If he only had a moment to collect his scattered thoughts.
No mortal could battle the ferocity of the Goddess Tempestas while resisting the peace of Neptune’s watery grave. Befuddled by the threshing, Alerio did what people in stressful situations do, he returned to his original task. In this case, the removal of the rope from his leg. Dopey from the constant agitation, Alerio doubled over and reached for the hemp line.
Then, as if his arms had a mind of their own, he began reeling in the rope. For no reason he could fathom, the rope became more important than breathing. Hand-over-hand he pulled until his arm slapped the oak barrel. In a flash, he knew why he didn’t untangle the rope from his ankle.
Gripping the belly of the cast, he clung to the wood. And even when a wave slammed Alerio and the barrel below the surface, it popped back up. High enough each time to reach the top of the waves where the air was clear of saltwater.
Suddenly, Alerio had a moment to collect his scattered thoughts.
Fearful the constant pounding would knock him unconscious, Alerio collected coils of rope until he could roll the barrel and lash his upper body to the curved oak. With his legs acting as the ballast, Alerio Sisera rode the storm through the rest of the endless night. In the morning, clear skies greeted the sole survivor of the three-banker, Occasio’s Plight.
***
Sunrise gave Alerio a direction and, even though he ached from fighting the storm, he removed the coils. After looping the rope over his shoulder, he began swimming eastward with the barrel bobbing up and down behind him.
At first, he assumed another ship from the fleet would cruise by and he’d catch a ride. But the longer he stroked, the less confidence he had in the concept. Driving away the idea of rescue wasn’t just the lack of ships in his vicinity, but the wooden debris. All shaped and cut for a purpose, but now broken and splintered, the oak, pine, and cedar floated just at the surface. When four oars crossed his lane, he stopped to gather them. Shaped from young fir trees the oars gave a chilling testament to the violence of the gale. In the vast empty sea, how many oars must be afloat for him to find four.
Any hope for rescue faded when he came across two more oars. But the fir beams gave rise to a plan. He had six poles, each thirteen feet long, a barrel, and rope.
***
The barrel made up the forward center of the raft. Tied to either side, the six poles extended back to where they were lashed together. It was barely seaworthy, awkward in appearance, and had room for only one occupant. However, behind the barrel where the oars came together just before crossing near their ends, they formed a dry surface. Alerio climbed out of the water, laid on his back, and gazed at the sky.
“A loaf of bread, a chunk of pork with the edges crispy from the fire, and a large mug of fine, red vino,” he announced to the sky while touching the Helios pendant. Then he added one more item to his wish list. It made him laugh because of the composition of the raft. “And a paddle.”
A memory of his training as a combat rower came back to him.
“A paddle is what you use to take your sweetheart out on a pond for a lazy afternoon cruise,” rowing instructor Martius informed the students. “Warships use oars.”
Alerio had plenty of oars. Rolling over, he labored to a kneeling position. Then he searched the water for a piece of lumber to use as a paddle.
***
Marcus Regulus stood on the steering platform of the big transport. The forward sail snapped in the morning breeze while the giant patchwork of linen at midship bellowed with wind.
“We’ll reach Qart Hadasht in four days, sir,” the Greek Captain remarked.
“That’s agreeable,” Marcus assured him, “I’m in no rush.”
Marcus turned to peer back at Pozzallo. The last time he had been at the beach, he commanded a mighty fleet and Legions prepared for an invasion. Last night, his company had been the crew of the Athenian trading vessel.
“Navy warships,” the Greek said nervously.
“I don’t think they’ll give you any problem,” Marcus remarked. “I’m a Senator of Rome.”
Not long after, a five-banker glided up beside the merchantman.
“Trouble, Senior Tribune?” Marcus asked a staff officer.
“Who are you?” the Legion Tribune inquired.
“I guess I still hold the rank as no one has informed me otherwise,” Marcus replied. “I am Marcus Regulus, Proconsul of the Punic Expedition.”
“Sir, I hate to inform you, the men extracted from Kelibia have been lost at sea,” the Senior Tribune stated. “At this time, we are searching for surviving warship and transports.”
“How did this happen?” Marcus demanded. “You saved two thousand men then lost them?”
The senior staff officer dipped his chin as if sad or embarrassed. In either case, he didn’t correct the Proconsul on the number of men rescued.
“Sir, at last count, we lost two-thirds of our fleet to last night’s storm,” the senior staff officer reported. “Our best guess is over one hundred thousand men drowned. Although most were auxiliary forces, it’s still a terrible loss of life.”
Marcus’s knees folded and the Athenian skipper gripped his arm to steady the Proconsul.
“How? Why?” Marcus cried.
“A storm, sir,” the Senior Tribune replied.
“I heard you the first time,” Marcus shouted at the Legion officer. Then, when his emotions settled, he inquired. “What do you need?”
“We’re asking merchantmen to be on the lookout for survivors,” the Legion staff officer responded. “Consul Nobilior is offering a reward for rescuing any of our sailors or oarsmen.”
“What about the rescued Legionaries?” Marcus questioned.
“Sir, they were on smaller transports. None of them had a chance.”
The vessels parted and the civilian Captain released Marcus’ arm.
“You asked what happened,” the Athenian stated. “The fleet’s commanders went for expediency instead of listening to his merchant Captains. Anyone of us can tell you, between the rising of Orion and that of Sirius in this month, bad and sudden storms come off the Punic Coast. I guess they didn’t listen.”
“I guess they didn’t,” Marcus confirmed.
Marcus Regulus was as vigilant as any of the sailors. But as he scanned the sea, his mind wandered to the five hundred Legionaries being held in Qart Hadasht. Although he had no idea how, Marcus would try his best to secure their freedom. It was the least he could do for the last of his men on the Punic Coast.
At midday, the transport sailed by the beach at Punta Secca. And while the crew was on the lookout for survivors of the fleet, they failed to spot a floating spec far out to sea.
***
The rowers’ bench, at least the end section, made an adequate paddle. All morning, Alerio rowed in the direction of the rising sun. Now, with the sun high overhead, he guessed at the direction by the heat radiating on his bare head. He added a felt petasos to his wish list.
As the water passed under the raft, Alerio began to worry that he was paddling in circles. The surface of the sea looked the same in every direction and his raft didn’t move fast enough to create a wake.
For a moment, he thought he saw something moving on the horizon. But it vanished, and with no way to judge perception, it could have been a bird close in, or a ship far away. He rested at high noon and napped face down on the raft. When he woke, a feeling of hopelessness washed over him. Reaching over the side, Alerio scooped up a hand full of seawater and splashed it on his face. The raft moved up and down in the swells as Battle Commander Sisera laid exhausted and defeated.
But, Alerio had things to live for and had sworn to Hektor that he would get home. Plus, Marcus Regulus should be told that the captured five hundred Legionaries had escaped Qart Hadasht. Renewed by the thoughts, he picked up the paddle, dipped it into the sea, and stroked.
For some reason, when he resumed paddling, the raft moved quicker. By late afternoon, Alerio
Sisera rode the tidal flow to Sicilia, arriving at Punta Secca beach with the high tide.
Chapter 27 – Premature Funeral
Stretching out for two blocks, the funeral procession demonstrated the end of a popular man’s life. Adding to his fame, two drink-mules were employed to serve the mob of mourners. Other processions around the Forum of Rome stopped to allow it to pass. At temples, other funerals waited until the grand pageant left before going in to secure the God’s blessing for their departed.
“He must have been a decent man,” Alerio remarked.
Colonel Sisera stood with a group of citizens who were delayed in crossing the forum by the parade. Two men looked at the dusty clothing of the traveler. While still a Battle Commander, Alerio possessed none of the trappings. The sum of his wardrobe consisted of a robe of rough wool and an old pair of sandals.
“The procession is for the Hero of Qart Hadasht,” one of them said. He eyed Alerio’s poor garb and decided the impoverished man needed a lesson in history. “When the five hundred Legionaries were taken prisoner at Tunis, he organized them and kept the Latians together.”
“Because of him, they are healthy and alive,” the other man continued. “I was at the speech when Proconsul Regulus’ praised the hero.”
“They say his artwork is fetching astronomical prices,” a third man added.
“As well it should, being drawn by the Hero of Qart Hadasht,” said someone else in the crowd.
“I’ve been away from the Capital for a long period,” Alerio told the group. “What’s the hero’s name?”
“He is Centurion Lophos,” the second man answered. “Born to an artistic family, young Lophos began drawing early. When the Republic needed citizens, he answered the call and went to the Punic Coast as a Legion cartographer. After being taken captive, he threw off the mantle of the humble artist, and bloomed into a powerful force for his Legionaries. That’s how he was described by Marcus Regulus.”
At the thought of Centurion Lophos being anything except fat and lazy, Alerio laughed.
“See here stranger,” one of the men challenged. “You keep a civil tone, or I’ll thrash you.”
Putting his hands up as a sign of surrender, Alerio backed up.
“I am truly sorry for the memory of Centurion Lophos,” he stated.
Alerio turned and walked away. There were other routes to his villa rather than crossing the forum. While hiking towards a boulevard, Alerio contemplated going to Villa Regulus and letting Marcus know he was naming the wrong man as the hero. But he wasn’t dressed for a social visit.
***
From the boulevard, Alerio took a side street, being sure to stay off the road. Men on horses and wagons came from either direction making it dangerous for a pedestrian to stray from the top edge of the ditch. The pace of Rome revealed the prosperity and vibrant commerce of the Republic. Alerio puzzled on that in the face of the expense of maintaining the fleet and the yearly funding of marching Legions. Yet, he had seen growth in the Capital of the Empire as well. War, it appeared, was good for business.
After leaving the busy street, he entered a new wealthy section of the city. Household guards at bigger villas eyed him suspiciously.
“Always good to be in Rome,” he whispered sarcastically.
At Villa Sisera, he banged on the gate until a man-at-arms came from the stable.
“The servant’s gate is around on the side of the compound,” the guard told him. He pointed in the proper direction while questioning. “Do you even have a delivery? If not, I suggest you leave for the sake of your health.”
“You’re new here,” Alerio commented. He’d traveled so far, and now home, he faced iron bars, and a surly guard. With attitude, Alerio demanded. “Who hired you?”
“Civi Affatus. He’s the…”
“I know Optio Affatus, and I know Villa Maximus,” Alerio assured the household guard. “Let’s try this before I lose my temper. Is Lady DeMarco at home? Or maybe Hektor Nicanor?”
“The Lady of the Villa and Medic Nicanor are in the nursery,” the guard stated. “And you should leave.”
At the mention of the nursery, Alerio’s temper flared. This fool stood between him and his family. Somewhere in the hot anger, a civilized part of him got control and he asked.
“Is the child all right?”
***
On the same morning Alerio arrived at his villa, Marcus Regulus stepped off the Athenian transport.
“Thank you, Captain,” he said.
“I trust you’ll find what you came for, Master Regulus,” the skipper of the merchantman offered.
“There’s not much hope of that,” Marcus responded. “But I thank you for the intended meaning.”
Marcus strolled to the end of the dock and flagged down a carriage.
“To the amphitheater of the Special Branch,” he instructed the driver.
“Yes, sir, climb in,” the driver invited. “First time visiting Qart Hadasht?”
“No, but its most likely my last,” Marcus told him.
As the coach climbed Byrsa Hill, Marcus Regulus didn’t notice the new buildings or take in the sights of the circular military harbor, the city’s dockside defensive wall, or the ships sailing on Punic Bay. Rather, he studied his hands. To his disappointment, they shook, displaying his uneasiness.
Outside the market, he climbed down. Then, he inhaled the fragrance of spices from booths in the bazaar. When he realized he was intentionally delaying the meeting, Marcus Regulus turned his back on the market and marched to the guard at the entrance.
Unlike Alerio who was challenged at the gate to his villa, the Proconsul was ushered directly into the building of the Empire’s Special Branch.
***
With little on the agenda, most members skipped the morning session. This left the amphitheater occupied by the most ardent members of the Special Branch. Adding to the fierceness of the meeting, the Empire had elected a more radical Suffete to replace Paltibaal. Marcus was escorted into this den of Punic lions.
“Have you brought ships loaded with our sons?” Suffete Ahirom jeered. “And cargo holds filled with our gold? My report from the harbor seems to be lacking that information.”
Marcus Regulus stopped at the center of the witness area, spun his back to the members of the Special Branch and the Suffete. He faced General Bostar.
“After I surrendered, you ordered the murder of three thousand of my Legionaries,” Marcus accused. “For that I curse your name.”
“Proconsul Regulus, you will address the Special Branch,” Ahirom demanded.
“Certainly,” Marcus acknowledged. Facing forward, he inquired. “Will you release the five hundred Legionaries you have in captivity?”
“That’s impossible,” Ahirom snapped.
He didn’t explain that the Latians had escaped. Plus, the new Suffete was taken off guard. Marcus Regulus, during the time he was a prisoner, had been placid and agreeable. The man before him seethed with rage. But that was fine with the new Suffete. He could be just as hard.
“If we dig them up, we could produce their ashes,” he lied. “They were burned alive as sacrifices.”
Marcus nodded but didn’t bow his head.
“Alas, I only wish I could say the same for your sons. But they are treated well, based on their service to the Republic,” Marcus said. “But know this. You will never reclaim that generation. They are lost to you. I suggest, if you can, that you get busy producing more slaves for Rome.”
Every member present stood and shook their fists at Marcus while yelling for his death.
“Allow me to slowly push a dagger into his heart,” a member of the Special Branch begged.
The Suffete raised his arms to signal for quiet.
“Speaker of the Special Branch, I propose a leather wrap for Marcus Regulus,” Ahirom directed. “Please call a vote.”
Rapping the staff on the tiles drew the members’ attention to the speaker.
“All those in favor of
death by leather wrap,” he questioned, “raise your hand.”
Every arm shot into the air.
“Let it be recorded that the Special Branch has voted death for Marcus Regulus.”
Marcus lifted his arms to waist level and studied his hands. They didn’t shake or quiver. He would accept his fate as a General of Legions. And face death with the name Vesta, the Goddess of the Hearth and Protector of Rome, on his lips. For what else was he but a defender of Rome himself.
“Take him out and get him dressed appropriately,” Ahirom commanded.
***
Alerio Sisera let his hands drop from the bars and allowed his temper to retreat.
“Please ask Lady DeMarco to see me,” he pleaded. “I’ll stand back from the gate and wait.”
“She doesn’t like to be disturbed when she’s in the nursery,” the household guard stated. “And she’s in there a lot.”
“I promise you she’ll be happy you…”
The front door opened, and Gabriella appeared in the frame.
“Merula? Hektor said I should check the front gate,” she said to the household guard. “Is there something I should…”
She stopped talking and stared at the man on the other side of the gate. Then she put a fist on one hip and sashayed to the gateway.
“You’ve been dead for months now,” she mentioned when her face almost touched the iron bars. “Everyone in Rome said as much. Everyone except for Hektor. That incorrigible boy would not allow any mention of your death in his presence. He’s quite stubborn, you know.”
Tears formed in her eyes and fat drops began rolling down her cheeks.
“Are you going to open the gate?” Alerio asked.
“Corporal Merula Mancini is very forceful in protecting the Sisera Villa,” she told him. “He’s half Latian and half Umbrian. Hektor says he’s the perfect combination of warrior and professional Legionary.”
“Does that mean I have to fight him to get in?” Alerio inquired.
Tribune's Oath (Clay Warrior Stories Book 17) Page 24
