Muted Implications (Clay Warrior Stories Book 12)

by J. Clifton Slater

***

  Once through the east gate of the Servian Wall, Alerio guided Phobos off the boulevard and took backstreets heading for the Chronicles Humanum Inn.

  In the moonlight of a nearly full moon, the street was almost as bright as an overcast day. Feeling good about helping the Senator did not help Alerio’s exhaustion. To his bones, the Centurion was tired from the fighting earlier and the long ride to Ostia and back.

  Alerio yearned for a bed and a good night’s sleep. But he needed to collect his gear and get back to Villa Maximus. When Phobos turned onto the road that ended at the Chronicles Humanum Inn, Alerio closed his eyes. The rhythm of the steady pace rocked him to sleep.

  ***

  “Centurion Alerio Sisera?” a voice asked.

  “Yes,” Alerio replied without thinking.

  Hooves pounding on the street pavers alerted Alerio and he woke. Before he could knee the stallion into motion, a troop of calvary surrounded him.

  “Centurion Sisera, I am Captain Herius Potilius of the Sixth Samnite Auxiliary,” the calvary officer introduced himself. “You are under arrest, sir. You can ride with us. Or, be guided by one of us. The choice is yours.”

  The choices were unappealing. Go with Herius Potilius willingly or be tied to Phobos and guided to wherever. With horse flesh boxing in the big stallion and a ring of lances circling him, Alerio decided.

  “I’ll ride with you,” he said choosing the least offensive option.

  Chapter 20 – 4 Days from the Ides

  “It’s as if Fulgora herself doesn’t want me to make the New Year’s Eve session,” Lucius Flaccus grumbled.

  “Senator, I am sure the Goddess of Lightning has better things to do than pick on a representative of the Republic,” his assistant suggested.

  Looking through the window at the raging storm and hearing the air split with thunder, Flaccus was not sure.

  “First they pull the ships from Messina harbor to transfer Legionaries up the coast to support Echetla,” the Senator complained. “Then this storm moves in as if it rented the villa for the month. And I am stuck here in Sicilia, four days from the vote on the new Consuls.”

  “You still have time to make the Capital,” his assistant remarked. “With the right ship, good weather, and a fast horse.”

  “Three hundred seventy-five miles of rowing. What could go wrong with young Centurion Rudentis in command of the ship?” Flaccus questioned. “Then seventeen miles of riding to reach Rome. And there will be correspondence to be read once I arrive. We’ll never make the Ides of March vote.”

  “Sir, I am sure Centurion Rudentis is capable of commanding a Republic warship. You are just frustrated,” his secretary observed. “Once the tempest breaks and we are on the way, you will feel better.”

  “I’ll feel better when I am in my seat at the Senate,” Lucius Flaccus commented. “And doing deals. That will erase this melancholy.”

  “Absolutely,” the assistant confirmed.

  While most of the residents sheltered from the storm, men on one warship were busy. In the blowing rain, rowers bailed water from the bilge of a trireme.

  “First Principale, give the crew extra rations,” ship’s Centurion Rudentis instructed.

  “Pulling buckets of water from the hold isn’t that tough a job, sir,” his second in command offered.

  “It’s not for water purging during a storm,” the ship’s senior officer replied. “When we launch from Messina, Senator Flaccus will be on board. He is in a hurry to reach Ostia. And we will get him there in record time. Feed them like oxen.”

  “Because they will be worked like draft animals,” the First Principale said finishing the expression. “The crew will not let you down, sir.”

  “I trust not,” the ship’s Centurion responded.

  ***

  “I don’t trust them,” Senior Tribune Gaius Claudius expressed to his Senior Centurion. “The frontier is too quiet.”

  Four hundred and eighty-five miles north of Messina, the Senior Tribune was also fixated on leaving for Rome. But rather than rain, Gaius Claudius dealt with a late frost and a feeling in his gut.

  “With the new Consuls installed,” his Senior Centurion asked, “do you think you’ll get a Legion, sir?”

  “Not after losing a fortune in gold while escaping from Echetla,” Gaius replied. “Even capturing Messina for General Codex’s Legions couldn’t save my reputation.”

  “Sir, you are an outstanding leader and would make a superb Battle Commander,” the senior infantry officer told him. “The Legionaries claim you can smell trouble before it happens.”

  “Well, I smell something from the Etruscans,” Gaius noted. “I hate to leave for the Capital if our garrisons are going to be called out.”

  “If the Etruscans try anything, we’ll be ready,” the Senior Centurion declared. “Your training has seen to that, sir.”

  “No one is truly ever ready for battle,” Gaius declared. “I’m going to ride the border for another day. Check on the positions and the men before heading south.”

  “Very well, sir,” the infantry officer stated. “But don’t delay. There could be a Legion in need of a Colonel waiting for you on the Ides of March.”

  “More likely another woman with a matronly daughter she wants me to meet,” Gaius Claudius grumbled while tossing a heavy riding cloak over his shoulders. Turning to an NCO, he instructed. “Call out my ducklings.”

  “Yes, sir,” the Optio responded.

  He ran from the Northern Legion Headquarters building and a short distance later, entered the staff officer’s quarters. By the time Gaius reached the gate, seven Junior Tribunes were racing for the stables. A troop of cavalry waited outside the Legion fort.

  “Good morning, sir,” Centurion Scutula greeted him. “Do we wait for the junior staff officers?”

  “Not this morning. We have a lot of ground to cover,” Gaius replied. “They will catch up. Take us west.”

  “Yes, sir,” Scutula acknowledged before calling over his shoulder. “Troop, forward.”

  Behind the officers an Optio and a Tesserarius repeated the order. The infantry officer and the senior staff officer rode at the front. Behind them, the NCOs organized the twenty mounted Legionaries into two files.

  The troop was heavier than a normal patrol. But a normal patrol would not have a Senior Tribune to protect.

  “I thought you were leaving for the Capital today, sir,” the Centurion commented.

  “As did I, Scutula,” Gaius responded. “But something is wrong. And it’s not the cold spell.”

  “We haven’t had reports of any large gatherings,” the cavalry officer said. “Maybe the cold is keeping the warriors at home.”

  Gaius Claudius wrinkled his nose as if smelling something nasty and glared at the Centurion.

  “You are right, sir,” Scutula admitted. “They are mountain tribesmen. Nothing less than a blowing blizzard keeps them at home.”

  “Where is the nearest large village?” Gaius questioned.

  “Let me suggest, if we are going native, sir,” the Centurion proposed, “we visit a settlement near a garrison. That way, if it turns ugly, we have a fallback position.”

  “Good point,” Gaius agreed.

  A thundering of hooves announced the arrival of the seven Junior Tribunes.

  “Your staff, sir,” the Centurion pointed out.

  “I hope my next posting rates experienced Tribunes,” Gaius remarked.

  “That would be Sicilia, sir,” Centurion Scutula told him. “Everyone with a choice wants to fight on the island.”

  “As well as those of us without a choice,” Gaius added.

  ***

  Frances Allocco rinsed her hand with vinegar then shoved a finger into the wound. In response, Spurius Maximus attempted to rise from the divan. Civi Affatus, Belen, and Isos Monos pressed down, holding the Senator in place. But they could not stop his cries of agony.

  “Augh,” Maximus screamed. “Augh.”

  “Once
more, sir,” the Doctor warned him.

  She pulled her finger from the gash marking the entrance and poked the exit wound. The drama replayed and when she finished her probing, Spurius Maximus collapsed in fatigue.

  “Was that necessary?” Aquila demanded. “It seems cruel, hurting him so.”

  “Lady Aquila, we needed to know about any internal damages. If there was an artery cut, or if the wound had a foul smell, or if the blade left a piece of steel in the flesh,” Doctor Allocco told her. “It wouldn’t do to sew him up only to have the skin blossom out like an overfilled water bladder.”

  “And what did you find, Doctor?” the lady of the villa inquired.

  Without the compress, the blood gushed from the wide cuts.

  “Belen, please apply the bandage,” Allocco directed. She faced Aquila while cleaning her hand on a piece of cloth. “Nothing burst when I checked the gashes, or felt sharp, or smelled nasty. I feel at the point, he can be safely sewn up.”

  “And, and,” Aquila pleaded, “he will be fine?”

  “You’ll have to watch him for a few signs,” Doctor Allocco instructed. “Swelling around his middle. Bruising at locations other than the wound. A yellowing of the whites of his eyes. A loss of appetite. Pain in the belly. Or continual vomiting. If any of those occur, he is injured internally. And there is nothing a physician can do except pray with you.”

  “When can he be up and around?” Aquila inquired.

  Doctor Allocco placed lengths of cotton thread and different sizes of copper needles on a tray. Next to the suture gear, she put two small brass tubes.

  “He can move around when he can stand and not be dizzy,” Allocco described. “However, if he moves around too much or too fast, he will pull out the thread and start bleeding again.”

  “Thank you, Doctor,” Aquila expressed her gratitude. “Most physicians aren’t as forthcoming as you with information. They act as if the human body is a mystery.”

  “It is, ma’am,” Frances acknowledged. “I tell you what I can so you wouldn’t baulk at my fee.”

  The Lady Aquila chuckled before agreeing, “Doctor Allocco, you are worth every gold coin.”

  Everyone gawked as the threaded needle pierced the Senator’s skin. Surprisingly, he did not cry out or squirm.

  “Are you alright, Spurius?” Aquila inquired. “Doesn’t the stitching hurt?”

  “Sewing, compared to the pain inflicted by her finger, is nothing in comparison,” Maximus slurred.

  When the gash made by the sword plunging in was half closed, Doctor Allocco placed one of the brass tubes in the opening. Then she stitched around it and closed the wound completely.

  “Blood will come through the tube for a day or so. Then a clear liquid will drip,” she explained. “When the liquid stops, pull the tube. But keep the stitches clean and wrapped for another week.”

  With the entrance closed, she started sewing the exit. When the barbarian’s blade poked out the back, it created second, smaller wound.

  “I’ll be finished here shortly,” Doctor Allocco announced while sliding the sharp needle through the edges of his skin. She drew the thread through a loop and pulled the suture tight, closing a portion of the wound. “Have Centurion Sisera decide who is most urgent. I’ll treat them next.”

  “Centurion Sisera hasn’t arrived,” Belen told her. “Perhaps he stopped for breakfast, or a beverage, or a nap.”

  “Not Alerio Sisera,” Allocco stated. “This mission wasn’t finished. Something is wrong.”

  ***

  The door opened and Alerio squinted against the sunlight streaming through the doorway.

  “Food and a lamp, Centurion Sisera,” a Samnites cavalryman offered.

  Alerio only needed a quick glance to know the facts about the soldier. The scabs and raw skin on his face from a collision with street pavers told the tale. Out of curiosity, Alerio glanced at the weapon’s belt. It was worn and repaired, no doubt a secondhand replacement.

  “Don’t even think about it,” the cavalryman warned. “There is a guard with a spear posted just outside the door.”

  “I might think about escaping,” Alerio mentioned while sliding the bowl of stew to his lap. “But I’d rather eat.”

  “Captain Potilius will be along to speak with you,” the Samnite told him while backing to the door.

  “Why?” Alerio teased. “Is he my lawyer?”

  “No, sir,” the cavalryman said as he stepped out of the supply room. “All the legal stuff is being arranged through Consul Duilius’ office.”

  The food lost it flavor. If General Duilius decided that Alerio’s desertion from Echetla rated a public trial, what chance did a Centurion have to fight it. Even without the taste, Alerio ate the stew.

  After lunch, Alerio searched the space with the lamplight looking for his coin purse and his document pouch. The Samnites had taken his weapons belt, but there was nothing dangerous in his personal pouch. However, there was the voucher from the Vesta Temple and that was important.

  Shortly after he finished the search, the door rattled as the locking beam was lifted.

  “I am Herius Potilius,” a cavalry officer greeted Alerio. “Did you have enough food, Centurion? I could order you more.”

  “The food was plentiful, Captain,” Alerio confirmed. “I would like my pouch back.”

  “I’m afraid all your possessions have been handed off to my Major Caraceni,” Captain Potilius explained. “He’ll forward them to Legion headquarters.”

  “What are the charges against me?” Alerio inquired. Then he glanced down at the soiled and blood-stained tunic with the Centurion insignias. “And I could use a change of clothing.”

  “We are just a garrison of auxiliary cavalry Centuries,” the Captain reported. “Our instructions, Centurion, are to hold you and preserve you in the state in which we found you.”

  “If I don’t shave or wash,” Alerio pointed out, “the state I’ll be in won’t be anywhere near what it was when you captured me.”

  “I’ll send in soap and buckets of water,” the Captain offered. “And I’ll arrange for a tonsor to visit.”

  Of course, the Captain would send a tonsor to shave him. Because, giving a sharp razor to a prisoner would not be a good idea.

  “Charges?” Alerio questioned.

  “Desertion and murder, from what I’ve been told.” Potilius replied. “I imagine you’ll get a few lashes on the punishment post then be exiled.”

  “Thank you, Captain, for the honesty,” Alerio stated.

  The Captain left and Alerio blew out the lamp. This was the third moldy, dusty storage room he had been locked in recently. One thought crossed his mind. When he built his villa, all the storage rooms would have windows. Then he curled up on sacks of grain and went to sleep.

  Act 7

  Chapter 21 – War Ponies

  Stone and wooden buildings occupied four streets before the urban development gave way to forest and fields. The serenity of the Etruscan village vanished, as did people from the street, when Gaius Claudius and the mounted Legionaries rode into the settlement.

  “It might be the chill,” Centurion Scutula remarked.

  The patrol angled down a side street heading for pens, barns, and stables.

  “I must be missing something,” Gaius replied, “because I didn’t see many ponies.”

  “And there seems to be a lack of fit men around,” Scutula added.

  Women and children moved around on neighboring streets. But no men, at least adult males, were visible. Four children burst from an alleyway. Three dashed back into the lane.

  “You there, lad,” Gaius called to the one who hesitated. “Where is your father?”

  The small child looked up at the mounted Senior Tribune. His eyes grew wide when he saw the elaborate armor under Gaius’ cloak.

  “My father is dead,” the lad told him while rubbing his cheek. The motion did nothing except smear the dirt around on his young face.

  The three othe
r lads raced back to the little Etruscan.

  “Don’t talk to the Latian,” one cautioned.

  “They will take you to their Capital,” another warned.

  “And make you fight in their funeral games,” the third advised.

  The four lads ran but the smallest one stopped after two steps. Turning his dirty face to Gaius, he added. “But my brothers took their war ponies and went to Rome.”

  Then he raced away to catch up with his playmates. Gaius twisted to the side and shouted at the Junior Tribunes.

  “I want every pair of scouts we have mounted and riding,” Senior Tribune Claudius instructed. “Alert every garrison. Find me that war party.”

  “Which garrison do I go to?” one of the seven young noblemen asked.

  “Centurion Scutula, please assign duties to the Tribunes,” Gaius ordered. “If I do it, I’m afraid I’ll tell them where to really go.”

  “Yes, sir,” Scutula acknowledged.

  ***

  “It’s late, my friend,” Messia remarked. His mount jumped a small creek and the sure-footed mountain pony caught the far bank with her rear legs and surged several feet before slowing. “She needs a rest as does my rear end.”

  The pony of the second Legion scout leaped the gap while maintaining a steady gait.

  “You aren’t tired,” Culni remarked. “You are hungover.”

  “I had planned to sleep the day away,” Messia grumbled. “But the nose-in-the-air Latian wanted us to find the impossible.”

  “That young Latian is our way to citizenship in the Republic,” Culni reminded the other scout. “As to finding a band of our cousins, I agree. Impossible.”

  “Do you really think the Latians will reward a pair of Etruscans for working with them?” Messia questioned.

  “Not if we sleep the day away,” Culni replied.

  They walked their ponies across fertile ground. Ahead the land rose, and as the terrain climbed, the forest became dense.

  “We should camp here,” Messia suggested. “If we go into Berignone Forest it’ll be dark before we locate a suitable clearing.”

  But his partner ignored the comment. He was leaning over the neck of his pony and staring at the ground.