Xanthippus saluted, spun, jumped down from the reviewing stand, and marched away. Ten steps from the platform, he spit to get the taste of wasted advice out of his mouth. It was the only sign of frustration the stoic Spartan leader allowed himself to show.
“Let me guess, sir. They want their mercenaries to scream war cries and frighten the enemy with dance moves,” one of the Spartan instructors sneered. “Have they learned nothing about commanding infantry in battle?”
“Don’t ever say that again,” Xanthippus cautioned. “The Punics may not be great Generals. But they are most creative in finding ways of executing outspoken Spartans.”
“Yes, Tail-Leader,” the instructor acknowledged.
“But they do pay well for instructions they don’t follow and information they don’t use,” Xanthippus remarked. “Let’s get back to the barracks and review the lessons we learned from today’s drill.”
The instructor had gone four steps when a cry of alarm came from the reviewing platform. Xanthippus made a left face and took in the sight of the five officers frantically waving their arms and stomping their feet. But the Punics weren’t facing the ranks of Noricum infantrymen. Rather they looked to the southwest in the direction of Tunis.
“What’s the problem?” Xanthippus demanded after vaulting onto the raised stand.
The Punic Captain steadied an arm and pointed. A herd of cavalrymen and elephants thundered their way towards the Qart Hadasht Capital. Behind the fleeing animals, warriors, and men in short undergarments completed the scene of a stampeding army.
“It’s not the Republic’s Legion,” the Spartan observed. “Those appear to be units from the blocking force at Tunis.”
“That’s only ten miles away,” a Lieutenant stammered. “What are we going to do?”
The junior nobleman might have been talking about the Legions. But the Spartan leader was more practical. From a pouch, he pulled a small flute, placed it between his lips, and issued a shrill whistle. In response to the signal, the forty Spartan instructors focused on their Tail-Leader.
“Three lines in front of the gates to the city,” he shouted. Xanthippus added hand motions to accompany his voice so the instructors at the rear of the practice field understood.
The Noricum formation dissolved as row upon row of soldiers marched away. Under the directions of the Spartan instructors, they took positions defending four gates to the city.
“That was quick thinking, General,” the Punic Captain complimented Xanthippus.
“Thank you,” the Spartan responded with a slight bow. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll take my men and retire.”
“What? Where are you going?” the officer demanded.
“To our barracks, Captain,” the Tail-Leader answered. “As I’ve been warned numerous times by the Special Branch, I’m here to train your home guard. Not to assume any responsibilities beyond that. I do believe crowd control of your beaten army qualifies as additional responsibilities.”
“It’s the poor quality of the troops sent by our subject states,” one Lieutenant moaned.
Xanthippus circled his arm to direct his Spartans to where they would form up. On the steps down from the platform, he assumed he was out of hearing range.
“It’s not the poor quality of the soldiers,” the Spartan commander whispered. “It’s the poor quality of your Generals and your officer corps.”
Unfortunately for the Tail-Leader, one young nobleman was blessed by the Greek mountain nymph, Echo. Thusly, he had sensitive ears and heard every disrespectful word.
Rank Leader Xanthippus didn’t witness the glare of the Punic Lieutenant, the nobleman’s hate filled eyes, or even suspected the coming troubles. For the time being, he was happy to get his Spartans away from the rushing mass of an out-of-control army. Xanthippus’ joy would last for a day before he was sentenced to crucifixion for his insolence.
***
The panicked troops made it difficult for the bodyguards to keep a protective envelope around General Hamilcar and General Hasdrubal. But with continual snaps of whips and jabs with spears, they kept the warriors and soldiers away from the Qart Hadasht noblemen.
Hamilcar seethed with anger as he rode. His cousin had been in command at Jellaz Hill. A man who he believed could be trusted to send an early warning. But like so many others, his cousin disappointed the General.
He thought back on the happenings that brought him to this point.
While taking his midday meal, the sounds of battle reached Hamilcar’s pavilion. At first, he assumed the clashes were shield and sword practice by the mercenary infantrymen. He almost went outside and ordered them to stop disturbing his repast. It wasn’t until the Major arrived to alert him that they were being overrun by four Legions, that he understood.
“How, Major?” Hamilcar demanded. He stepped close to the officer. “How did they sneak fifteen thousand Republic Legionaries by your sentries?”
“Sir, I don’t know,” the mercenary officer replied.
Rage took control of Hamilcar. Between the failure of his cousin and this idiot, the General lost the war and his reputation. Drawing his knife, he sank the blade into the Major’s lower belly.
“That’s the last time you will disappoint me,” he remarked while ripping a gash in the mercenary commander’s gut. Then to the servants at the entrance of his tent, Hamilcar instructed. “Bring my horse around and have my bodyguards mount up.”
General Hamilcar raced for Qart Hadasht without an army. And to make matters worse, the Legions were chasing him. Pursuing him, no doubt, to the very walls he had sworn to defend.
***
Dawn found the amphitheater of the Special Branch in full session with three visitors. One came in the person of the Suffete for domestic affairs. The second and third guests being General Hamilcar and General Hasdrubal. Noticeably absent and unaccounted for since the battle of Tunis was the old campaigner, Bostar.
“We recognize the bravery of our field commanders who escaped,” the speaker exclaimed. He bowed to Hamilcar and Hasdrubal before continuing. “And we offer prayers for our missing brethren who sacrificed himself on the blades of the Republic. Let us take a moment of silence in honor of General Bostar.”
No speech could be heard in the arena, only the breathing of distraught men. They had reason to worry. Scouts reported that three Legions of the Republic were camped at Tunis, just ten miles from the walls of Qart Hadasht.
“We do have some good news of a sort,” the speaker announced. “A count of our army shows minimal loss. It has been suggested that we bring them in the gates and use them to defend the walls.”
“Speaker, if I might have the floor,” the Suffete for domestic affairs requested.
“The Special Branch yields the floor.”
“After consulting with the Congress, it has been decided that bringing thousands of mercenaries inside the city walls is dangerous,” the Suffete stated. “Let me remind you, the Sons of Mars were allowed into Messina. Not to protect the town but to save the struggling band of mercenaries. They turned on the city guard and commandeered Messina for themselves. It’s with that threat in mind that the people’s Congress voted. We will keep the mercenaries outside the city walls.”
“If we can’t bring them in for protection,” a member inquired. “And we can’t fight the Legions with them. What are we going to do with the mercenaries?”
“Isn’t the real question,” another member asked, “what are we going to do with the Legions?”
The speaker tapped the floor with his staff.
“Those are precisely the questions we have on the agenda for today,” he informed the amphitheater. “Let us begin with a report from General Hamilcar.”
Hamilcar stood and acknowledged several members of the Special Branch. However, before he could open his mouth to speak, Bostar marched through the doorway.
“I beg your attention for urgent matters,” the old General proclaimed. He crossed to the center of the arena and insi
sted. “Matters that cannot be set aside.”
“General Hamilcar, our apologies,” the speaker stated. “General Bostar has the floor.”
Bostar pulled a scroll from a pouch and gripped the two dowels. Then with shaking hands, he unrolled two sheets of papyrus. His chest rising and falling with emotion, the old General read.
“Citizens of Qart Hadasht, I greet you as a conqueror. Let this missive stand as both a notice of capitulation and the nonnegotiable terms for the surrender of your city,” Bostar peered over the top of the scroll to be sure the attendees understood the first part of the letter. He needn’t have bothered. Everyone in the amphitheater was fixated on him and the condescending words. “You will disband your forces and remove your bases of operations from Sicilia, Sardinia, and Corsica. Henceforth, the Qart Hadasht Empire is prohibited from declaring war or making peace without permission from the Senate of Rome.”
Cries of anger rose from the aggressive members of the Special Branch. Others, more pragmatic, kept their opinions to themselves. Although harsh, the trade that made the Empire great could continue under the terms. For them, the conditions were acceptable. But Bostar hadn’t finished reading the declaration.
“Further, Qart Hadasht will provide fifty quinquereme ships-of-war and crews to the Roman Navy. For home port defense against pirates, the Empire is allotted one ship-of-war.”
Declawing the Empire put trade in jeopardy. The stipulation moved a few more members to express outrage. And still, Bostar hadn’t finished with the letter.
“Qart Hadasht will compensate the Republic for war expenses and pay an annual levy to Rome. The exact amount of tribute will be determined at a future date by the Senate.”
Abandoning territory and stripping them of their powerful Navy was hard to take. But the final issues were the demands for coins. In its entirety, the Special Branch screamed for the letter to be burned.
“I await your surrender. Signed Marcus Atilius Regulus, Proconsul of the Senate, Senator of the Republic, and citizen of Rome.”
The speaker rapped his staff on the floor trying to get control of the rowdy assembly. When they finally settled, the Suffete for military affairs stood.
“I don’t need a vote to know our answer to this outrage,” he avowed. “To a man, we know the Republic Commander just wants too much. The question we face is what our response to this monster will be. We’ll break into committees to formulate a series of suggestions.”
“If I might,” a member of the Special Branch said while standing. “Going back to the comments made by the Suffete of domestic affairs. I want to report a subversive residing in our city.”
“Who poses such a danger?” the speaker inquired.
“The Spartan, General Xanthippus.”
Act 3
Chapter 7 – Questionable Motives
Marcus Regulus and three of his Battle Commanders lifted glasses and saluted each other. At the other end of the banquet table, staff officers raised their mugs as well.
“It was a brilliant letter of demand, General,” Colonel Balint cooed. “You’ve won. There is a triumphant parade through the streets of Rome in your future.”
“Now that does present an interesting quandary,” Marcus proposed. “I’m the first General to command marching Legions beyond his term of office. Can a non-Consul have a parade?”
“After what you’ve accomplished, sir,” Colonel Ferenc stated. The Battle Commander stood and declared, “if the Senate doesn’t allow it, you can always rip up the peace treaty and let the war continue.”
The three Colonels laughed at the idea. Mimicking their commanders, senior and junior staff officers at the end of the table chuckled along with them. But one flank officer cut his fawning short.
Senior Tribune Triticeus wondered at the absence of Colonel Sisera. It seemed odd that the man who engineered the victory should be excluded. Beyond feeling badly at the slight to his friend, Triticeus was a follower of the God Mercery. And he knew, the outcome of the treaty talks would be very different if Mercery, the messenger of the Gods, and the God of Tricksters, got involved before Sancus, the God of Oaths.
At the head of the table, the General raised his hands to quiet the attendees.
“Gentlemen, a war doesn’t end unless both sides agree.” Marcus Regulus reminded the group. “My letter was only a wish list. Leadership in Qart Hadasht will need several days to debate the items before coming back with a counteroffer. I expect General Bostar will head the delegation.”
“Still sir, this is great news. The men have missed a fall harvest and a spring planting,” the Battle Commander from Legion South stated. “They’re restless to get home to their farms.”
“We all miss our families and our work,” Marcus commiserated. “I guess I should have included transportation home for us in the letter.”
Chuckles of good humor burst from the assembled officers. It must have been the sounds of merriment that drew the God Mercery’s attention.
***
As the sun climbed into the sky, Alerio stretched and hiked to the top of the earthen battlements.
“Not much to see, is there?” he questioned the Legionary on watch.
Suspicious of any question from a Colonel, the Legionary on duty gave a cautious reply.
“Sir, it’s not my place to say,” the infantryman begged off.
From the top of Jellaz Hill, the view included the treelined main road, a peak at the green water of Lake Tunis and, to the north, the upper reaches of the pavilions at Tunis. In fact, there were things to see from the hill fort. But none of it held interest for the homesick Legionary and his outcast Battle Commander.
“Keep sharp,” Alerio said. “There might be a caravan of drama girls coming up the road.”
“Really, sir?” the sentry gushed.
Alerio laughed and picked his way down from the ramparts.
“Anything new up there, Colonel?” First Centurion Palle inquired.
“Nothing but greenery,” Alerio replied. “I think I’ll ride to the Medjerda River and check the coastline.”
“Tunis is closer, sir,” Pelle advised.
“I don’t think I’m welcome there,” Alerio responded. Then he questioned while slipping on his armor. “Tell me Rabbit, is there such a thing as being too successful?”
“I never thought so before,” Pelle answered. “But seeing the petty response to you, I’d say yes, there is such a thing as being too successful. Like Zeus and Semele.”
“Was the God jealous of her accomplishments?” Alerio asked.
“No sir. It was Hera, Zeus’ wife, who was jealous,” Pelle answered. “The beautiful Semele had a nightmare about dying from a lightning strike. A priest advised her to sacrifice to Zeus to counter the omen. Later, she went to the river to wash away the sacrificial blood. Zeus spotted the beauty and fell in love.”
“So far it sounds like a bawdy song from a minstrel,” Alerio complained.
“It’s not, Battle Commander,” Hektor assured him. “Allow the Centurion to finish the story.”
“Is the moral, a handsome man like me shouldn’t bathe in the river lest a Goddess find me irresistible?” Alerio teased. Seeing the frowns of disapproval on the faces of his valet and the First Centurion, he agreed. “Fine. Finish the fable.”
“Semele emerged from the tryst pregnant with a divine child. After a few months, she gave birth to Dionysus, the God of Wine Making and Fertility,” Pelle continued. “But Hera, Zeus’ wife learned of the affair. Disguising herself as a confident, Hera counseled Semele and suggested a test of Zeus’ love.”
“I’m not given to testing Gods,” Alerio observed. Then he thought of his complicated relationship with the Goddess of Death. “Not most of them, anyway. And I don’t believe I’m in a position to sire a God.”
“No, sir. But you have birthed success after success,” Hektor told him. “And there are people jealous of you.”
Hektor made hand signs to urge Pelle to tell more of the tale.
“By asking him to appear in his armor at full power and with his lightning in hand, Semele would know if Zeus truly loved her. She begged and Zeus did as she asked. However, Zeus in his magnificence accidently burned Semele alive. And so, as her nightmare predicted, Semele died by lightning.”
“The two of you can be assured that I don’t have nightmares,” Alerio informed them. “And if a storm comes up, I’ll seek shelter and avoid standing in the lightning.”
“It’s fate, sir,” Hektor pointed out. “We’re all tools of the Gods. Jealousy is but one road to the preordained.”
“Beyond being a medic and my valet, now you’re a seer?” Alerio challenged.
“No, sir. I’m a youth who worries about how you’re being treated,” Hektor replied.
“Furthermore Colonel, we’ve apprehensions about what fate their jealousy is driving you towards,” Pelle added. A Legionary walked into the command area and saluted. The First Centurion returned his salute and informed Alerio. “Sir, your escort is waiting at the corral.”
Without thinking, Alerio reached to his neck and touched the Helios pendant.
“The fates have their job to perform, as do I,” Alerio remarked to Hektor and Pelle. “And mine is to get as many of my Legionaries home as possible. To do that, I need to be sure the Empire doesn’t row an army across the Gulf of Tunis and land them along our supply route.”
He slung a red cloak over his shoulders and marched down the hill. At the bottom, a mounted troop from First Century and a handful of Junior Tribunes waited to accompany Battle Commander Sisera on his patrol.
***
Rank Leader Xanthippus inhaled the morning air of Qart Hadasht. In the crowded city, the heady aromas of spices and unwashed bodies assaulted his nostrils. It was much different than Sparta. There, the pleasant smells of freshly turned soil and growing crops drifted in the air.
‘I miss that,’ he thought while tossing a scarlet cloak over his shoulders.
The commander acknowledged his Spartans while marching through the exercise yard. Paired off, they drilled with spears, shields, swords, or wrestled or tried to outdo one another in calisthenics. Exercise was a daily ritual instilled in them since they were seven years old. Lean and hard, the Spartans took pride in their martial abilities and in their appearance. Especially in a growing city with a large female population.
Tribune's Oath (Clay Warrior Stories Book 17) Page 6
