Clay Warrior Stories Boxset 2

by J. Clifton Slater

  “One wants to head east and find a safe harbor,” the Greek replied. “The other is ‘ita ut’ about the direction. He’ll go along with whatever we decide.”

  “Let me settle this for you,” the First Sergeant advised the transport’s Captain. “You will take my Legionaries back to Rhégion. Is that clear?”

  The Captain had watched the loading of the troops and remembered the First Sergeant slapping men who were physically bigger. None of the slackers had even protested the slaps or challenged him. He didn’t know much about combat NCOs but he recognized a dangerous man when he saw one.

  “We go to Rhégion,” the Captain called to the other transports. Then to his crew ordered, “Stroke, stroke. Hurry men, we’ve got to outrun the storm front. Stroke, stroke…”

  The three transports fell in line and rowed to the mouth of the strait. The storm began with a sprinkling of rain and a steady breeze from the east. By the time the third Corbita entered the narrow waterway, a heavy downpour soaked the crews and the Legionaries. Fighting to maintain their heading in the center of the channel, the Captains and rowers watched the rocky shorelines. Even a slight variance off course and their transports would be dashed against the rocks, their keels broken, and they would be smashed against the breakers and drowned in the storm surge.

  The storm hit full force. Visibility dropped until the Captains could barely see the ship’s rails through the driving rain. Having no options, the crews rowed on blindly down the Messina Strait. Then, as if a giant hand swatted the three ships, a gust of wind drove the transports towards the west bank.

  ***

  The wind skimmed the top of the water sending waves into Messina harbor. Once the tides crashed on the beach, the water retreated rapidly past the hook of land. The surge collided with the southern current creating, momentarily, an underwater wall of east flowing water. The wall pushed its way into the current of the Strait.

  The water wall lasted just long enough to nudge the deep draft Corbita transports away from the rocks. Then the wall of water merged with the southern flowing current and dissipated.

  Wind regained control of the transports and the crews of the three ships and their Legionary cargo were tossed against the hardwood of the transports. As the ships keeled over, the bows swung westward. In the blinding rain and howling wind, the three transports crashed into the shoreline.

  ***

  The transport’s Captain laid shaken and mystified. His ship should be breaking up against the rocks. His body should be in the water being torn and broken on those rocks. Instead, he was face down on the boards leaning against the rails of his ship. Peering through the sheets of rain, he saw land.

  “Off the ship,” he cried out as he attempted to stand on the slanted deck. “Get off the ship.”

  First Sergeant Brictius heard the order and crawled up and across the slanted deck to the cargo hole. In the bottom, Legionaries moaned or screamed out in pain. They were tangled up in arms, legs, loose armor, javelins, and gladius belts and sheathes. Reaching a hand down, he grabbed a Legionary and pulled him from the labyrinth. That Legionary flipped onto his belly and hoisted another from the jumble of bodies. When there was a line of Legionaries flowing off the transport, Brictius jumped over the rocking rail and landed on a rock and clay beach.

  As he raced to the next transport to see if they were unloading, he saw the state of the three ships. His transport lay on its side, half in and half out of the water. The stern of the next ship faced him, meaning the Corbita had spun around before washing ashore on the beach. The last ship rested almost upright. At first, it pleased the First Sergeant and gave him hope. Then, he realized a boulder had caved in the side of the transport. It was the rock imbedded in the hull that held the ship upright. More troubling for him, no Legionaries were coming over the rail.

  “Give me two squads,” he shouted as he ran towards the third ship. “Get it together people. Two squads, on me!”

  His orders were just what the shaken Legionaries needed. If Brictius had requested help in a general manner, no one would be sure who should go with their NCO. But, he’d called specifically for two squads. Legionaries were trained to respond as units in times of crisis. Two squad leaders hearing his order counted heads and slapped backs as they sent their men running after the NCO. Then, they followed repeating the cry, “On the way First Sergeant. On the way First Sergeant.”

  Suddenly, the tossed and battered Legionaries and their Centurion awoke from the confusion of being shipwrecked. They began organizing medical staging areas and a few brave men climbed back in the rolling and bobbing ships to toss armor, shields, and weapons onto the beach.

  For the rest of the afternoon, the rain fell, the wind blew, and the Legionaries and surviving crewmen moved wounded and equipment off the rocks. Further up the bank and away from the edge of the water, they dropped their loads and sat miserably waiting for the storm to end.

  ***

  The rain slowed, although the low hanging clouds threatened more showers. One of the transport Captains grew curious. He climbed to the top of the bank to check their location.

  He stopped abruptly and his mouth fell open. With a sword point pressed against his chest, he gazed at the harbor of Messina. Somehow, the ships had crashed on the back side of the harbor’s hook. A shield was shoved in his face forcing him back down the embankment. As he retreated down the slope, more shields appeared until the entire crest was lined with soldiers.

  “Where are we?” inquired another of the Greek Captains.

  “Messina harbor,” he replied with chattering teeth. “Just over the hill on the other side of the infantry.”

  “Infantry?” asked First Sergeant Brictius. “Where?”

  The Greek Captain pointed up into the haze and explained, “Qart Hadasht infantry, up there.”

  “Legionaries! Arm up and form squads,” he shouted.

  Then a deep voice called from the fog, “I am Admiral Hanno of the Qart Hadasht Empire. If you raise a sword, you will die. If you challenge me, you will die. If the wind shifts and I change my mind, you will die.”

  “What if I fart?” a Legionary standing off to the side of the First Sergeant asked.

  “You heard the Admiral,” another Legionary answered. “You will die.”

  The one uninjured Centurion was young and inexperienced. The other was broken and laid with the injured. First Sergeant Brictius hadn’t had an opportunity to speak with the young Centurion, or the two Sergeants and Corporals. Or even check to see which was healthy. Now, he passed the word to have the NCOs and the young officer converge at his location.

  ***

  “We have a decision to make,” Brictius explained. “We have two broken Centuries. Maybe two-thirds of our men are fit. Do we surrender? Or do we go down fighting?”

  “What do you think, First Sergeant?” asked the Centurion.

  “I believe sir, that we rely on the mercy of Admiral Hanno,” Brictius replied. “If he wanted us dead, his troops would have come off the hill and slaughtered us without the pretty speech.”

  “Then, First Sergeant, let’s ask what terms he’ll accept,” the young officer suggested.

  “A fine idea, sir,” Brictius said. “Shall we go and talk with the Admiral?”

  They straightened their shoulders, and both marched up the hill and into the fog.

  Chapter 18 - Blame Rests with the Commander

  “Sir, Lance Corporal Sisera reporting as ordered,” Alerio announced as he stood in the doorway of the office.

  He was hesitant and worried as Tribune Gaius Claudius sat across the desk from his Senior Centurion Patroclus. Tribune Velius’ smile, however, let him know it wasn’t going to be a trial. Or so he hoped.

  “Come in Lance Corporal,” Patroclus urged with a wave of his hand. “As you know, the advance units for the taking of Messina have been cut in half. What we want to know is how would we get the remaining force, plus Centuries from the Southern Legion into Messina?”

  �
��It has to be done from inside Messina,” explained Alerio. “The barricade has to be cut open just before our ships bring in the troops. If it’s done too soon, the Qart Hadasht will flood the docks with troops and send out their warships to sink our transports. Just like yesterday.”

  Tribune Gaius Claudius shifted uncomfortably at the mention of the loss of six of his eleven transports and a Legion Trireme. Pointing a finger at Alerio, the Tribune opened his mouth and started to say something. Patroclus cut him off.

  “Tribune Claudius. You tried your preconceived plan. It failed miserably, I might remind you,” Southern Legion’s Senior Centurion said harshly. “Let’s hear what my Lance Corporal has to say. Or, you can head back to the Capital and make your excuses to General Caudex.”

  Anger flashed across Claudius’ face and Alerio expected him to challenge Patroclus’ wording. But he didn’t. Instead, he grumbled, “All right, I’ll listen.”

  “It’ll be the first time in your life,” mouthed Velius with his lips.

  “Do you have something to add, Tribune Velius?” asked Patroclus.

  “No Senior Centurion,” begged off the old Tribune with a tight smile.

  “Continue, Lance Corporal Sisera,” the Senior Centurion instructed.

  “We’ll need help from the Sons of Mars,” Alerio said.

  “You’re going to trust a pack of pirates with our plans?” demanded Tribune Claudius.

  Patroclus jumped to his feet with his fingers curled into fists.

  “Sisera. Tribune Velius. Please wait in the Planning and Stratagies office,” he growled.

  Alerio walked into the hallway and Velius closed the door behind them. From inside the office, they could hear Patroclus yelling.

  “Over three hundred Legionaries under your command died,” he bellowed. “You killed half your command and now you question me and my staff. If Sisera says we need the Sons, then by Mars, we need the Sons. That young Lance Corporal has survived combat against Hoplite Phalanxes and Syracuse cavalry. And he brought back intelligence that you and Consul Caudex used to plan this operation…”

  The voice faded, although the walls rattled, as they passed into Velius’ office and work area.

  ***

  Chief of Boats Martius had just finished inspecting the repairs on the patrol boats. Fifteen were seaworthy but two needed additional caulking. He watched as his work detail for the day meandered through the Post gate in the early morning light.

  On the beach, the fog from yesterday’s storm lingered. It would soon burn off and several of the patrol boats and the Triremes would launch and patrol the Strait looking for survivors. He didn’t hold out much hope.

  “Empire warship,” the signalman in the tower called out. “Southbound.”

  Every Legionary in the Southern Legion knew what was expected of him. Where the dark beach had been empty, it was soon lined with ranks of men holding up their gladii. Most of them were doing mundane tasks and lacked helmets, armor, and shields. It didn’t matter, the display of defiance was obvious to everyone on the approaching Empire warship.

  The oarsmen ceased rowing and an archer appeared on the warship’s deck. He drew back and an oversized arrow arched through the sky. It impacted near one of the upside-down patrol boats. Martius limped to it and plucked the arrow from the clay and sandy soil.

  A piece of parchment was fashioned to the shaft. He untied it. A moment after reading the message, he smiled and limped, as fast as his bad leg would allow, towards the Headquarters’ building.

  ***

  There was a pounding on the door to his office and Patroclus, already irritated, asked gruffly, “Who is at my door? Why are your disturbing me? And what in the Hades is so important?”

  The door opened and his First Sergeant leaned in with a big grin on his face.

  “Sirs, a message from Admiral Hanno,” Gerontius explained. “I thought it best to bring it to you right away.”

  Patroclus held out his arm and made a give-it-to-me motion with his fingers. After grabbing the parchment from his First Optio, the Senior Centurion read it. With a smile, he handed the note across his desk to Tribune Claudius. While the Tribune was reading, Gerontius cleared his throat.

  “Should we prepare to launch patrol boats, sir?” he asked.

  “Get them crewed and on the beach,” Patroclus instructed. “Wait for my orders to launch.”

  “Yes, Centurion,” the First Sergeant replied as he backed out of the room.

  “There is your pardon, Tribune,” Patroclus announced pointing at the note. “And maybe a second chance. Are you ready to listen?”

  Gaius Claudius glanced up from the parchment. His face showed a mixture of agony and hopefulness. “Let’s hear what Lance Corporal Sisera is proposing.”

  The note passed to Velius after the old Tribune and Alerio were brought back into the room. Alerio received the message last. While reading it, he wondered, ‘what type of man wrote this.’

  ‘To the Commander of the Republic’s rubble hoard. I have plucked one hundred and sixty-five of your farmers from my ocean. I warn you against crossing salt water without my permission. The next time I catch your vermin swimming in my water, I’ll drown them and send their bloated bodies floating to you on the southern current. You stay on your side of the Messina Strait and I’ll stay on mine. Until such time as I deem to cross it. You are warned.

  Send nothing larger than patrol boats and take your herd off my land.

  It was signed, Admiral Hanno of the Qart Hadasht Empire

  “Can he be trusted?” inquired Senior Centurion Patroclus. “His two warships are more than a match for a fleet of our patrol boats.”

  “Unfortunately, we won’t know until we cross,” Tribune Velius noted, “And pick up our Legionaries.”

  Chapter 19 - Gifts from the Empire

  Fifteen undermanned patrol boats launched from Rhégion beach. Even the coxswain and Medics rowed to save space for the return trip. As they approached the backside of the hook of land, they could see shields and armored soldiers on the crest. Further down the bank, men sprawled on the slope.

  “Are they alive?” asked a rower.

  “I’m not sure,” Alerio replied as he stroked.

  Then someone on the bank stood and waved. Other’s followed. By the time the first patrol boat landed, the able bodied were carrying the injured Legionaries to the boats.

  Only Legionaries were on the shoreline. As Alerio learned, Admiral Hanno, not wanting to start a war with the Greeks, towed their ships into Messina harbor for repairs.

  While most of the Legionaries being rescued joked and relaxed waiting for their turn to board a patrol boat, one paced along the water’s edge. When he wasn’t directing the loading, his face sank into a scowl and he resumed pacing.

  “Who is that?” Alerio asked as his full boat drifted free from the shoreline.

  “Our First Sergeant Brictius,” a half-naked Legionary replied as he gripped an oar.

  “He doesn’t look happy,” Alerio said as he watched the rescued men take their oars.

  “He isn’t. I fear for the Tribune’s life when he gets back.”

  “All together. Stroke. Use the man in front of you as a guide,” Alerio instructed his inexperienced rowers. “Stroke. Better. Again, stroke.”

  He wished he had a boat full of trained Southern Legion oarsmen. As it was, it took a long time to cross the Strait. Fortunately, the patrol boat with Brictius was just as slow and further behind him.

  ***

  “Oars up,” Alerio instructed. “Lift them out of the water and let the boat drift to shore.”

  As soon as the bow touched Rhégion beach, Alerio leaped from the patrol boat.

  “Pull her up on the beach and stow the oars in the racks,” he ordered before sprinting up the beach.

  He didn’t slow down until he reached the Headquarters’ building. Inside, he raced by a surprised clerk and Senior Centurion Patroclus’ office. He didn’t break stride until he reached First Se
rgeant Gerontius’ office.

  “First Sergeant. You’re needed on the beach, immediately,” Alerio gasped between hard breaths.

  “Have the Qart Hadasht attacked our patrol boats?” guessed Gerontius jumping to his feet and strapping on his gladius.

  “No, it’s more personal,” Alerio said. “Let me tell you on the way to the beach. But you’ve got to hurry.”

  As they passed Patroclus’ office, the Senior Centurion called out, “First Sergeant. Is everything all right with the ferrying operation.”

  Gerontius stopped and they backtracked to the Senior Centurion’s office. Alerio could see Tribune Claudius sitting in a chair.

  “Lance Corporal Sisera reports a problem on the beach,” the First Sergeant responded.

  “Everything is fine, sirs,” Alerio replied. “It’s just a little issue with some Sergeants.”

  “Any of my people?” demanded the Tribune.

  “No sir,” Alerio lied. “We just need First Sergeant Gerontius to get involved.”

  “Very well, carry on,” directed the Senior Centurion.

  Outside, as they quick walked across the parade ground, Gerontius turned his head and addressed Alerio.

  “It is about the Tribune’s Sergeants?” he guessed.

  “Only one, First Sergeant,” Alerio replied. “He’s about to commit Legion suicide.”

  “Who and how is he going to do that?” demanded Gerontius.

  “First Sergeant Brictius is going to kill Tribune Claudius,” Alerio informed him.

  Then, Alerio was left strolling alone as Gerontius sprinted through the gate heading for the beach and the arriving patrol boats. By the time Alerio reached the beach, First Sergeants Gerontius and Brictius were walking away and yelling at each other. But they took the path towards the NCO barracks, not the Headquarters’ building.

  Alerio sank down beside a patrol boat. His head drooped from relief and exhaustion and he leaned his back against the boat.

  “What are you doing, Lance Corporal Sisera?” inquired Sergeant Martius.

  “Resting, Chief of Boats,” Alerio replied. “Before you row me out tonight.”