Unjust Sacrifice

by Slater, J. Clifton

  “Let me ask you something, Junior Centurion,” Alerio sneered. “If I dismiss you, would the Legion take you back?”

  “Why do you ask?” Ovanter questioned. “You can’t. You are a no name commoner. A dog of war doing the biding of your betters.”

  “I maybe a canem de bello,” Alerio remarked. “But I am good at it being a dog of war. However, you are my cane corso and bad at it.”

  “I’ll show you, housebroken Mastiff, my cūlus,” Ovanter shouted.

  He drew his blade and leaped forward.

  ***

  Ovanter’s eyes had been focused on Alerio’s legs. But just before the Junior Centurion rushed at Alerio, his eyes shifted. In a duel, the blade followed where the eyes lead.

  Alerio dropped down and, from a low squat, stepped sideways. The blade came over his shield and swiped across where Alerio’s head had been. Balancing on one bent leg, Alerio kicked out with the other. His hobnailed boot smashed and cut Ovanter’s shin.

  The junior instructor hobbled back, swinging his blade from side to side to ward off the senior instructor’s blade. Except there was no follow up attack.

  “Not bad,” Alerio observed. He swung the shield as if warming up his shoulder. “You surely are a tournament fighter, cane corso. Practiced attack with no flexibility. I’m going to have to break you of that, conis.”

  “I told you, I’m not your dog,” Ovanter shouted.

  He stabbed from low guard. The gladius coming from behind the shield and aimed at Alerio’s gut.

  The Junior Centurions on the platform expected Sisera to block the sharp steel. Rather than knock Ovanter’s blade to the side, the senior instructor hopped left and raised his shield. Then raised it more until the scutum sailed high over his head, arched across the morning sky, and powered towards the ground. What prevented the iron band from reaching the sand was Ovanter’s wrist.

  “Perfututum. Perfututum. Perfututum,” he screamed. Dropping his shields and gladius, he grabbed his wrist. Holding the injured arm against his chest, the Junior Centurion’s face was masked in agony. But despite the pain, Ovanter jeered at Alerio. “It’s broken, you mentula.”

  “Bad Dog,” Alerio scolded. Then he kicked Ovanter in the hands. The force of the thrust sent the junior officer stumbling backward. With both arms bruised, hurting, and locked together, he fell hard on his backside.

  The five junior instructors expected Sisera to back off and maybe offer an apology or assistance.

  “Bad dog,” Alerio informed the wounded man.

  “I’m not a bad dog,” Ovanter complained.

  “You’re not?” Alerio inquired. “Are you a good dog, then?”

  “I’m…”

  Senior instructor Sisera lowered the shield and rested the iron band on Ovanter’s throat.

  “Tell me, bad dog, why doesn’t the Legion’s First Centurion want you back?” he questioned. “Being a nobleman and a great swordsman, why?”

  Alerio assumed the Junior Centurion was a nobleman from the way he dared talked down to a Senior Centurion. In that case, Ovanter’s family had a name but no money. If the Family had funds, the Junior Centurion would be a Tribune. And based on the arrogance and disrespect, Alerio deduced that Ovanter had been dumped on the training detachment to rid a Century of a subpar officer.

  “Speak up bad dog,” Alerio prodded. He applied more pressure with the shield. “I think all the weapons’ instructors need to know how a bad dog behaves.”

  “Let me up, and I’ll teach you respect,” Ovanter growled.

  “Of course, why didn’t you say so before,” Alerio acknowledged. He lifted the shield and stepped back.

  Ovanter rolled over, used his shield to lean on, and pushed to his feet.

  “You can’t treat an officer like a dog,” Ovanter informed Alerio.

  “No, no, bad dog,” Alerio commented. “I let you up to fight. Not to listen to you bay at the moon.”

  “But I…”

  Alerio hammered the Junior Centurion with his shield. The man crumpled to the sand.

  “Go ahead and answer my question from the ground, like a bad dog,” Alerio ordered. “Why doesn’t the infantry want you?”

  “It was an accident,” Ovanter replied. He rolled onto his side then sat in the sand. “I ordered three of them to attack me.”

  “Wait, three of who?” Alerio demanded.

  “The First Centurion assigned me to a first maniple Century,” Ovanter informed him. “They had me, the Legion’s champion, dealing with inexperienced infantrymen.”

  “You ordered three babies from first maniple to attack you?” Alerio prompted. “What happened?”

  “One of them got beyond himself,” Ovanter replied. “He cut me.”

  “And what did you do?” Alerio asked but there was a knot in the pit of his stomach.

  “I demonstrated what a real swordsman was capable of,” Ovanter stated and the curse of Discordia flashed in his eyes.

  “How bad?” Alerio inquired.

  “One lived. Although he is missing a hand,” Ovanter reported. “The other two weren’t as quick. Or particularly good with their gladii.”

  “They were first maniple,” Alerio commented. “and you were their officer. They trusted you.”

  “I don’t have tolerance for stupidity,” Ovanter blurted out.

  Alerio shock the shield from his arm and snatched his gladius from the sheath. There was little doubt what he intended.

  “Centurion Sisera, don’t,” Centurion Hysopum called from the platform. “He is not worth your career. And we need you to teach us how to train thousands of oarsmen and Marines.”

  “What about this insane piece of merda?” Alerio inquired.

  “We’ll watch him,” Hysopum assured Alerio. “If you don’t mind seeing a few bruises or broken bones.”

  “Not a problem,” Alerio assured the Junior Centurions. “But if this dog breaks his leash, I will put him down.”

  ***

  The platform served as a narrow battlefield, an obstacle course, and a place to play king of the hill. For three days, Senior Instructor Sisera ran the Junior Centurions through the course. On the afternoon of the third day, Alerio called a halt to the activities and invited the junior officers into the big tent.

  “I don’t understand,” Hysopum remarked. “You have taken us over the platform, under it, knocked us off it, and ran us until we need new sandals. But in all that time, you haven’t drilled us on the shield, gladius, or javelin.”

  “Wait for the rest,” Alerio replied.

  Ovanter hung between the last two junior instructors to enter the tent. The formerly brash young officer was unarmed, had bruises, and trouble standing.

  “How’s the bad dog,” Alerio inquired.

  “He fell off the platform,” one of the men supporting Ovanter reported.

  In truth, the other Centurions corrected Ovanter whenever he opened his mouth without saying sir before speaking. They also pushed him to finish every conditioning drill. And, they were not gentle about it.

  When the six had gathered around the table, Alerio filled a mug with wine and passed the pitcher to Hysopum.

  “You five already know how to swing a gladius and block with a shield,” Alerio announced. While looking around the table, he intentionally skipped over Ovanter, leaving him out of the acknowledgement. “Our priorities are basic rowing, and shield wall techniques.”

  “I thought we were supposed to teach the oarsmen how to fight?” one of the instructors mentioned.

  “If the Legionaries on a ship get into trouble, then oarsmen need to form and hold shields long enough for the infantry to get themselves sorted out,” Alerio explained. “We don’t have time to teach rowers how to fight as a unit. Their job is rowing and that is our focus. The Marines are infantrymen. Them, you drill with the gladius and javelin.”

  “Three more ships came in yesterday,” Hysopum informed Alerio. “That’s another nine hundred inexperienced oarsmen. Why bother with the
shields at all?”

  “The report from Lipari Island told us our oarsmen ran for the hills when the infantry went to defend the town,” Alerio described. “Fifty-one hundred potential shield holders deserted their ships because they weren’t trained. And a Consul of the Republic was captured. That will not happen again. Our rowers need to understand the safety and duty of shield work.”

  “We hadn’t heard that about the oarsmen,” another of the Centurions voiced. “They had no training at all?”

  “None. And combined with inexperienced Legionaries, the entire thing is an embarrassment to the Legion,” Alerio remarked, then he indicated the exit with the hand holding his mug and ordered. “Bring your drinks. I want to show you the rowing stations.”

  “What rowing station?” another instructor questioned.

  “Rowing stations,” Alerio corrected. “There are six of them. And they are really just fake warship hulls.”

  Chapter 24 – Weighted Ends

  Each warship on Ostia beach had a carpenter assigned to the vessel. And because the ships were new, the woodworkers were free for other projects.

  “They look like ship frames sunk into the sand,” Hysopum commented when the group arrived at the first rowing station. “With only the skeleton of the hull remaining above ground.”

  “And every station has a rowers’ walk down the center of the oarsmen’s benches and a platform for us,” Alerio added. “We’ll use the stations to drill the oarsmen and the Second Principale. Push the deck officer and push the oarsmen until they are a crew. Then drag them to the sand and put them to work bashing each other with shields.”

  “How is this going to work?” an obviously overwhelmed Centurion asked.

  “You start at the last warship, collect what oarsmen they have, and march them to a station,” Alerio explained. “We’ll add men until they have their three hundred.”

  “You make it sound easy,” Hysopum suggested.

  “It’s not,” Alerio admitted. “But we will get it done. The Republic cannot lose another Consul to the Empire.”

  The five Junior Centurions filed into the rowing station. The last training officer pushed Ovanter into the structure and up to the rowers’ walk.

  “We’ll need the ship’s musician,” Hysopum remarked as he peered up and down the one-hundred-and-ten-foot platform. “There is no way the Second Principale can yell loud enough to be heard.”

  “Excellent idea,” Alerio said. “Let’s collect the music man when we get the rowing deck officer and the oarsmen.”

  Ovanter tilted his head up and, despite his stooped posture, he glared at Alerio.

  Some men fight authority even when the authoritative figure ignores them. While Centurion Sisera paid no attention to the angry junior officer, the same could not be said for his fellow Centurions. Two of the instructors punched Ovanter in the ribs. Which, in hindsight, was the reason he was bent over in the first place.

  “That is one irritated man,” Alerio commented. “What are we going to do with him?”

  “We are working on his attitude, Centurion Sisera,” Hysopum explained. “Hopefully, he will be ready to take charge of a training station.”

  “Let me know if I have to request another instructor,” Alerio replied. “But I’m not sure how to approach the Senior Centurion.”

  “Centurion Ovanter will be ready to teach,” Hysopum promised. “Or he will be in the hospital.”

  “I can use that excuse,” Alerio announced. “Let’s go inspect the other rowing stations.”

  ***

  Two days later, Centurion Ovanter stood at a training station watching. The drills in the rowing structure were all handled by the crew’s Second Principale. Another crew faced off against half their crew in a pushing battle. A new Marine Centurion oversaw that drill. The inactive Ovanter clenched and unclenched the fingers on his right hand as if gripping the hilt of a gladius. And to go with the vacant look in his eyes, he chewed on the inside of his lip. Above the training area, Centurion Sisera sat on the embankment trying to make a decision about the instructor.

  “Sisera, how come you get to sit while everyone on the beach is in continuous motion?” Nicholas DeMarco questioned.

  The leather working philosopher/engineer strolled up, dropped a walking stick, and plopped down.

  “Rank has its privilege,” Alerio replied. “And a responsibility. This station is not running well.”

  “Let no one untrained in geometry enter,” Nicholas proclaimed.

  “What?” Alerio asked.

  “One hundred and twenty years ago Plato had that inscribed above the entrance to his Academy,” Nicholas answered. Seeing a confused look on Alerio’s face, he added. “in Athens.”

  “I figured it was another of your old Greek philosophers,” Alerio told him. “What I don’t understand is the term geometry.”

  “Geometry, Centurion, is a branch of mathematics,” Nicholas described. “It’s concerned with questions of shape, size, position of figures relative to each other, and of properties in space.”

  “That’s as clear as mud,” Alerio admitted. “Can you break it down for a simple Legionary?”

  Nicholas DeMarco looked back as if seeking assistance from his sister. Not seeing her, he almost frantically searched the beach. Noting the agitated state of the young man, Alerio started to suggest he forget answering.

  “The oars. They are the same length from the hull, and they rotate in oval patterns,” Nicholas pointed out. “Each in a separate orbit, it seems. That is geometry in the most basic language I can think of. Except for a single straight line. That would be easier, but not very instructive.”

  “And that’s my problem,” Alerio admitted. “The oarsmen are not in sync.”

  From down on the beach, the noise of oars tapping or slamming together carried up the hill. Each collision radiated chaos outward. Other oars bash together until a wave of mistimed strokes disrupted the entire side of the rowing station.

  “So, you want them to make the same oval,” Nicholas guessed.

  “If you mean stroke together,” Alerio said trying to decipher the young man’s words. “that is the object of the drill.”

  “According to geometry, the rows are the same length and shape,” Nicholas stated. “With consistency of form, the only difference is the muscle behind the oars.”

  “I hadn’t thought of it that way,” Alerio commented. “I’m not sure what that gets me, but it is a novel way to see the situation.”

  Nicholas picked up his walking stick, held it by one end, and made small circles with it.

  “Now you try,” he suggested.

  Alerio took the stick, and with his longer and more muscular arm made larger circles.

  “That was fun, I think,” Alerio said for lack of anything else to say.

  Nicholas untied a water skin from his belt and looped the thongs over the end of the stick.

  “Again,” he instructed.

  With the weight hanging and swaying from the end of the walking stick, Alerio was forced to make smaller circles.

  “The shape, form, and size are the same,” Nicholas informed Alerio. “When we eliminated the difference in the force, the ovals matched.”

  Alerio stared at the rowing station and for the first time noticed the power strokes of some and the struggle of others.

  “DeMarco, you are a gift from Mendacius,” Alerio proclaimed.

  “What does the God of Craftiness have to do with geometry?” Nicholas questioned.

  “I know how to balance the inexperienced oarsmen,” Alerio said. “Thanks to you.”

  “It would have been easier if Gabriella was here,” Nicholas offered.

  “Speaking of your sister. I’d like. Or rather, I want. Oh, Hades, I want to court Gabriella,” Alerio finally blurted out. “And I’d like your permission.”

  “Centurion Sisera, Gabriella is a beautiful, intelligent woman,” Nicolas responded. “Many a man has laid siege to her emotions. Everyone has failed
to gain my sister’s heart. Perhaps you are different. But I must warn you. While I see obscure concepts, she has a clear vision of the future. It’s her foresight you have to battle to win her affections. You seek my permission? You have it.”

  “That’s great,” Alerio gushed. “I’d like to come to dinner. When would be convenient?”

  “The day after tomorrow, we plan to sacrifice a calf to Venus,” Nicolas informed Alerio. “You are formally invited to the feast.”

  “A sacrifice to Venus, how appropriate,” Alerio commented. “Gabriella’s beauty surely comes from the Goddess’s touch.”

  “Actually, we were honoring Venus for her gift of prosperity,” Nicolas corrected.

  “Then I will bring gifts fitting both beauty and prosperity,” Alerio announced. “Is it the day after tomorrow yet?”

  “I’m afraid not Centurion Sisera,” Nicolas informed him. “I’ll tell Gabriella to prepare herself for you and to be expecting presents.”

  ***

  Centurion Hysopum placed a foot on the partial wall of the rowing station, pushed with his leg, and rose above the platform to get a better look. Coming towards his training area were a hundred oarsmen. Men who should be smashing shields against the Marines. He would have rushed down to challenge them except Centurion Sisera was leading them. As they drew closer, he could see they carried rocks and coils of rope. He climbed down to the rowers’ walk and marched out of the rowing station.

  “Are we adding weightlifting to the program?” Hysopum inquired.

  “Not like you would imagine,” Alerio responded. Turning to the rear, he directed the men carrying the rocks. “Place them along the rows of oars.”

  The oarsmen split apart. Half went to the port side and the other to the starboard. Soon piles of rocks and sections of rope sat on the beach just beyond the tips of the oars.

  “We have been attempting to speed up the weaker rowers to match the strongest,” Alerio described. “It’s not working. From now on, we identify the strongest oarsmen and tie rocks to their oars.”