“What are you hauling?” asked the Corporal as he walked to the rickety cart.
The Tesserarius glanced at the litter. After the medic spoke into the curtains, he shook his head indicating the farmer wasn’t the royal messenger.
“I’m hauling melons to market. What’s this robbery going to cost me?” inquired the farmer.
“Two melons tax,” the NCO said picking out two midsized melons. “Move along.”
“Two melons you take? Do you know the sweat I spend cultivating the land before planting?” the farmer stated as he nudged the mule into motion. “Days of my labor went into growing those. Here I am on the way to Synes and you pluck two of my melons out of my load. And just like that, I’m two melons short. If…”
The Legionaries could hear the farmer grousing even when the cart was almost at the bend in the road.
“This is going to be a long and boring assignment,” the Tesserarius exclaimed as he handed the melons to his Centurion.
“Find us some more melons and it’ll at least be a tasty duty,” the Centurion commented.
The bleating of goats reached them before the herder and his flock came from the north. Turning, the officer and NCO watched the other Tesserarius.
“There’s a tax to pass,” the Corporal said as he walked between goats to reach the minder.
“I’ve only thirty heads,” pointed out the herder. “Would you take a full goat when I’m just trying to reach new pastures?”
“Your tax is two containers of goat’s milk,” the Corporal said.
He combined the contents of four clay water pots. After pausing long enough to milk two nannies, the herd moved on.
“I’ll trade you one milk for your two melons,” one Centurion offered the other.
“One for one,” countered the line officer.
“Done.” And they made the trade.
As they put their taxes in separate tents, a wagon came from the north.
Two men walked beside a mule team pulling a covered wagon. One wore a green cloak, the other a blue garment and a third man, strolling behind the wagon, had on a brown travel coat. Under the hood, he coughed and sneezed. All three had the hoods of their travel cloaks up to keep the rising sun off their heads.
“Names, and there is a tax,” the Tesserarius stated to them. “What’s in the wagon.”
“Linen, silk and thread,” the man in the green cloak replied as he tugged the mule team to a stop. “How many coins will this cost us?”
As the Corporal walked around the wagon lifting the cover and peering into the bed, the mules shuffled sideways and the man in the blue cloak placed a hand on the side of a mule’s head and shoved the stubborn beast hard. The mule stepped back in line and the team steadied.
“Two copper coins,” the Legion NCO said as he arrived back beside the animals.
“We’re just meeting our partners to turn over the cloth,” stated the man. “If you charge us two now, will we have to pay when we come back?”
“No, I’ll let you through,” the Corporal informed him. He remembered the instructions to make civilian passage as easy as possible. “But let’s see your faces so I know when you come back.”
The three men tossed back their hoods. Two were clear-eyed but the third had a runny nose and wet red-rimmed eyes.
“Move along,” ordered the Corporal as he clutched the two coins in his hand.
The wagon rolled away and the Corporal strolled to his officer.
“Two coins, Centurion.”
“At this rate, we’ll be able to feed and pay the Legion from the taxes,” teased the officer.
The sun passed overhead and traffic slowed.
“Here Lance Corporal Sisera,” the Medic offered as he handed a bowl of Legion stew to Alerio.
“I’d rather face a phalanx than sit here being useless,” complained Alerio as he took the bowl.
“You have a mission,” the Medic reminded him. “How are you feeling?”
“I felt a little wetness back there,” Alerio informed the Medic.
“Let me check your bandages,” he said as he stepped between the curtains. “Ah, Hades, you’re bleeding. I wish I could do a full dressing.”
Without the supplies of a medical unit, the Medic settled for a field alternative.
“This is going to hurt,” he warned.
“Can’t be worse than,” began Alerio before he inquired. “What’s going to hurt?”
Suddenly, his back was drenched, and he smelled vinegar. The stinging and burning, almost as bad as when he was whipped, caused him to convulse. Shaking and moaning, he dropped the half-eaten bowl of stew and squeezed the back of the litter chair. Finally, the pain settled into a throbbing along the x-mark and he relaxed his grip.
“You could have told me,” suggested Alerio.
“I did. Let me get you another bowl.”
“Don’t bother. My stomach can’t handle food right now,” explained Alerio. “Maybe some water?”
The afternoon saw farmers, tradesman, travelers and herders filtered to the Legion checkpoint. In all of those heading northward, Alerio checked and discounted them. None were Macario Hicetus or even men of military age.
Then, a caravan of farmers came from the south. Five carts pulled by men or old mules. Each cart needed to be checked and all of the people spoken to by a Corporal. The returning cloth merchants joined the end of the line. Feeling sorry for them, the Corporal waved them around the line of carts being inspected.
“Thank you for remembering us,” the man in the green robe said. “We’re trying to get home tonight and not spend another night under the stars.”
“Just let me check your load,” the Corporal assured the man as he walked to the wagon.
“My brother is resting in the back,” the tradesman informed the NCO. “I fear this trip has drained all his strength.”
Alerio looked at the men through a haze of pain and exhaustion. Vaguely, he remembered them from what felt like a lifetime ago. His throat was dry and he wanted a drink of water. But he feared taking his weary eyes off the tradesmen.
The Tesserarius poked something in the wagon before the man in the brown cloak sat up. After looking closely at the man’s face, the Lance Corporal discounted the brown cloak. Then, he shifted his attention towards the front of the wagon to check on the man in the blue cloak.
Far back in the procession of carts waiting to be inspected, an old farmer began screaming and beating his mule. If there was one thing beyond their shields, javelins, and gladii understood by Legionaries, it was mules. Each squad had one and, to a man, they were glad for the pack animal’s capacity. If not for the mule, the tent, squad cooking supplies, and other gear would have to be carried by the Legionaries.
With the enthusiasm of the old farmer, the Corporal feared his Legionaries would soon have to drag a mule carcass off the path. In a rush, he raised an arm to wave the cloth merchant onward. But one of the mules on the wagon team stepped sideways in the direction of the blue cloak.
Alerio chuckled as he recalled the exact action from the morning. The motion caused his back to spasm and he lost focus for a heartbeat. Recovering enough to see a blurry image, the Lance Corporal waited for the head shove.
Standing quietly at the side of the mule, the merchant in the blue cloak reached out and caressed the animal’s neck. Not a gesture used to correct a stubborn pack animal. It was the reaction of a cavalryman.
“Medic. The man in the blue robe,” croaked out Alerio. With his throat partially closed, his voice didn’t carry far. In frustration, the Legionary took hold of the light frame supporting the curtains and he snapped the posts. The effort racked his back with pain while the curtains collapsed burying him in Egyptian linen.
“Sisera! Are you in pain?” cried the Medic as he grabbed hands full of fabric and pulled them off his patient.
“Blue cloak. Blue cloak,” Alerio whispered. “Don’t worry about me. Blue cloak, get him.”
The two Centurions notice
d the destruction of the upper carriage of the litter. Mesmerized by the quaking fabric and the final toppling of the frame, they laughed when the Medic began frantically ripping away the linen. Then, the Medic spun and pointed a finger at the cloth merchant’s wagon.
“The man in the blue cloak,” the Medic yelled. “He’s the messenger.”
The shout also reached the man in blue and he raced away from the mule team. One of the Centurions put two fingers between his lips and emitted three shrill whistles.
Legionaries were trained to respond to commands from their squad leader, NCOs and their officer. From over the crest of the hills bordering the rough road, two half-squads leaped the ridges and sprinted to the road. They converged on the blue cloak. When he attempted to force his way between two shields, he was slammed to the ground.
A pair of Legionaries grabbed his arms and they dragged him back towards the checkpoint. To the horror of the waiting farmers, every Legionary had lowered his javelin. All the civilians stood with an iron tip at their chests.
“Get me out of this,” wheezed Alerio.
The four oarsmen, who had been lounging in the shade of a tent, strolled to the litter.
“Captain Sisera. You’ve ruined Captain Creon’s favorite chair,” one of them remarked.
“He’s not going to be happy about that,” another of the big men said as he reached in and yanked Alerio out of the wreckage.
Lance Corporal Sisera, heavy infantryman, weapons instructor, Legion Raider, certified combat rower, and veteran swordsman cried. Tears ran down his face as he crumpled to the ground. Withering in the dirt, he tried to reach his back to clutch at the pain and find a less agonizing position.
“What have you done?” screamed the Medic as he knelt beside his patient.
Seeing the blood soaking through Sisera’s bandages and tunic, the oarsman jumped back.
“I didn’t know,” he pleaded. “I thought the Captain was hiding like in a hunting stand.”
“It seems, he needed the litter,” another oarsman commented. “I wondered why it stunk of vinegar.”
“Help me get him up,” and the Medic paused. Where could he put the wounded Legionary?
The oarsman who had jerked Alerio out of the litter went to the vehicle and wrenched the chair from the lower frame.
Setting it down by the Medic, he suggested, “Put the Captain back in the chair.”
The Medic and an oarsman picked the moaning Legionary off the ground. They placed his legs on either side of the seat and leaned his chest against the chair back. Alerio’s head hung and he fought to get control of the pain.
“Is this the messenger?” a voice asked.
Blinking his eyes to clear them, Alerio raised his head and stared into the face of Macario Hicetus.
“Lieutenant Hicetus. Good to see you again,” Alerio said softly.
“You! The spy,” spit the Syracusan noble. “I should have killed you when I had the chance.”
“And I should have left you for the street gang,” Alerio replied weakly. “But that’s history and the fates have brought us together briefly.”
“Briefly?” Hicetus asked.
“Yes. Senior Tribune Gaius Claudius wants to have a conversation with you,” advised Alerio. “And you should know, the Tribune is tired. He was out last night killing Qart Hadasht troops with his bare hands. If you want to keep your body parts, you’ll answer his questions, quickly.”
The Centurion assigned three squads as escorts.
“Double time back to Citadel Hill,” he ordered. “If the prisoners can’t keep up. Kill the other two and carry the messenger. Go.”
When the squads, Macario Hicetus and the brown and green cloaks vanished over the crest of the first hill, the Centurion turned to Alerio.
“The Tribune was only observing the Qart Hadasht troops last night,” the officer stated. “I don’t think he participated in any combat.”
“No, sir. But the Syracusan messenger doesn’t know that,” replied Alerio. Then he groaned and went limp over the back of the chair.
Chapter 10 – Missives and Responses
“The day after tomorrow when the sun is overhead,” Tribune Gaius Claudius stated as he unrolled a scroll and placed it on the table. “There are no other couriers. When threats didn’t reveal other messengers, I resorted to something Lance Corporal Sisera said to get to the truth.”
“And what was that?” asked General Caudex.
“I handed Macario Hicetus a wineskin and waited,” Claudius informed the Legions’ command staff. “When he was dancing with Bacchus, Lieutenant Hicetus admitted that he was the only royal messenger.”
Colonel Requiem reached out, snatched up the scroll and read the document. When he finished, he offered it to Colonel Nicephrus.
“I don’t read Greek,” Nicephrus admitted as he waved off the scroll. “Four Gallic languages because I need to know my enemies. Until now, they hadn’t been Hellenes.”
“What’s your opinion of the message, Pericles?” General Caudex questioned.
“Just what the Tribune reported,” Requiem explained as he scanned the message. “The day after tomorrow both King Hiero’s forces and the Qart Hadasht mercenaries will…Let me see. Become the swords of Nemesis and punish the arrogance of the Republic. With the Goddess’ blessing, the streets of Messina will run red with the blood of our mutual foe.”
“That’s plain enough,” Nicephrus observed. “It’s a battle on two fronts.”
“Not yet, Colonel,” Caudex suggested. “I’m going to send missives and emissaries. We will seek peace and a resolution.”
“When General? Before they attack and kill us all,” accused Maris Eutropius. “We have one option, withdraw from Messina. Row back to the Republic and forget this ill-advised adventure.”
Colonel Nicephrus and Colonel Requiem stared open-mouthed at the Senior Tribune. Then they glanced at each other before looking across the table at General Caudex.
“It’s a good thing Senior Tribune Eutropius is on the General’s staff,” Nicephrus stated. Then he looked over his shoulder at the junior Tribunes, Legionary runners, and servants standing against the walls.
“Why is that, Colonel?” inquired General Caudex.
“Our Centuries fight aggressively based on the assumption that we will be victorious,” Requiem exclaimed. “Starting our plan of battle with a retreat will demoralize the Legionaries. Now that Tribune Eutropius has voiced a defeatist attitude and predicted our demise, we have to repair the internal damage.”
“What has that got to do with whose staff he serves on?” asked the General.
“If he suggested a retreat before a battle near a Centurion, the line officer would stab him in the gut to silence him. And to show that Senior Tribune Eutropius was, literally, full of merda,” Colonel Nicephrus informed the General. “As it is sir, you’ll need to give a rousing speech to the Legions to reassure the men of our victory.”
“I’ll make the speech after I craft the missives and dispatch the representatives,” promised General Caudex. He looked around at the onlookers. “Once we get the replies, we will formulate a plan that does not include another night crossing of the Messina Strait.”
***
Two emissaries with Legion cavalry escorts galloped from Messina. One went to the Syracuse King in the south and another to the Qart Hadasht General in the north. After they rode out, Legionaries began crowding the streets of Messina. Colonels Nicephrus and Requiem had sent orders to their Divisions. It was compulsory for every Legionary, not required to man the defensive positions, to come and stand at the foot of Citadel Hill. There, they would bask in the words of their General and hear the truth about their situation.
General Caudex marched from the Citadel with the Colonels flanking him five steps back. At the crest of the hill, he paced as if inspecting the units. After long moments, he raised his arms to silence the men.
“Legionaries! Citizens and defenders of the Republic, I am General Appease Clo
dus Caudex. There are rumors running like city rats through our Centuries. I am here to smash the rats and clear the ranks of these ugly untruths. Be of good cheer and not downcast. For we have the enemies of our Republic where we want them.”
A murmur of confusion ran through the crowd of Legionaries at the comment. They were trapped with warships preventing resupplies on the Strait and armies to their south and north. Yet the General assured them it was a positive condition.
“I see you lack the vision to see the true nature of our situation. Allow me to rip away the fog before your eyes and show you reality. Victories do not fall to the better-equipped or the undisciplined masses. Victory, my Legionaries, is earned by men of valor. Legionaries who display better skills than those of their opponents. You’ve run until your feet are calloused. You’ve swung your gladii until your muscles are hard. And you’ve marched until the men at your sides resemble Phobos and Deimos to the enemy.”
Comparing the Legion ranks to the God of Fear and his twin brother, the God of Terror, brought cheers from the Legionaries. The exuberance at the compliment by their General flowed from those in front to those standing far back on side streets. As his words were repeated, more cheers erupted. Gazing at his Legionaries, Caudex stood absorbing their adoration.
“You see the Strait and the seas as deep woods and the Qart Hadasht warships as unstoppable wolves. But I tell you, the Republic will soon acquire the science of seafaring. Sea warfare skills can be obtained by men who give their minds to it and mastered by practice. Bravery, on the other hand, when not in a man’s nature cannot be acquired. Bravery comes from the heart, not from numbers, positions, instructions, or the giving of coins. Let them row around for now. Soon, they will feel and fear the sea might of the Republic.”
More cheers erupted and the General paused until they subsided.
“I trust my life and the health of the Republic to the bravery of my Legions. To your hearts and the strength of your shield and gladius arms. To your Squads, your Centuries and the unbeatable ranks of our maniples. From the power of my veterans in the first maniple to the steady skills of the second. And even to the untested Legionaries of the third maniple. The enemy’s numbers tremble in the face of my Legionaries. Their leaders should fall to their knees and beg for our mercy. They do not have your heart! They do not have your courage!”
Clay Warrior Stories Boxset 2 Page 52
