The Marines strive to be
Where the Gods leave free
Like a place with a future unsure
Tellus has dirt and solid ground
Neptune has the sound
Which leaves for the Marines
The land between
A place of fear
And horrors unseen
We will not give ground
We have none to give
Where sea and sand convene
That’s where you will find
The Legion Marines
For the transit, the four hundred Marines would be placed in troop transports. Before hitting the Punic shore at Qart Hadasht, they would consolidate onto five warships. This would speed up their delivery to the shoreline and hasten the defense of the beach.
We are the Legion Marines
Shields firm on the sloping sand
The land shifts but solid we stand
A wall of muscle, steel, and ideals
Nothing but surf at our heels
And the enemy before
We bar the door
Until the Legions moor
and waddle ashore
We will not give ground
We have none to give
Where sea and sand convene
That’s where you will find
The Legion Marines
When the sun rose and cast light on Ostia beach General Regulus and Admiral Longus sacrificed a small number of beasts, and said prayers before signaling for the fleet to launch.
***
Alerio climbed up the side of the Psyche of Bellona. At the ladder to the steering deck, he waited with Hector Nicanor, a chest of coins, and six armed Optios. On the deck, ship’s Centurion Kimo intoned so the entire crew could hear his plea.
“Poseidon, God of the sea. We beseech you for mercy during our travels over your domain,” Kimo prayed. “Keep the seas calm, the monsters in their depths, and the birds flying along our route. For a safe voyage from sheltered harbor to sheltered harbor, we give you thanks.”
After the dedication, Alerio climbed onto the steering platform.
“Welcome aboard the Mind of the Goddess of War, sir,” the ship’s senior officer greeted Alerio.
“She looks and sounds like a good ship,” Alerio complimented the Centurion. “I will make a sacrifice to the Goddess Bellona the next time we land.”
“The crew will appreciate that sir. Now if you’ll excuse me,” the ship’s commander requested. He faced his First Principale. “Get us off this beach.”
Orders were passed to the Third Principale who stood on the beach with half the rowers. The other one hundred and fifty oarsmen waited on the rowing decks.
“Third, get use wet,” the first officer called down. “Second officer, run out our oars and stand by for power strokes to get away from the fleet.”
Three hundred and thirty times along the beach the same prayer was spoken by warship officers, and the same sequence of orders were issued. The keels of the warships slipped from the sand and the hulls dipped into the surf. With oars run out and lowered, the warships stroked away from Ostia.
In town, the merchants peered around their empty shops. Already, they regretted the end of the coins flowing into their businesses from the oarsmen and Legionaries.
Once underway, the Psyche of Bellona hoisted sails midship and on the foredeck. And while the vanguard of the fleet waited for all the ships to set sail and gather, the Bellona raced southward.
***
At the same time the fleet launched, a carriage arrived at Villa Maximus. Marcia Atilius Regulus stepped down and walked to the entrance.
“Lady Atilius please come in,” Belen invited the Consul’s wife.
“Is Gabriella up?” Marcia asked while stepping over the threshold.
“She and Lady Aquila are on the patio offering prayers to the Goddess Adiona,” the secretary responded.
“I also need to petition the Goddess of Safe Returns,” Marcia suggested.
Her red rimmed eyes displayed why she was up so early. A sleepless night of crying also showed in the slump of her shoulders. The wife of Consul Regulus followed Belen through the house. When they reached the veranda, both Aquila and Gabriella noted Marcia’s distressed appearance.
“Come dear,” Aquila comforted her with a hug. “We were just about to start prayers for our Legions. Join us.”
“Can we be more specific?” Marcia asked. “I am worried sick about Marcus. But I don’t mean to be rude. We can start with your husband, Gabriella. Who is his personal God? Maybe Sancus, the God of Fidelity or Faunus, The God of Animals? Senior Tribune Sisera does seem to love his horse.”
Both deities were excellent choices based on Alerio’s personality. Except, Gabriella knew her husband better. She almost told Marcia that Nenia was her husband’s personal Goddess. But guessing the distraught woman couldn’t handle praying to the Goddess of Death, Gabriella bowed.
“No Lady Atilius,” she begged off, “we’ll pray to Consul Regulus’ personal God.”
“That’s very gracious of you,” Marcia acknowledged. “I can see why Aquila thinks so highly of you.”
The columns and furniture on the patio were adorned with wreaths of intertwined vines holding flowers and leaves. At each display of garland, a handful of unlit beeswax candles waited. For the rest of the morning, the three women stopped at each candle station and said prayers to a God or Goddess while lighting the wicks. By late morning, the shadow of the veranda glowed with the warmth of burning candles.
***
Three evenings later, the first ships of the fleet rowed into the bay at Salerno. And as happened at the mooring and beaching the last two nights, the two lead vessels were the largest warships of the two Consuls. Strung out behind their septiremes, the remainder of the six hundred and forty-eight ships of the fleet rowed in with the setting sun. As if a caravan marching with torches, the transports followed the line of lanterns to the safety of the beach. However, unlike the last two ports, at Salerno the warships and troop carriers were careful to moor in groups of three.
“Take all you want but eat all you take,” Centurion Gratian informed the squad leaders who stepped onto the grain transport to collect their squad’s rations.
“In that case, can I take more, sir?” one Lance Corporal inquired. “We can eat more.”
“Don’t call me, sir,” Gratian instructed before catching himself. He was, after all, now an officer. “That’s all you want, move along. Next man, step up.”
Behind the Junior Centurion, supply men unwrapped sacks of grain, and balance out fifty-four pounds of whatever was next in the stack. The measurement and weight of the wheat, barley, or spelt was based on less than two pounds per man for a day. With the three days rations for his ten-man squad, the squad leaders balanced the loads while crossing the ramps from the grain transport to their troop carrier or their warship.
All along the beach, grain vessels dished out rations to men on three connected ships. By late in the evening, the distribution left the grain and food transports all but empty.
***
Seventy-five miles further south, the Psyche of Bellona struck sails and rowed into the port of Sapri. In three days of sailing, the warship had managed to outpace the fleet by one port.
“Give me a body,” Alerio remarked to the six Optios that accompanied him.
One stepped forward and saluted. After taking a purse from the chest, Alerio and the NCO marched off the warship, heading for the local collective merchant. In Sapri, he would purchase as much grain as the town had to offer.
The personnel in the fleet consumed one hundred and twenty-six tons of grain each day. Three days’ supply was the most Alerio’ one hundred and eighty transports could carry. They had to replenish on route or suffer the wrath of one hundred and forty thousand hungry oarsmen and infantrymen.
To keep the local sellers honest, the NCO would stand guard over the purchase and makes sure every grain made it onto the
transports.
***
The next morning in the dark of predawn, the Bellona shoved off the beach and rowed for town of Paola some fifty-five miles away. They were under way and under sail before the fleet launched.
“Centurion Kimo, your crew is doing great,” Alerio complimented the senior ship’s officer. “They have rowed hard. Unfortunately, they won’t get a rest until we reach Scaletta on Sicilia.”
“Every man on my crew knows the value of what we’re doing,” Kimo assured Alerio. “They will continue to row hard.”
“Speaking of rowing hard,” Alerio asked. “Will your rowing officer mind if I take a turn on an oar?”
“He won’t mind, Senior Tribune,” Kimo answered. “But the men on the rowing deck are physical and a little rough for most staff officers.”
“Not to worry, Centurion,” Alerio pledged to the ship’s commander, “I’ll go easy on the oarsmen.”
***
The beach at Riaci followed the town of Paola as their sixth stop. More grain was purchased, and the last Optio was left on the beach to watch the load. In the morning, the Bellona sailed the short twenty-five miles to the town of Palmi. It was the last stop before reaching the Strait of Messina.
“I’m out of NCOs,” Alerio informed the ship’s Centurion. “We can sit here and wait or push onto Scaletta. It’s your call, Centurion.”
“The Bellona can row the strait at any time,” Kimo replied. “The transports will be bottled up here for several days, waiting for their turn when the tide reverses. I think we’ll wait for a day, before going on to Scaletta. That gives my crew a little beach time at each location. Plus, when the fleet catches up, you can collect your Optios.”
“That’s much appreciated,” Alerio replied.
***
Cookfires flared to life long before the sun went down. The exhausted crewmen sprawled around the flames, and the ones selected as cooks for the night prepared meals. Then, one cook screamed out in pain and shock.
“He’s cut his palm from heel to fingertip,” someone exclaimed. “And cōleī, if he didn’t get blood all over the food.”
“What do you care?” another oarsman barked. “The meat is bloody raw anyway.”
In mid scream, Hektor Nicanor snatched his medic’s bag from the sand and sprinted across the encampment. Behind him, Alerio jogged after his valet.
“Hold his arm still,” Hektor instructed when he reached the injured man. After inspecting the wound, the youth uncorked a wineskin and washed the long deep slice with vinegar. The oarsmen whimpered from the acid wash. Hektor threaded a bronze needle and began sewing the edges together. Out of the corner of his eyes, he caught sight of a lurking figure. “Senior Tribune Sisera, is there something I can do for you, sir?”
“I was just wondering,” Alerio responded, “if sending you to the hospital for training was worth the coins?”
“That sir, is a judgement only you can make,” Hektor advised.
“Let me say, based on those quality stitches,” Centurion Kimo declared, “it was worth every coin. When can he return to rowing, Medic?”
“It’ll take three to four days before the skin begins to heal,” Hektor responded. While talking, he continued to make small, tight sutures. “If he rests the hand and allows it to heal, he can be back at the oar in five days. But I don’t think he should cook tonight.”
“He can’t cook any night,” an oarsman called out. “I’ve tasted his stew. It’s bland.”
Hektor wrapped the hand, packed his bag, and walked with Alerio and Kimo.
“If you ever want a job,” the ship’s Centurion offered, “I’ll hire you onto my crew.”
“Thank you, sir, but I must decline,” Hektor told him. “You see, I’m sworn to bring the Senior Tribune home, alive.”
“Who has your oath?” Alerio inquired.
Maybe his adopted parents. They would be brash enough to bind a young man to a task where the outcome was impossible to control. Or perhaps Gabriella. Overcome with emotion, she may have hitched the youth to an undoable challenge.
“Your son, Senior Tribune,” Hektor answered.
“But my son is unborn,” Alerio pointed out.
“Yet I gave my word to Hera, the Goddess of Childbirth,” Hektor explained, “and to your unborn son that he would not grow up fatherless.”
“Like you?” Alerio asked.
“Yes, sir,” Hektor stated. “If it’s within my power, he will know his father. And I will be there to tell him of your heroics.”
“That is truly a magnificent oath,” Kimo observed.
“If you knew me better,” Alerio informed the ships Centurion, “You would know that is an understatement.”
Chapter 9 – The Special Branch
General Hamilcar, known to his mercenary army as the Elephant’s Trunk, strutted down the ramp from his flagship. While he liked the nickname, the connotation of his military prowess was lost on the sophistication of the city. His army and the Navy of Sicily were on the island under the command of General Hanno while Hamilcar was in the capital of the empire. Across the dock and uphill from the harbor of Qart Hadasht, he maintained an apartment. But that wasn’t his destination. The message he received specifically ordered him to attend the Special Branch as soon as his ship reached port. To hasten the last ten blocks of his journey, he waved down a passing carriage.
“Do you know Byrsa Hill?” the General inquired.
He felt foolish asking. However, with so many people coming to the city from allied provinces, he had no idea if the driver had been here long enough to know the streets.
“That’s where the Assembly of the People meets,” the driver guessed.
Also, the marketplace, the Temple of Eshmun where Congress holds sessions, other government buildings including officers for the two Suffetes, and the garrison of the city guard. The General didn’t say any of that.
He simply climbed into the coach and instructed, “Take me there.”
As the horse and carriage climbed the winding road, Hamilcar noted the new building construction. His city was at war with a town of upstart dirt farmers. They would eventually wear down and Qart Hadasht would defeat them. His city had always been victorious over its enemies. But while the government paid for mercenary troops and ships-of-war, and supplies for both, the coffers dwindled. Meanwhile, the merchant princes who sold the goods to the military got richer. They built commercial buildings of stone blocks which at their core, were memorials to honor themselves. The courses of new stones ended just below the heights of Byrsa Hill.
Hamilcar handed the driver a pair of bronze coins and stepped down from the coach. Inhaling, he savored the aromas of the market and the earnest conversations between vendors and shoppers. While being away presented hardships, the General would not shirk his duty in Sicily for a cushier position closer to home.
Far below, the harbor shimmered blue in the bright sunlight.
“Miss home, do you?” a voice questioned.
Hamilcar spun to face Bostar.
“I do, General,” Hamilcar told the senior officer. “But someone needs to put the farmers in their place.”
“And where is their place?” the older man asked.
“In the arms of Mot, General Bostar,” Hamilcar declared. He slammed a fist into his other hand. “At least enough to stop the war, but not too many. We’ll need them to work the dirt to pay the tribute.”
“I wonder what our God of Death would have to say about embracing foreigners?” Bostar pondered. “Then again, I assume dead is dead to a God.”
“Let me ask you, sir,” Hamilcar questioned. “Do you miss the adventure of far-off lands.”
The older military man sniffed the air, peered at the hot sun, and smiled.
“No. I don’t,” he responded. “Come General Hamilcar, the Special Branch is expecting you.”
“I haven’t participated in any major actions since the last time I was here,” Hamilcar explained. “I can’t imagine why the Sp
ecial Branch would have an interest in me.”
“The Branch punishes and rewards our military leaders,” Bostar advised. He placed a hand on Hamilcar’s shoulder. While steering the younger General to a small building, he added. “In your case consider this a reward. Unlike other Generals who assume command far from our city and think of themselves as kings, you are steady and loyal.”
They strolled into a breezeway where the temperature dropped noticeably. Two turns later, they passed between a pair of armed guards. At a side entrance, Hamilcar and Bostar walked outside again, and into the center stage of an amphitheater. The arena had one hundred and five seats. Half were on one side of an aisle and half on the other. A single seat hovered at the top of the dividing aisle. They saluted the man occupying the seat.
“Lord Suffete, greetings from Sicily,” Hamilcar announced.
“General Hamilcar, welcome home,” the Chief Judge for military affairs acknowledged. “What news from the island. Have you driven the farmers to their graves?”
“Alas, sir, I can’t get enough of them in one place to perform the task,” the General explained. “But it is not for lack of trying.”
“Perhaps we can do something about that,” Suffete Paltibaal offered. “Have a seat and a beverage. I’m sure you want to get home and sleep in your own bed, tonight. I’ll try to move the process along.”
“Thank you, sir,” Hamilcar offered before sitting. Once settled, he mentioned to the other general officer. “I noted the Judge didn’t ask about your last duty station.”
Bostar dropped onto the bench beside him.
“What would I tell him?” the older General replied with a chuckle. “Greetings Suffete Paltibaal from the café on the other side of the market, where we had breakfast.”
***
Hamilcar and Bostar poured glasses of wine and sipped in silence as one hundred and four men entered the amphitheater. When the seats were filled, a man dressed in a robe of office arrived.
“Both Suffetes are here,” Hamilcar whispered.
“It’s allowed for both our civil Chief Judge and our Military Judge to be at the same meeting,” Bostar assured him. “Although it does go to the importance of this summit.”
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