Clay Warrior Stories Boxset 2

by J. Clifton Slater

  ***

  Admiral Hanno strutted up the hill to the Citadel. While he had lost a battle, he was confident he’d win the war. One simply did not become an Admiral of the Empire and not believe in the destiny of the world’s largest trading empire and naval power. No country could stand against Qart Hadasht. If need be, he’d starve them out. With a last glare at Temple hill, he marched into the Citadel.

  Chapter 32 - War of Words

  Tribune Claudius frowned as he wrote casualty reports from the day’s actions. Too many men injured and far too many Legionaries died. A knock on the tent pole pulled him from the reports.

  “Tribune. There is a Qart Hadasht messenger here to see you,” a Legion Sergeant announced.

  “Bring him,” Claudius stated as he placed his quill in a holder.

  A man wearing a white tunic with a thin belt was escorted across the command tent to the Tribune’s work area. He clutched a scroll in his left hand. As he approached, the messenger extended his left arm. The Sergeant slapped it down.

  “That’s close enough,” the NCO warned as he placed a hand on the man’s chest. “I’ll take the scroll.”

  The Sergeant examined the wooden end caps, sniffed it and partially unrolled it. Once satisfied the document holder was safe, he handed it to Claudius.

  “Thank you,” the Tribune acknowledged as he took the scroll.

  After unrolling it, he began reading.

  Tribune Gaius Claudius,

  I greet you only out of necessity. You are an invader in Messina and have upset the balance of power in Sicilia. You and your killers will leave at dawn. Although distasteful to me, my magnanimous gesture of safe passage to Rhégion holds until the sun rests on high.

  Should your arrogance exceed your senses, the outlaws who follow you will be put to the sword. You will suffer a cut for every soldier who died defending the town. After the blood sacrifice, your body will be crucified as a cautionary tale for the Sons of Mars, the upstart Republic, and any who defy the undying Empire.

  Admiral Hanno of the Qart Hadasht Empire

  “Sergeant take the messenger outside and hold him until I craft a response,” Claudius ordered. “And find me Senior Centurion Valerian.”

  “Yes, sir,” the NCO said as he guided the messenger out of the tent.

  “What to say to you, Admiral?” Claudius whispered while rereading the message.

  ***

  The messenger ran up Citadel hill and didn’t break stride until he stood in front of the duty officer.

  “Sir, a message from the Legion commander for the Admiral,” he reported.

  “Come with me,” ordered the officer. He guided the messenger to a closed door, knocked, and opened it. “Admiral. The messenger has returned with a reply.”

  “Send him in and find me, sub-commander Barca,” Hanno instructed.

  The officer opened the door and the messenger bowed and scurried to the desk.

  The Admiral held out a big hand for the scroll. Once in his hand, he broke the seal, unrolled the parchment and studied the words.

  “I’ll have a reply. Wait outside,” instructed the Admiral.

  “Tonight, sir?” the messenger asked.

  Under the glare of Hanno’s stare, the messenger nodded and backed out of the office. When the offending little man was gone, the Admiral reread Claudius’ reply.

  To the Honorable Admiral Hanno,

  Greetings my worthy opponent. I write this with no malice or qualms. Messina is under the protection of the Republic. History tells the tale of the Sons of Mars connection to the Republic and, as such, they are under the protection of the Republic. And lest I remind you, not for embarrassment’s sake, but to refresh your memory. My Legionaries freely patrol the harbor, the warehouse district, the Temple of Adiona, and half of Messina.

  The Empire for all its vast holdings elsewhere, tenuously occupies the Citadel, the upper half of Messina and the southern wall. In balance, I suggest you accept my offer of safe passage to your two Triremes beached in the Republic’s harbor.

  Take them and go where you will, as long as you vacate Messina in its entirety.

  Gaius Claudius, Tribune of Caudex Legion, Representative of Consul Appease Clodus Caudex, Consul Marcus Fulvius Flaccus, the Senate of the Republic, and Citizen of the Republic

  ***

  “Halt,” a Legion sentry ordered. “Who goes there?”

  The messenger stepped forward into the flickering light of the campfire.

  “I carry a missive from Admiral Hanno to Tribune Claudius,” the man stated. Visibly nervous, his hands shook as he held them out showing they were empty of weapons. Clutched in his left hand was a rolled and sealed piece of parchment.

  “Sergeant. We have a courier,” the sentry called out.

  Long moments passed before an NCO and two Legionaries, all three helmetless and without shields, materialized from the dark.

  “Why are you so far south?” inquired the Century’s Sergeant. “Temple hill is way north of here.”

  “I got lost,” the messenger stammered. “This is where they, ah, I found myself crossing the Empire’s barricade.”

  The Sergeant lifted his head and peered up the street. One block away, a Qart Hadasht campfire burning at that intersection marked the barrier.

  “Take him to the Centurion. Let the officer find an escort to take him to the Tribune,” the Sergeant advised. Then he yawned, reared back, arms extended and mouth open wide to fully vocalize the action before telling the Legionary. “Off you go. And hurry back to your sentry duties.”

  The sentry ushered the messenger away from the fire and they vanished in the dark. Pausing to warm their hands around the fire, the NCO and two Legionaries stood wordlessly before they too walked out of the light.

  “Go to our other positions and get four unarmored men for a little night reconnaissance,” whispered the Sergeant. “Have them quietly check the walls. There has to be a reason they sent the courier this far south. I want whoever is watching us.”

  On the walls of the compounds bordering the street, two Qart Hadasht scouts watched the lackluster Sergeant. On opposite sides of the street, each had scurried over compound walls and crossed four courtyards just before sundown. When darkness fell, they climbed onto the tops of the last walls and used overhanging branches as cover. Both smiled when they observed the Legionaries’ relaxed response to the arrival of the courier.

  The evening passed and the scouts couldn’t believe no one had come to guard the street. What Admiral Hanno said about the dirt farmers being undisciplined and lazy must be true.

  A light breeze off the harbor blew up the street ruffling the branches of the trees. Using the sounds of moving leaves and scraping branches as cover, two Legionaries sprinted forward five paces. Then they both jumped, one grabbing an arm, the other a leg and they pulled the scout off his perch. On the other side of the intersection, that scout also slammed hard into the ground. Both were stunned as the Legionaries dragged them away.

  ***

  “Tribune. A courier from the Qart Hadasht,” the duty NCO announced.

  “Come,” Claudius said as he got off a camp bed and moved to his desk.

  The NCO prevented the messenger from getting close to the Tribune. Only after the duty Optio took the message and examined, did he hand the parchment to the senior officer.

  “Why do you do that, Sergeant?” asked Claudius. “I’ve served with Legions for over five years and have personally taken hundreds of messages directly from couriers. Why the caution here?”

  “Combat zone, sir,” replied the NCO. “First Optio Brictius gives a talk to every Legionary assigned to you and the command post. Tribune Claudius is to be protected at all times and at all cost. We are engaged with a ruthless Empire who will do anything, employ any method to harm the Tribune. If Tribune Claudius is stabbed or falls ill, the men guarding him will be executed. We face a cunning enemy and our shield against them is the wit of our Tribune. This Legionaries, and don’t fo
rget it, is a combat zone.”

  “I had no idea First Sergeant Brictius was so eloquent,” commented Claudius.

  The Sergeant squinted and his mouth twisted to the side as if pondering a difficult question. Finally, his face brightened, and he explained, “No, sir. The First Optio is really serious about it.”

  “Dismissed, Sergeant,” ordered Claudius as he unrolled the parchment.

  Tribune Gaius Claudius,

  Mortem Tuam Eminet

  Globus Tuus Mortuus es

  Admiral Hanno of the Qart Hadasht Empire

  Senior Centurion Valerian marched into the tent and crossed to stand in front of the desk.

  “Another message from the Admiral?” he inquired as his fist dropped from the salute. “Anything interesting, sir?”

  “It seems, I am dead as well as my followers,” replied Claudius. “I don’t feel dead. How about you Senior Centurion?”

  “Sir, I am pleased to report that I am alive. As are the Legionaries standing posts tonight,” Valerian responded. “But in light of the Admiral’s premature announcement, I’m ordering fifty percent watch tonight.”

  “An excellent idea,” Claudius exclaimed. “I want to walk the lines tonight and reassure the men. Assign whatever guard detail you think I’ll need.”

  “Let me consult with First Sergeant Brictius,” Valerian said. “He’ll want to know because this is…”

  “A combat zone,” Tribune Claudius interrupted with a wave of his hand dismissing the Centurion. “Find the First Sergeant and let me know.”

  Chapter 33 - Night Terror

  Before sunset, sub-commander Barca strolled to his defensive positions beyond the southern wall. Usually, he moved alone among his soldiers talking to them and building them up. With four phalanxes of Hoplites, even more, Syracusan soldiers and horsemen cavalry units camped across the River Longanus, he needed his Companies sharp and their attention focused on the enemy. This afternoon, however, he walked between positions with two bodyguards.

  Earlier today, the sub-commander assigned a Lieutenant he trusted with the diversion at the east end of the wall. Without realizing the young, nobleman‘s head was full of wine and his brain still addled from the night before, he gave the orders and sent the Company off to draw the attention of the invaders.

  Barca waited at the city gate with another Company. With one eye on the Syracusans, who stirred at the movement of the Empire forces, he watched with the other for Admiral Hanno’s signal. While the sub-commander waited for a signal that never came, the Lieutenant directed the ill-fated diversion.

  ***

  “Ladders to the wall,” slurred Lieutenant Maharbaal pointing at the wall. “Do it slow. The sub-commander wants the invaders to see the tops of the ladders and pull units from the north side to defend the wall.”

  As ten men rushed by to place the ladders, Maharbaal stumbled out of their way. Swinging his arms around as if to fend off an attack, he tripped and had to quick step to regain his balance.

  “Sir. Let me handle the attack,” suggested a Sergeant.

  “Remember your place, Sergeant,” scolded the Lieutenant as he lifted his hand as if to strike the NCO. “The sub-commander chose me to command the task. And by the gods, I’ll complete the mission.”

  “Yes, sir,” the Sergeant replied as he backed away to stand with his section.

  “First rank, to the ladders. Show yourselves,” he ordered when several of the ten soldiers stayed low. “Spears, they need spears. Hand them spears. Wave the spears. We need to draw the northern units to us.”

  The ten standing on the ladders dutifully hoisted spears and waved them in the air.

  “Second rank. To the ladders,” shouted Maharbaal enthusiastically.

  The Lieutenant was looking at the formation and didn’t see the first seven topple off the ladders with javelins imbedded in their chests. When he turned, the last three fell back but he was looking at the top of the wall.

  “Why are there no men on the wall?” he shouted in anger. “Climb the ladders. Hand them spears. Wave the spears. We have a mission. Wave them higher!”

  Seven fell back with javelins protruding from their chests. The last three tumbled off the ladders and lay crumpled with the first seventeen. Maharbaal’s mouth fell open at the dead and dying soldiers. The remaining soldiers in the Company assumed their Lieutenant was shocked at the loss.

  “Third rank to the ladders,” Maharbaal screamed. “Over the wall. Make the invaders pay. Forth rank to the ladders. Over the wall.”

  The Lieutenant also sent the fifth, sixth and seventh ranks over the wall. When the ten men of the eighth rank reached the top of the ladders, they noticed the street was empty. No units of invaders were running to defend the wall. But below, ranks of men with big shields chopped into the few living soldiers still standing.

  “No! No! No!” one soldier on the ladder cried out. His words were picked up by the other members of his rank.

  “Over the wall, you cowards,” Maharbaal screamed while drawing his sword and swinging up at the closest ladder.

  The blade sliced and blood spurted from the back of the man’s legs. He fell off the ladder.

  As the wounded soldier crashed to the ground, Maharbaal raised his sword preparing to cut the man again. A soldier in the ninth rank snatched up a spear and swung the butt end. It slammed into the Lieutenant’s helmet and Maharbaal crumbled to the grass. Two men jumped from their ladders, ran to the Lieutenant and began kicking him. Soldiers from the ninth rank stepped up and joined them.

  By the time a Sergeant and two of the tenth rank shoved the soldiers back and reached the Lieutenant, the nobleman was curled into a ball and crying. They picked up the officer and dragged him to the command post.

  One Sergeant climbed the ladder and peeked over the wall. None of the soldiers who had gone over the wall lived. He climbed down slowly.

  “Return to your camp positions,” he ordered the last three ranks of the Company.

  The other Sergeant walked up to him. Neither spoke, but the NCO who had climbed the ladder shook his head, no.

  “None?” asked the Sergeant of the tenth rank.

  “None are alive and the invaders haven’t reacted,” the NCO reported. “Except for those standing and waiting for more of us to die on their blades.”

  The Sergeant of the tenth rank walked to where Maharbaal’s sword rested on the grass. He picked it up and headed for the command post.

  Doctors had the Lieutenant stretched out as they searched for broken bones. A rag covered his nose in an attempt to stop the bleeding and the nobleman moaned in pain.

  Sub-commander Barca reached the command post just before the Sergeant of the tenth rank.

  “What happened?” inquired the sub-commander looking from the injured officer to the approaching NCO.

  Wordlessly, the Sergeant marched up and stopped so he stood over the injured nobleman. Lifting the officer’s sword to the center of his chest, he slammed the hilt into his chest plate. Then he slapped the blade into the palm of his left hand. A slight pull and blood dripped from the hand. Placing his knee in the center of the blade, he pulled until the steel gave and the sword folded in half.

  The Sergeant of the tenth rank dropped the ruined swords beside Lieutenant Maharbaal. Then he turned and marched away. He hadn’t said a word, but the meaning was clear.

  ***

  It was bad enough that seventy soldiers were killed for no reason, thought the sub-commander. If the remaining thirty of the Company were the only ones angry and suspicious of their officers, he could deal with them.

  Barca walked over to a different Company area. His two bodyguards lagged behind but stayed close enough on his flanks to help if any soldiers assaulted him. It wasn’t just the thirty survivors of Maharbaal’s Charge, as it was being called. Every soldier in the southern area knew about the senseless sacrifice. And now, late in the afternoon, the news had spread among the soldiers in Messina. To protect officers from any disgruntled m
en, the Lieutenants had one bodyguard, the two sub-commanders rated two, and Admiral Hanno only allowed himself three.

  The sub-commander approached a defensive position. While the Sergeant and soldiers stood when he entered their campsite, none seemed happy to be visited by their commanding officer. Before he could speak with the ten men, a messenger ran up.

  “Sub-commander Barca. The Admiral requests your presence,” the messenger stated.

  “I’ll be back to listen to your complaints,” promised Barca.

  Then with his guards trailing behind, he headed for the Citadel.

  ***

  “I want them pushed into the harbor and drowned,” Admiral Hanno growled. “Tonight. By morning, I want Messina fully back in Empire control.”

  “Another drive on the north side?” asked Gisco. “We would have breached their lines if the diversion had been adequate. But what can you expect from a Maharbaal’s Charge.”

  Blood rushed to Barca’s face and he almost stood up to confront the other sub-commander. He settled for words.

  “If I ever hear you use that term again, Gisco,” threatened Barca. “I’ll beat you to a bloody pulp.”

  Gisco blustered and huffed but he didn’t address the fiery combat officer’s comment. It was the reason Barca commanded the troops over the wall facing the Syracusan advance force. And if they arrived, do battle with the Army of Syracuse and their king, Hiero the Second. Gisco was very happy in the town, inside the walls, performing administrative duties.

  “I have enough issues, I don’t need dissent between my sub-commanders,” warned Hanno. “No, we will not attack the north side. It’s too close to their command post and too well defended. I want to hit them on the south side. Wrap around and roll them up.”

  “Syracusan command took notice of our losses this morning,” Barca advised. “If we do an all-out push, in the morning, we’ll find them waiting at our gates.”