“For trading?” asked Gaius.
“No Tribune. To get my weight up,” Ferox stated with a laugh.
***
While the leader of the Sons and the Senior Tribune talked, First Sergeants Gerontius and Brictius walked the defensive line. They stopped at each squad and spoke briefly to the Legionaries. At the positions with Centurions, they stayed a little longer before moving to the next squad. At the last defensive position, they found Lance Corporal Sisera sharing in the squad’s afternoon meal.
“I thought you’d be tired of the weapons instructor’s company by now,” Brictius suggested.
“Alerio’s not a bad Legionary when not being a cūlus,” the squad leader replied.
“And when is that?” inquired Gerontius.
“When he’s not beating one of us with his gladius or a shield,” a squad member answered.
“And making us better fighters,” another said with pride.
Alerio Sisera was leaning hard against a pile of dirt that seemed to be holding him up. The exhausted weapons instructor didn’t say anything. All of his concentration was on a bowl of Legion stew he was wolfing down.
“We have Qart Hadasht units moving in from the north,” Brictius explained. “Every squad is pulling back through the gates. Only half will come back through. Hopefully, the Syracusans will lose count. The other half is moving beyond the north wall to dig in.”
“Oh, and Tribune Claudius wants those cavalrymen pushed back during the maneuver,” added Gerontius.
Alerio brightened up. He finished the stew quickly, wiped the bowl and slid it into a pouch.
“For three days, the horsemen have enjoyed our drilling like it’s entertainment. They laugh, drink wine, and make comments while we sweat and hurt,” the Lance Corporal said. Around him, the squad grumbled their agreement. “I’d like the opportunity to bring a little pain and panic to them for a change.”
“Squad leader, you want some of this?” asked Gerontius.
“My leg still hurts from Sisera correcting my stance,” the Lance Corporal related. His squad members all nodded at the memory. “But what hurt worse was those donkey riders laughing. Want some of that? In short, First Sergeant, yes!”
“Sounds like you have a squad. What else do you need?” Brictius asked the weapons instructor.
“When the squads start moving, have them drop extra javelins and five bows strung with open bundles of arrows in the center position,” Alerio requested. Then he glanced around the squad. “What say we run some shield and swords drills to get warmed up.”
A collective groan came from the Legionaries, but they were also grinning.
***
Four squads backed out of their defensive positions and marched along the back side of the detachment’s defensive line. At the center, before turning towards the gates, they dropped bows and javelins. As they turned for the gates, the squads called out barbs at the squad being drilled by the weapons instructor.
Two more squads followed the routine and dropped arrows and javelins. One squad also left a Legionary behind the mound of dirt. While his squad mates jested with the squad drilling, he strung the bows and placed javelins in neat stacks of seven. Then he rolled onto his back, put his hands behind his helmet and watched the shields smash together while Lance Corporal Sisera screamed out corrections.
Across the open ground, five Syracusan cavalrymen threw one leg across their horse’s necks and lifted wineskins. To their pleasure, the afternoon circus was beginning.
Eight squads pulled back, converged on the center and, in messy columns, the eighty Legionaries began marching to the gates.
“Sheath your gladii and drop your shields,” instructed Sisera. “Stay low and work your way to the weapons.”
In the mass of infantry shields, armor, and bobbing helmets, Alerio and the ten-man squad filtered unseen to the center position.
“Fifteen paces and release,” he instructed. “Once you’re done, get back to the line. There are more cavalrymen on the flanks, and you don’t want to be caught in the open without your shield.”
The horsemen lost sight of the drilling squad in the crowd. Sitting taller on their mounts, they attempted to peer beyond the helmets and retreating backs. Then they caught sight of ten infantry shields laying on the ground. Before the question of where did the Legionaries go could be voiced, they had the answer.
The squad ducked behind the defensive mound and began selecting their weapons. Most got a chuckle when the weapons instructor shoved six javelins in his sword belt and snatched up two more, one in each hand.
“Attack, attack,” Alerio yelled as he placed a foot on top of the mound and vaulted to the top.
With him leading the charge, the rest of the squad and the extra Legionary jumped up and followed. While they picked targets, Lance Corporal Sisera continued to run. At fifteen paces, he launched both javelins at the same time. Before the bowmen notched and let fly, Alerio had two more javelins in his hands. By the time the others released, Alerio’s shafts jutted from two of the horsemen. They toppled to the ground as did another rider with three arrows in his chest.
The last two cavalrymen reined their horses around causing one of Alerio’s javelins to go wide. With so many arrows and shafts in the air, no one knew who took down the fifth horsemen.
“Back. Back to the line,” shouted the squad leader.
Alerio glanced from side to side checking on the Legionaries. Then he looked beyond them and saw cavalry troops bearing down on their location.
“Run,” he ordered as he turned and began to trot after the retreating Legionaries.
But two Legionaries spun in the same direction and collided. Struggling to untangle their javelins, they tripped and fell. With nine of the assault force almost back to the defensive line, Alerio cut at an angle and raced back to the fallen men.
He pulled two javelins and stood over them while they scrambled to their feet.
“Go,” he ordered as four galloping horses converged on the weapons instructor.
The squads coming back through the gates let out a roar. The ones still heading towards the wall turned their heads to see what was causing the commotion.
The weapons instructor, they all knew intimately from knots and bruises, stood as a target for Syracusan cavalrymen. His sacrifice allowed the two clumsy Legionaries time to make it safely out of range of the lances.
Alerio stood with his arms raised and his hands gripping javelins. Hooves thundered as the sharp points of lances came at him from the sides. With the iron tips three heartbeats from his flanks, Alerio launched his javelins to the left and right. Without waiting to see if they hit the targets, he hopped back, drew two more and tripped, falling onto his back. A pair of riderless horses crossed in front of him.
He jumped to his feet, saw two more riders coming at him and, flipped back and over landing on his face. Alerio raised up searching for the lance tips of the last two horsemen. But they never reached him. The cavalrymen were riding away being chased by flights of arrows from five angry Legionaries with bows.
One of the archers stopped beside Alerio. While still notching and firing arrows, he said out of the side of his mouth.
“A weapons instructor once told me never stand between charging cavalrymen,” the Legionary exclaimed.
“Oh, and who was that?” asked Alerio as he pushed off the ground and began brushing the dirt off his armor.
“You, Lance Corporal Sisera,” he responded. “It was you on the first day of drills. Just before you hit me with the flat of your blade.”
“Did it hurt?” inquired Alerio.
“It did hurt but, I remembered the lesson.”
“Good,” Alerio commented as he walked towards the defensive line.
***
One hundred of the Legionaries destined for the north wall made another circuit to the east defenses before marching back into the city. In the center of Messina, they lined up at a supply wagon and drew rations for their squads. At another wagon, they w
ere handed shovels and picks.
“The infantryman’s best friend,” someone stated as he slung the shovel onto a shoulder.
“I thought it was his shield?” another ventured.
“No, it’s his gladius,” another added.
“What do you say, weapons instructor,” the first man asked.
Alerio handed out another shovel and yawned. After the charge that put the cavalry in disarray and prevented the Syracusans from getting a clear picture of what the Legion was doing, First Sergeant Gerontius ordered Alerio to the supply depot.
“Your best friend is the Legionary on your right covering your boney backside with his shield,” suggested Alerio. “Now, move along so another man can have a girlfriend.”
“Did you hear that?” asked a Legionary. “Lance Corporal Sisera said the shovel is your new girlfriend.”
“It fits,” another replied. “It works me as hard as my wife does back home on the farm.”
“Your wife works you hard so you’re too dēfutūta to chase her around the bedroom,” another called out.
“Say, do you know my wife?”
“No, but I know pick and shovel work,” commented another. “And just like a wife with a scroll filled with chores, it’ll leave you wanting nothing but a peaceful night’s rest at the end of a hard day.”
“You can discuss women while you dig,” shouted First Sergeant Brictius as he stormed from a tent. “I need a trench and fortifications dug before nightfall. Now move along or I won’t be around to tuck you in tonight.”
“Promises, promises,” the last Legionary in line mumbled as Alerio handed him a shovel.
“Lance Corporal Sisera. I know you’ve got the harbor detail and the Sons of Mars to contend with,” advised the First Sergeant. “But try to get some sleep. That stunt with the horsemen had all the markings of being planned by a sleep-deprived Tribune.”
“Did someone call me?” Gaius Claudius asked as he came out of the tent.
“No sir, the First Sergeant and I were just discussing your need to keep the guards at the harbor alert,” Alerio lied.
“Absolutely. Now First Sergeant, let’s go review our defenses,” Senior Tribune Claudius ordered. “And I need to speak with the skirmisher Sergeant.”
“Yes sir,” Brictius replied. “After you, Tribune.”
Alerio leaned against the wagon’s side and yawned again before pushing back and heading for Messina harbor. He didn’t remember the trip, but suddenly he was standing in front of Milon Frigian.
“Whoa there, Legionary,” Milon said taking Alerio by the shoulders and leading him across the boulevard from the barricade. “I think you, Captain Sisera, need to make a sacrifice to Hypnos and plead for his blessing.”
“Sleep yes, but I need to clean my gear first,” Alerio replied. They circled an extra wagon that wasn’t needed to create the barrier between the harbor and Messina.
“There’s one of my tunics hanging on the wall,” Milton pointed out. “It’s freshly washed and should be dry by now. You’re just across from the warehouses if we need you.”
“Thank you. Set the guards,” Alerio ordered as he began tugging off his gladius belt and armor. “Have someone wake me for the last watch, or...”
“Or if things get hot, I know. Now sleep Captain Sisera,” Milton advised using Alerio’s honorary title. The Sons of Mars had made him a Captain for his fighting and leadership in defending Messina and preventing the massacre of the Sons by Hiero’s advance force.
Once the armor and helmet were cleaned and the blade sharpened, weapons instructor, Lance Corporal Alerio Sisera fell onto the stack of blankets. He didn’t fall directly under Hypnos’ spell but lay awake. For three days, from dawn to dusk, he was challenged and had challenged infantrymen to be their best. As with anyone who has been in combat for an extended period, his muscles jerked as if unsure if the battle had ended and his body allowed to relax. Eventually, the exhaustion won and he fell asleep.
***
As the sun settled over the mountains and darkness fell, Senior Tribune Gaius Claudius followed two skirmishers along the Legion trench. At the end where an unclimbable rise blocked the way, they crossed the footfall trench and slid down the slope into a crop of trees. From there, they circled to a notch in the next rise and dropped down a slight incline. The land flattened and became mushy. They traveled long enough for the moon to rise.
The Tribune at first was confused by the dark shapes of marsh grasses and trees with roots making the footing difficult. At one point, he veered off into waist deep water. But the Veles, who seemed to be able to see in the dark, reached out and placed his hand on one of their shoulders. After that mishap, he was guided across the muddy but firm ground. They slogged further into the night. He was damp, tired and confused by the sameness of the marsh grass clumps. It came as a surprise when the skirmisher’s shoulder lowered and Gaius allowed himself to sink down onto one knee.
“To your right, sir,” one of them whispered. “You can see their cookfires.”
“How many?” inquired the Tribune.
“Don’t know, sir,” the skirmisher admitted. “I can’t count beyond my fingers and toes.”
“How many sets of fingers and toes?” coached Gaius.
“What?” the man asked.
“Abstract mathematical concept, forget it,” the Senior Tribune mumbled. “Get me close enough to get a count.”
“We’ll need to crawl, sir,” the Legionary informed him. “And stay silent. Their sentries are just at the edge of the marsh.”
“I understand. Let’s go,” urged Gaius.
They moved slowly between clumps of marsh grass and small trees until the skirmishers dropped to their bellies. Then they eased forward on the wet ground. At the edge of the marsh, the land firmed and opened as if a flat black sea. Moonlight reflected off a short defensive wall that extended from the swamp to the waters of Messina Strait. From behind a thick shrub, Tribune Claudius raised up, looked over the wall and began counting the flickering fires.
Gaius Claudius reached five hundred sixty fires and estimated at least five thousand six hundred Qart Hadasht troops. With more rows still to be counted, one of the Velites put both hands on his shoulders and forced him to the damp earth.
“I was…” the Tribune started to say when a hand clamped over his mouth.
“Listen,” the man whispered in Gaius’ ear.
From among the fires, the rattle of armor and the clink of weapons shifting around bodies carried to the brush. Then, the voice of a commander called out in a language the Tribune didn’t understand. He didn’t need to know what the man said because the tone was no different than a Centurion ordering his Century to fall into formation. Soon another voice in a different language, but with the same tone, called out.
Boots and sandals crushing tall grass and weeds marched by and a skirmisher pressed on Gaius’ back. He understood and laid still. Once the units passed, he expected to crawl away from the brush and the enemy camp. But more voices approached. These speaking Greek in a conversational tone.
“It’s just a probe by a couple of our companies,” a voice whined. “There’s no need for you, General, to be out here in the night. Besides, King Hiero’s note stated he would send a royal messenger to announce his attack.”
“And because of a King, I’m to sit in my tent, sipping wine and talking philosophy?” the General demanded. “While my men throw their lives away on the swords of the Republic’s Legionaries? You can go. I don’t believe there will be much call for a diplomat tonight. Unless you’d like the Captain to lend you his sword and you can follow our men into combat.”
“General. I certainly didn’t mean to infer that your presence didn’t bolster the men’s morale,” nasally voice insisted. “I am, after all, a member of the expedition’s command staff. And, as is right and just, I’ll stay with you.”
“Fine but keep your comments pertinent to the mission,” scolded the General. “We will test the strength of th
e Legion for ourselves before lounging around awaiting word from Hiero.”
Tribune Claudius counted six more besides the General and the diplomat. Plus, other men had kicked brush out of the way as they entered the marsh to his right and left. Possibly the General’s security force. With no way to escape, the Tribune and his two light infantrymen rested on the damp grass and listened to the Greek part of the conversation. The other members of the Qart Hadasht staff spoke in the Phoenician and Gaius could only guess at the meaning of their words.
Chapter 3 – First Blood of the First Punic War
The dark shapes of five large Corbita freighters rowed into Messina harbor. Before the Sons on sentry duty could sound an alert, three triremes scratched along the pier and deposited armored men on the dock. On the half-moon sands of the harbor, the transports beached and more men in armor leaped over the sides, dropped to the sand and raced for the town.
As Captain Sisera had directed, the last guards off the docks paused between the warehouses, snatched scoops of charcoal from fire amphorae and lit lanterns. This served two purposes. It put light on the assaulters while keeping the Sons at the barricades in shadows. It makes you less of a target for spears and arrows, Captain Sisera explained. And, the lanterns served to alert the commanders of each alleyway to the danger.
“Defend the barricades,” Captain Milon Frigian said to the oarsmen close to him. He walked among his sleeping crew and kicked those not moving into motion. “Wake up. We’ve invaders on the docks.”
Almost silently, the one hundred and twenty oarsmen of his bireme grabbed spears, swords, and shields. Soon the overturned wagons at each warehouse passageway bristled with iron points. No one remembered to wake Alerio Sisera.
“What is this?” demanded a voice from behind the ranks of Legionaries standing between the walls of the warehouse.
“It’s a blockade as any fool can see,” Milon Frigian shouted back.
“And who are you?” inquired the voice with a sharp tone.
From the docks behind the man, the rattle of shields rapping against armor announced the arrival of the Legionaries from the transports.
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