Uncertain Honor

by J. Clifton Slater

  “One,” Alerio roared extending his arm and shoving a finger at the supply officer’s face. “I am a Senior Tribune and aide-de-camp to Proconsul Regulus. You will respect my rank. Two. I have given you an order. My order supersedes anything your Tribune said before he left. Now I want…No, make that Proconsul Regulus needs Philyra's Image launched and on her way in two days.”

  “Yes, sir,” the Centurion acknowledged.

  Alerio and Galo marched out of the office.

  “Sir, all the supplies in the world won’t get me off the beach,” the ship’s Centurion reminded Alerio. “A warship requires oarsmen and officers.”

  “You go to the warehouse and make sure they give you everything you need. I’m going to the oarsmen training area to get you rowers.”

  “Thank you, Senior Tribune.”

  “Don’t thank me,” Alerio responded. “You don’t know what the mission is, yet.”

  Battling an entrenched organization was worse than fighting a bear. At least with the hairy beast, you knew the location of the teeth and claws. With the hairless bureaucracy, you could not tell the direction of the incoming knife blades. The Navy’s supply system, if nothing else, was such a naked beast. Until they did damage, Senior Tribune Alerio Sisera didn’t even realize the blades were in motion.

  Chapter 3 – The Naked Beast

  A long row of skeletal like structures dotted the beach. Consisting of frames with the curves of a ship’s hull, the practice areas had rowing benches for one hundred oarsmen on each side. Partial side boards with rowing notches held oars. Suspended overhead, a walkway provided an instructor a bird’s eye view. While below, the two hundred trainees and their deck officers mimicked the basics strokes of a warship in motion.

  Phobos pranced across the soft sand until Alerio pulled on the reins. The stallion stopped and the senior staff officer sat watching the training at one of the frames.

  “Call the strokes,” the instructor ordered from above.

  Below him, inexperienced ship’s officers paced up and down the rower’s walk. While the oarsmen trainees rowed, the Principales called out the rhythm.

  “Second Principale, your ‘engine’ is out of sync,” the instructor pointed out to a deck officer. “Help them.”

  The ship’s second officer dashed to the middle of the structure where his most powerful oarsmen rowed. He shouted out the stroke count while waving his arms in time with the pace. Shortly after he began, the big men coordinated their movements and the ‘engine’ matched his best oarsmen, the ‘stroke’, in the stern of the ship.

  “Your port side ‘bow’ rowers are confused,” the instructor bellowed.

  The Third Principale raced to the front of the structure and faced left. He clapped his hands and called the stroke count for the crew’s weaker oarsmen.

  “Blades down,” the instructor commanded. Next he called to assistants standing on the sand outside the trainer. “Give me weight.”

  Around the frame, the assistants hung sandbags from the oars. Once all two hundred of the fifteen feet long poles had extra weight, the instructor called, “Easy oars.”

  Alerio watched as the oarsmen held the poles level with their benches. Quite the opposite as suggested by the command, holding long oars made from young fir trees with weights on the tips was not easy. During the silent exercise, Alerio called to the instructor.

  “I’m looking for the officers off the trireme Image of Philyra,” he remarked to the teacher.

  “I’m her Second Principale, sir,” the instructor informed Alerio.

  “Are these oarsmen any good?” Alerio questioned while slipping down from the stallion’s back.

  “They’re going to be excellent rowers,” the instructor answered. “Once we get them out to sea.”

  “Go find your First and Third ship’s officers, and report back to me,” Alerio directed while climbing to the rower’s walk. “I’ll run the drill until you get back.”

  “Yes, sir,” the ship’s officer acknowledged.

  After scampering down from the perch, the Principale jogged away. In the training hull, Senior Tribune Sisera sauntered along the walkway.

  “Our rowing instructors teach combat rowing. And they do it well,” Alerio commented. “But I’m going to show you why it’s important. Drop your oars.”

  The two hundred poles lowered until the sandbags rested on the ground.

  “In this exercise, when I point at you, you will scream until I signal you to go lay quietly on the sand,” Alerio explained. “If you don’t yell loud enough you will remain here until I release you. Am I clear?”

  “Yes, sir,” the rowers roared back.

  Alerio prowled the rower’s walk making eye contact with the trainees. Once sure they were all paying attention, he continued.

  “Several years ago, I was on a warship when it was gutted by a Qart Hadasht ram. Oarsmen, who weren’t killed by the ram, or flying splinters, or drowned in the sea, swam to the surface. Arrows from Empire archers killed the survivors.”

  Growls of anger looped up and down the length of the rowing benches. Once the reaction to the horrible act ran its course, Alerio continued.

  “Last year, I watched the destruction of an Egyptian Fleet. Not by larger ships or a bigger armada but from attack runs by lighter and smaller warships,” Alerio described. “The difference between success and death rested with the quality of the oarsmen. The following exercise is the result of inferior rowing.”

  Alerio held out an arm and walked the deck indicating a section of oarsmen. His hand included a swatch that encompassed part of the ‘stroke’, a gouge from the ‘engine’, and the edge of the ‘bow’.

  “A bronze ram just shredded your hull. The flesh and bones of your friends are dangling from the blades of the ram. Rowers next to the dead are cut to ribbons by flying splinters,” Alerio described for the men in the marked area. “The hull has rolled. Every uninjured man on the damaged side is underwater. Those rowers I pointed to scream. Now.”

  At first, there were a few chuckles mixed in with the screams. It was a nice afternoon, the sun was warm, and it was, after all, just an exercise. But an odd switch happened to the men when faced with the prolonged sounds of tragedy. Even fake drama, allowed to go on long enough, effected the nerves of everyone near the bellowing and shrieking. Although sitting quietly, the port side rowers began fidgeting while a large section of the starboard side hollered in waves of breathless cries. The frame of the trainer, as if suffering along with the men on the right side, vibrated from the emotional swaying of the screamers.

  Alerio used both arms to wave the starboard side off the frame and onto the sand. From the ear pounding noise, the hull and remaining men sat in silence. Yet, their hearts raced in sympathy with the men heading for the sand.

  “Congratulations, you survived the ram. But you are trapped under a sinking hull,” Alerio offered to the port side. “On my signal, climb up and over the instructors walk. Then run to the beach. But first, scream.”

  As if released from Hades, the one hundred men exploded in cries as dreadful as victims of Melinoe, The Goddess of Ghosts and Spirits. So loud and alarming did they yell, the rowers in the sand felt the effect.

  Alerio waved both arms. The men climbed over each other in a wave as they sought to scale the instructor’s walk and escape to the sand. Once the two hundred trainees were laying quietly, Alerio hopped down from the artificial hull.

  “I have heard screams and the deadly silence that followed the death of good men,” Alerio lectured. “Good men, yes. Good rowers, maybe. But not great oarsmen. Get on your feet.”

  The two hundred jumped up. From down the beach three ship’s officers jogged to Alerio. One saluted when they reached him.

  “Sir, we are the Principales from the Image of Philyra,” he stated.

  “Select one hundred and seventy of these oarsmen,” Alerio instructed. “They’re your rowing crew. Take them and report to Centurion Galo.”

  “Supplies, sir
,” the second deck officer mentioned.

  “They should be arriving shortly,” Alerio assured him. “Advise your Centurion that I will be along shortly with your assignment.”

  The three saluted before starting the selection process. While they cut the weakest oarsmen from the group of trainees, Alerio leaped onto the saddle and urged Phobos forward. They crossed the sand heading towards the next training hull.

  ***

  The sun hung low over the hills to the west when Alerio finished his field work. Feeling good about the revised distribution system and the progress of the rower trainees, he pushed through the door to the headquarters building.

  “Good afternoon, Senior Tribune,” the desk Optio greeted him. “There is paperwork waiting for you in your office.”

  “I guess someone recognized the need for a senior staff officer,” Alerio teased.

  “Yes, sir,” the NCO agreed.

  Down the hallway, he passed the entrance to the proconsul’s suite and opened the door to his office. At the threshold, Alerio stopped, before retracing his steps to the duty NCO’s desk.

  “It seems Optio, I need a large container of ink, pens, and several big pieces of parchment.”

  “Yes, sir. I can have those delivered in the morning,” the NCO told him.

  “Did I say wishfully that I hoped to have the supplies sometime in the distant future?” Alerio questioned.

  “You did not, Senior Tribute. I’ll see to them right away.”

  “I’ll be in my office,” Alerio stated.

  Down the hallway, he again reached the doorway and peered inside. Hundreds of pieces of stiff and brittle reed-paper were stacked around the floor of his office. Almost as complicated as an obstacle course for a Legionary in training, the pathway through the stacks proved perilous.

  “I see what you’re doing Centurion Illotus,” Alerio whispered after picking up a scrap of paper and reading the scrawled lettering. “Challenge accepted.”

  ***

  Dinner at the rented villa sat in an iron pot slung off to the side of the fire. Warm but not burned, the stew, even away from the hot flame, had been cooking since before sundown.

  “You’re a staff officer,” Gabriella mention when Alerio walked into the great room. “I thought that meant you left the office at the end of the day.”

  “Unfortunately, lady of the villa, my day has not ended,” Alerio informed her. To Hektor, he ordered. “Pack an overnight bag for me. I’m going to the Capital.”

  “When will you return?” Gabriella asked. “Or should I box up the household and take it back to our villa in Rome?”

  “Not yet,” Alerio said with little conviction. “Is there any dinner left?”

  While Alerio reclined on a couch, Gabriella went to get a bowl of very thick stew. Hektor vanished into the sleeping quarters to gather Alerio’s things.

  “Senior Tribune,” Hektor called from the hallway, “do you need your armor?”

  “This isn’t a trip to the Legion,” Alerio called back. His hands wrapped around the bowl and he inhaled the aroma. “But it is political. Pack new sandals and a good tunic.”

  “Don’t you have any assistants at Naval Headquarters, husband? If so, you need to replace them because you look exhausted, and your fingers are stained with ink,” Gabriella commented. “I thought Legionaries took care of each other?”

  Alerio slurped the stew and studied his hand over the lip of the bowl. After considering her words, he placed the bowl on a table, stood, and hugged his wife.

  “They do. And thank you for reminding me,” he whispered into her ear. Pulling back, he gazed into the gold specks that shimmered in her eyes. “I won’t be gone long.”

  “I would hope not,” Gabriella sighed.

  “Hektor, forget the sandals and the tunic,” he shouted while stretching his back. “This is not political. I’ll wear my ceremonial armor. And be sure my hobnailed boots are oiled.”

  A short while later, Senior Tribune Sisera kicked Phobos in the ribs. Man, and horse trotted through the sleeping town of Ostia. It was eighteen miles to the Forum. And another three miles to reach their first destination.

  ***

  Six days later, Alerio sat on the stallion facing the sea. Beyond the beach and the breaking waves, out where the water simply swelled, six fully equipped quinqueremes raced across the horizon. None had hoisted a sail. For them, the winner would come from the muscles and skills of their oarsmen and not from a lucky gust of wind.

  The stomp of hoofs announcing the arrival of another rider drew Alerio’s attention from the competition.

  “Senior Tribune Sisera?” a staff officer inquired.

  “That’s me, Tribune,” Alerio confirmed for the young nobleman.

  Their two mounts stared at each other and snorted their dislike.

  “Sir, your presence is requested in the proconsul’s office.”

  Alerio ran his eyes over the pretty armor, the unmarred hilt on the man’s gladius, and the new riding sandals. For sure he was a political appointee, and not from a marching Legion.

  “How was Agrigento?” Alerio inquired before stopping himself. By asking about a battle site the youthful Tribune could not have been at, he insinuated that the staff officer had not earned the rank. Quickly, to cover the snide remark, he asked. “Is Senator Regulus back?”

  “No sir,” the Tribune related. “But there are visitors who wish to speak with you in his office.”

  Phobos bristled and his tail rose. Alerio felt the muscles of the steed flex under him. A yank on the bit and a pat on the horse’s shoulder calmed him for the moment.

  “Can that horse run?” Alerio questioned the Tribune.

  He eased Phobos’ head around. The stallions faced a quarter mile of soft sand before reaching the road. On the other side, firm footing for another quarter mile would carry them to the headquarters building.

  “My horse is bred from championship stock,” the Tribune bragged. “He is built for the race.”

  “That’s too bad,” Alerio consoled the young nobleman. “Phobos is an infantry horse. With a temperament for war.”

  Senior Tribune Sisera snapped the reins, turning his steed loose. For all his great strength, Phobos kept his strides short. Sand poured around each hoof when it was planted. In turn the leg had to be extracted before sinking in again. The short strides allowed Phobos to seemingly dance through the sand.

  A heartbeat behind him, the racing stallion attempted to stretch out. With each stride, his feet tunneled deep into the sand. And for each step, he fought to extract the bone, muscle, hoof, and a measure of grainy material.

  The small additional weight and bad footing added up and by the time the stallions reached the end of the beach, the racing stallion was tiring. Phobos paced next to him for a moment before exploding off the beach and up the short embankment. Then, the warhorse stretched out over the solid ground as if flying. In four powerful strides, Phobos left the horse bred for racing behind.

  ***

  “Senior Tribune, there are people in the proconsul’s office,” the desk NCO informed Alerio.

  “I know,” he acknowledged. “And they’re waiting for me.”

  Alerio marched down the hallway, placed a palm on the door, and flung it open. The wood slammed against the wall and the six people in the room jerked in surprise.

  Two Senators, he could tell by the purple stripe on their tunics, sat at Regulus’ desk. Behind the desk, an older man occupied the proconsul’s chair. The long robe of office identified him as a judge. Other than the three officials, a Tribune, and two Centurions waited in the room.

  “Gentlemen, I apologize for the rude entrance,” Alerio stated. “Your boy courier caught me in the middle of a task. What can I do for you?”

  “He is a Tribune of the Republic,” a Senator protested.

  “Your nephew, sir?” Alerio guessed. “I’m sorry for disparaging the youth. When I was his age, I was battling mercenaries for Messina, not bothering a Senior Tr
ibune readying a fleet for an invasion.”

  “That’s why Senator Centho and I are here,” the other Senator informed Alerio. “It had come to our attention that there are irregularities in the accounts. Tribune Ninivita, if you would be so kind.”

  The middle-aged staff officer marched to the desk. From a pouch, he pulled out several handfuls of scrap reed-paper. Alerio recognized them as being from the stacks he had signed.

  “The evidence, Senator Metellus,” the Tribune stated.

  “You’re Ninivita,” Alerio remarked, “my missing staff officer of supply?”

  “I’ve been on important business in the Capital,” Ninivita protested.

  “From the papers in your hands, I would say you have been negligent in both your duties here and in the Capital,” Alerio accused him. “But it’s alright. You have plenty of challenges ahead of you.”

  Ninivita spread the papers in front of the Judge, stepped away from the desk, and sneered at Alerio.

  “I have been briefed on the facts of this case,” the Judge declared. He picked up several pieces, read them, and placed the reed papers back on the desk. “Alerio Carvilius Sisera, you are formerly charged with embezzlement against the Republic, profiteering during the execution of your duties, and seeking self-enrichment at the cost of the citizens of the Republic.”

  Alerio nodded his head, crossed the room, and poured a glass of wine from a pitcher.

  “I see the duty NCO broke out Regulus’ private stock for this gala,” he observed after a sip. “Is there no other reason you gentlemen traveled from the Capital?”

  “What other reason would we have to travel here?” Metellus questioned.

  “Curiosity?” Alerio ventured.

  “You don’t seem to be taking this seriously enough,” the Judge advised. He placed a hand over splinters of paper. “You will be stripped of rank, fined thousands of Republic Silvers, and face exile. Yet you have not pleaded for mercy or understanding.”