procession moved from the gate, the columns on Jupiter’s Temple seemed to grow taller. Almost as if when they reached the façade, the pillars would touch the sky and be within arms reach of the Sky Father.

  A priest appeared on the steps of the Temple and held out his arms in greeting.

  ***

  The very much alive Alerio Sisera dropped from the hole in the ceiling onto the tabletop. After replacing the cover to the access hatch, he slid the table back to its original place. Then, he emptied the chamber pot, rinsed the container, and wheeled the cart to the doorway.

  “You,” the guard at Mattia’s door shouted.

  Alerio froze, thought for a moment, then turned preparing to defend himself. But the man-at-arms had not moved.

  “Stay right there,” the guard ordered.

  When he vanished into the apartment, Alerio picked up the merda bucket and the one with the dirty rinse water and rushed to the steps. At the first floor, he located the exit, and scurried out of the building. Several priests saw him, but no one paid attention to a slave charged with collecting night soil.

  Outside, Alerio walked the buckets to a row of bushes. In his haste, the rinse bucket splashed over the rim.

  “That stinks,” Ephyra offered. Several feet away, her arm waved from a bush and she invited. “Step into my place of business.”

  Alerio ducked through the branches and found himself in a hollow cut in the back of the greenery.

  “Change into your shirt and trousers,” she instructed. After he dressed, the assassin buried the chamber pot smock before handing Alerio a death mask. “Hurry. You don’t want to be late for your own funeral.”

  When they emerged from the bushes, Ephyra slipped her hand into Alerio’s and skipped along beside him. They appeared to be an older brother with his younger sister. Together, they turned the corner of the temple and headed for the funeral procession.

  Moments later, Mattia’s guard charged down the steps.

  “Fetial Priest Mattia has been murdered,” he declared.

  A Sergeant of the Temple Guards ran up and asked, “What happened?”

  “I saw the chamber pot slave and told him to wait. He had missed the Priest’s apartment,” the guard reported. “I went in to get the pot and found Mattia dead.”

  “What did he look like?” the NCO demanded.

  “He is a night soil slave,” the guard confessed. “Who remembers them. But I would recognize him if I saw him again.”

  “Then come on, we’ll search the complex.”

  A handful of Temple Guards burst through the exit. Jogging alongside the temple, they peered into the bushes and sto
pped when two of them located the slop buckets.

  “There’s your proof the slave isn’t what he seems,” the Sergeant announced. “Let’s move, he could not have gotten far.”

  Led by the NCO and Mattia’s man-at-arms, the guards ran to the corner of the temple and sprinted around the building.

  “What is it?” the Sergeant demanded. His progress had been halted by the arm of Mattia’s guard.

  “You asked me what the slave looked like,” the guard remarked. He pointed at the funeral procession gathered at the steps of the temple. “He resembled them, only unshaven.”

  “Alright, we have a description,” the NCO declared. “Spread out and search every building. I want to question that slave.”

  The Temple Guards broke into pairs and ran off in different directions. Their search for a slave matching the description of a man’s death mask would prove fruitless.

  ***

  “I, Alerio Carvilius Sisera, implore the Sky Father for intervention,” a masked man explained as he mounted the steps. He favored his hip which made him limp from riser to riser. “As a Tribune, I died in combat on foreign soil. Alas, I am lost in the underworld with no coins for the ferryman.”

  “Jupiter, the God of our Republic, knows of your sacrifice,” the priest proclaimed after receiving several coins. “Thunder will guide his faithful Legionary through the wilderness to the Elysian Fields.”

  Howling and sniveling followed the promise of aid from the foremost God. But one masked man did not express his grief. Another interceded by poking him in the ribs.

  “Get with the program,” he insisted. “We are here to honor Master Sisera.”

  Then the man staggered away uttering his expression of grief.

  “What is the matter?” Ephyra asked while yanking on Alerio’s arm. “Don’t you feel remorse for the loss of Alerio Sisera?”

  Alerio heard her question. But it struck a deeper note than merely a performance. Had he lost Alerio Sisera? Was he doomed to always be Death Caller? A man who preferred to take up a blade and take a life instead of assuming responsibility and solving problems? Although he had no answer, he added sobbing to the sounds of the funeral procession as it felt appropriate.

  “Much better,” the assassin complimented him.

  Senator Maximus waved the masks away and the procession drank and staggered back to the gate. Feeling magnanimous, Spurius pressed a coin into the sentry’s hand.

  “My son favors infantrymen,” he clarified.

  “Thank you, Master,” the sentry said.

  Maximus snorted and scolded himself.

  ‘I must be drunk,’ he thought. ‘Passing out coins as if there was no tomorrow.’

  The funeral procession trekked back by the Shrine of Minerva and passed the Temple of Juno before starting the hike down from Capitoline Hill. As the mourners neared the Temple of Vulcan, a masked man bumped into the Senator.

  “Out of respect for my son, I’ll forgive you,” Spurius Maximus stated. Then he warned. “However, going forward, keep a respectful distance.”

  The masked mourner took the Senators hands as if pleading for his forgiveness. Then a heavy weight dropped into Maximus’ hands causing Spurius to glance down. When he looked up, the masked man had faded back into the crowd.

  Drifting to the rear of the procession, Maximus was surprised to find a young girl walking besides the donkey.

  “Who is that?” Maximus questioned his secretary.

  “I am not sure, Senator,” Belen admitted. “She attached herself to our group at the temple. Do you need a beverage?”

  “No. I need you to take care of this,” Maximus responded.

  He walked close to the Greek and handed off a large sack of coins.

  “Stash that and don’t ask any questions,” the Senator ordered. “I need to go and give another priest an offering.”

  Spurius Maximus fought the urge to smile. His son was safe and somewhere in the procession. It was a good thing he did not recognize Alerio as he might have embraced his adopted son at his own funeral.

  The Shrine of Vulcan rested at the bottom of Capitoline Hill. With cries of misery, the procession entered the gates. As was fitting, Vulcan’s gates were constructed of iron.

  “God of Metalworking, and The Forge, I am Alerio Carvilius Sisera,” a mourner exclaimed. “I carried the yield from your forge into battle…”

  Chapter 36 – Homecoming

  From the Temple of Valcon, the procession strolled the length of the forum crying and wailing. They reached the Shrine at the Spring of Juturna and a speaker mounted the steps.

  “No longer do I need the health of a living man,” he stated. “It is useless for me to partake of the healing powers of the waters. Here, where Castor and Pollux stopped to water their horses after the victory at Lake Regillus, the water is wasted on me. But to honor Alerio Carvilius Sisera, we will each drink of the nymph’s water.”

  Weeping, thirteen masked men dipped cups and drank to the health of the living. After the ceremony, the funeral procession turned towards the Temple of Castor and Pollux. But when they walked from the shrine, only twelve masked mourners approached the temple. One missed the pleas to the Twin Gods of Seamanship and Horsemanship for speed through Hades.

  ***

  Alerio slipped behind the shrine. Once out of sight from the funeral procession, he escaped down an alley.

  “Nice mask,” Erebus remarked.

  The yardman from the Chronicles Humanum Inn offered the reins for a horse as well as his opinion.

  “I am a handsome man,” Alerio teased, “even in death.”

  He pulled a hooded cape from the saddle and tied it around his neck. After flipping the cowl over his head, he pulled the masked off and crushed the wax.

  “Melt this down for me?” Alerio requested.

  “The Clay Ear said every service will cost you,” Erebus told him.

  “I know,” Alerio acknowledged as he leaped onto the horse. “Tell him, he will get the news of my amazing arrival, first.”

  “I am looking forward to when you get home. And I am glad you survived Sardinia,” the yardman said. Then, he swatted the horse’s rump.

  ***

  Three miles southeast of the Capital, Alerio guided the horse into a cluster of trees. He rode under a limb, reached up, and untied a bundle that hung from a branch.

  On the ground, he stripped off the cape, his shirt, trousers, and sandals. They were buried and he dressed in the fisherman’s clothing he wore from Sardinia. After tying on his hobnailed boots, he hung the gladius, the Legion dagger, and a small bundle from his shoulders. Once satisfied he appeared just as he did when he arrived from the island, he took the saddle off the horse.

  Moments later, the mount trotted to the northwest in the direction of the Capital while Alerio jogged to the south. It was early afternoon and Tribune Sisera had to cover twelve miles to reach the Legion Camp at Ariccia. Colonel Gaius Claudius would not be there and that was for the best.

  ***

  The sun hovered over the horizon and the Legionary on gate duty watched the approaching figure. From a spec in the distance, the man became clearer until, the sentry could make out a fisherman.

  “You are a long way from the sea,” the sentry offered.

  “I realize that Private, it’s eleven miles that way. Good to know you understand direction,” Alerio acknowledged. “Now if you will kindly get your Sergeant of The Guard, please.”

  “What do…?” the Legionary started to challenge.

  “I am Tribune Sisera,” Alerio barked. “I am tired, foot sore, and hungry. Get your S.O.G., now.”

  “Yes, sir,” the Legionary replied. Then over his shoulder, he shouted. “Optio to the gate.”

  Heartbeats later, an NCO and five infantrymen raced to the gate.

  “Good response time,” Alerio observed. “Take me to Colonel Claudius.”

  “And you are?” the Optio asked.

  “Tribune Alerio Sisera,” Alerio respond
ed.

  “Tribune Sisera?” the NCO gushed. “You are dead, sir.”

  “That’s news to me,” Alerio remarked. “But I am hungry and dirty. And I need to report to the Battle Commander.”

  The sentry and the five-man response team stood open mouthed with their eyes bulging. Here was the staff officer who stood against a Qart Hadasht army and died on Sardinia.

  “Sir, the Colonel is in Rome,” the Optio explained. “He is attending your funeral feast. We should get you to the city, Tribune.”

  “I have been traveling for weeks,” Alerio pushed back. “I need food, a bath, a shave, a haircut, and proper clothing before I go anywhere. Let alone to a feast. Even if I am the guest of honor.”

  “Sir, if you’ll follow me,” the NCO requested. “We’ll get the Senior Centurion involved.”

  “An excellent idea, Optio,” Alerio told him. “And I must confess, it’s good to be home.”

  Before moonrise, the entire camp would hear about Tribune Sisera’s miraculous return. Having two thousand witnesses to his homecoming, gave credibility to the date. In a Legion camp, if six men witnessed an event, the other two thousand would claim to have seen it as well. Should Alerio need an alibi, they would swear to his state when he arrived.

  ***

  Much later during the evening of the Ides of May, six horses pranced through the streets of the Capital. Although dark, there was enough lantern light to identify five of the riders as Legion cavalry. The sixth rider wore a white tunic with silver Tribune ribbons.

  “Was it bad, sir?” the junior cavalry officer asked.

  “Not once I escaped,” Alerio told him. “Before then, it was as ugly a fight as you can imagine.”

  “We all heard about you and the ghost Legion,” the Centurion stated. “Sir, that took guts and a cool head. I want you to know we are honored to escort you home.”

  “Thank you,” Alerio accepted the compliment. “I need a favor.”

  “Anything,” the Centurion replied.

  “My friend runs the Chronicles Humanum Inn,” Alerio explained. “Can you go there, have a meal, and tell him about my arrival?”

  “Yes, sir, it will be my pleasure,” the junior officer agreed.