The priest walked to Senator Maximus.
“Candidate. Have you brought your passions for all to see?” he asked.
“Priest of Jupiter, I, Spurius Carvilius Maximus,” the Senator confirmed while indicating Alerio and Isos. “have brought displays of my values.”
The priest strolled to the other group.
“Candidate. Have you brought your passions for all to see?” he repeated the question.
“Priest of Jupiter, I, Satoris Postumius Megellus,” the tall thin man verified. “have brought displays of my values.”
Alerio’s gut tightened. He had run into proxies for the Postumius Megellus family before. He didn’t know if his name had been identified as the foil to the family’s plans in Brindisi. Satoris Megellus would probably hear it today.
If someone put his name together with the conspiracy in the east coast port city, Alerio will have secured a powerful enemy. At the moment, the mud and blood of ground combat in Sicilia sounded really good.
Chapter 27 - Battling Passions
A pair of priests circled and scrutinized the two groups, eyeing each man as if inspecting prize sheep. While they looped, the nine men from the benches stood, filed up the sloped seating area, and left the amphitheater through the back entrance.
Alerio took the opportunity to study the other military man. Whether a trick of the light or blessed with intense eyes by the Goddess Theia, the staff officer had a penetrating gaze. Alerio saw that because the Tribune’s eyes stared back, taking stock of the Centurion. If was the full face-on-view that allowed Alerio to see the scar, high on the Tribune’s left cheek.
“Are you prepared?” the priests demanded.
When both Megellus and Maximus acknowledged they were ready, the celebrants of Jupiter guided the two groups up separate aisles to the rear of the theater.
***
A serpentine path tracked around hedgerows of thick bushes with torches marking the trail. Without the illumination, Alerio sensed, the way would not be clear even in daylight.
A small door at the base of a secondary temple opened, and the two parties headed for the hole.
“It looks like the entrance to a root cellar,” Isos complained. “or maybe a columbarium used by poor families for the urns of their dead.”
“Quiet,” Senator Maximus ordered between clenched teeth.
As directed by a temple guard, the six men and the priests past silently through the tiny doorway.
***
On the rough granite steps leading downward, Alerio noted the closeness of the walls. A pair of shields could hold the passageway against a much larger force. Several sharp turns confirmed the thought. At each landing where the stairs twisted, the risers were uneven. It created bad footing for an attacker fighting his way down.
At the bottom, a passageway of polished stone ran to a compartment chiseled from the rock. In the domed room, the groups found the nine men from the theater, an iron bound chest, and a high table.
“The Sibylline Books reside in this chest, protected from the elements and prying eyes,” one of the priests announced. “No prophecies can be found in the writings. Only ways to appease the Gods in times of natural disaster. And only the ten caretakers may gaze upon the ancient oracle’s instructions. Tonight, the nine select another to complete the ten.”
The other priest walked to a space between the caretakers and the two candidates.
***
“Satoris Postumius Megellus, tell us of your passions,” he instructed.
“I understand the natural order of things. All men must know their place and realize that only a few are born to lead. Yet, trade lifts all citizens to new heights. Admittedly, some higher than others,” Satoris Megellus advised. “My God is Terminus, for without boundaries there is no order. My passions, brought before you this night, are commerce and command.”
Megellus indicated the men on either side of him.
“You are commerce,” the priest said to the civilian beside Megellus. “Explain this side of the candidate’s nature.”
“I represent commerce, the economic engine of the Republic. And the trade necessary for growth and the finances to keep our coffers full,” the merchant explained. “As is proper, my deity is Mercury. The God of Shopkeepers and Merchants. May all your dealings be fair and equal. And your decision tonight be just.”
The priest shifted to face the Senior Tribune, “Explain the martial side of candidate Megellus.”
“I am the authority that rules the army of the Republic. Domination is the key to success and a superior staff officer knows every aspect of the plan long before the first clash of blades,” the Senior Tribune stated. “I claim allegiance to the sky father. For only Satoris Postumius Megellus and the great God Jupiter understand the necessity of command.”
The priest bowed to Satoris Megellus and faced the nine caretakers. None moved or signaled they had any questions. Nodding and bowing to the other cleric, the first symbolically passed the reigns of interrogation to his brethren.
***
“Spurius Carvilius Maximus tell us of your passions,” the second cleric requested.
“Throughout my career, I have engaged with challenges up close. Unafraid, face to face, I have met the enemies of the Republic and my political adversaries. I believe in the betterment of mankind and justice,” Maximus exclaimed. “For guidance, I look to the Goddess Bia for might and force. For only through strength can our Republic survive and thrive. Examples of my passions, brought to life, are creativity and control.”
He indicated Isos Monos and Alerio.
“Explain the candidate’s artistic side,” the priest ordered Isos.
“I represent art. The perfect joining of mind, hand, and heart,” the Greek boasted. “The lame Hephaestus, the Olympian who needs support to stand, is my shadow. The God who taught man that work was noble. The guide who watches over artisans and sculptors. But not painters. They are bound to the Goddess Athena. Although, I have studied at the school of...”
“Enough,” the priest ordered with a wave of his hand. Shifting to Alerio, he directed. “Senior Centurion, tell us of the candidate’s martial side.”
“I represent control. The sharp end of the gladius and the strong arm that employs it. Only those tested on the battle line can be considered the protectors of the Republic,” Alerio swore. He paused and in the Temple of Jupiter with the selection hanging on every word, the Centurion voiced a reality most men fought to ignore. “Memento mori. The Goddess who watches over my shoulder when I fight and guides my blade is the Goddess Nenia. The soul freer. Memento mori, remember you also will die. But you will not be murdered in your sleep because men like Spurius Carvilius Maximus stand in the face of danger and control the ramparts.”
The nine caretakers jerked and stepped back at the mention of the Goddess of Death. At first Alerio feared he had gone beyond civil discourse by admitting to his relationship with Nenia. But she was always near, and he could not soften his speech by denying his personal Goddess.
***
After a brief huddle and whispered conversations, one of the caretakers called a priest over. They conversed for a heartbeat before the cleric walked to his former spot in the room.
“Satoris Postumius Megellus,” the priest announced. “You may leave the chamber.”
Dejected, Megellus’ face creased in anger and he marched for the exit. The merchant scurried to catch up, but the staff officer lagged.
“I won’t forget you, Centurion,” the Senior Tribune warned.
“That’s interesting, sir,” Alerio informed him. “I have already forgotten you.”
It was a lie of course. The piercing eyes and the scar high on his left cheek, as if a dodge at the last moment saved the eye from a blade, were features hard to forget.
“Spurius Carvilius Maximus, please step forward and meet your fellow caretakers,” the priest directed. “For the rest of your life, the Sibylline Books and the fate of the Republic are in your care.
”
***
Using his arms, the second priest shooed Alerio and Isos from the chamber. He didn’t stop herding until they reached the small doorway and stepped into the night.
“There are refreshments,” a temple guard told them. “Follow me.”
“At least we are out of that hole in the ground,” Isos Monos exclaimed with relief.
“And there’s food,” Alerio declared. “If I remember right, the food is really good at the temple.”
“You’ve worshiped at the Temple of Jupiter before?” Isos inquired.
“In a manner of speaking,” Alerio replied. He left out the part about being a condemned man and eating a last feast. “Come on, I’m thirsty.”
They followed the guard as he retraced the steps along the lighted path. Below in the cavern, Senator Maximus was introduced to the mysteries of the Sibylline Books. But Alerio wasn’t thinking about his mentor, caretakers, or prophecies.
The Centurion’s mind focused on the blatant mistake he had made in training the oarsmen, sailors, and Marines of the fleet. He vowed to remedy his error when he got back to Ostia.
Chapter 28 – Death Caller
Dawn wasn’t even a hint in the sky when Alerio’s small caravan of a mount and a pack animal reached a point where he could see the shoreline. Campfires dotted Ostia beach for almost three miles. Other fires burned along the road at a checkpoint.
“Can I help you?” a sentry inquired.
The Legionary appeared from the roadside and blocked Alerio’s mount with his body. A spear rested on the Private’s shoulder.
“Centurion Sisera,” Alerio responded.
He hopped off the horse and strutted to the Legionary.
“The spear is a weapon with three attack zones,” Alerio stated. “The butt end is a blunt striking instrument. The shaft a sweeping surface. And the pointy end…”
Alerio kicked the lower portion of the shaft. The spear popped off the Private’s shoulder and tilted forward. Alerio snatched the shaft from the Legionary’s hand, flipped it forward, and held the steel tip against the man’s chest armor.
“The sharp end does no good when not aimed at the enemy,” Alerio told him.
From beyond the roadside fire a voice asked as it drew near.
“What are you doing to my sentry?” an Optio inquired.
“Instructing him on the proper use of a spear,” Alerio replied.
“And what makes you think he requires a lesson from you?” the Sergeant of the Guard questioned.
“Because I am the senior weapons’ instructor for the fleet,” Alerio informed him. “South of here, there are thousands of Qart Hadasht mercenaries looking to kill Legionaries.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” the Optio apologize. “I didn’t recognize you, Centurion Sisera.”
“Guard duty in the dark before dawn is when we wilt,” Alerio remarked. “But we can’t relax as long as the Empire looms just over the horizon. The next time one of your Legionaries challenges without his weapon ready, Sergeant, you and I will have a one on one lesson.”
“Yes, sir,” the Optio acknowledged.
Alerio climbed onto his horse and tugged on the line to get the pack mule in motion. The lonely caravan moved through the checkpoint and onto the naval base.
“What a hard cūlus,” the Legionary complained. “Centurion or not, what right does he have to speak to you like that, Optio? He’s not even infantry.”
“That Private was Death Caller. In Sicilia, he fought then prayed for the Goddess of Death to take the ones he didn’t kill outright,” the NCO informed the sentry. “But don’t you worry about me. You worry about yourself. Because, if I see that spear on your shoulder again, I’ll ram it up your cūlus.”
***
At the stables, Alerio located the sleeping stableman and kicked his bedding.
“What in Hades name do you want?” the sleepy man inquired.
“Exactly,” Alerio said. He reached down, grabbed the man’s arm, and jerked him to his feet. “I want a chariot with two sturdy horses.”
“And who are you to ask for a special rig?” the man challenged. “A Junior Centurion? Maybe you should get a requisition slip from the Senior Centurion’s officer before asking for anything.”
“I am the senior weapons’ instructor for the fleet,” Alerio explained while poking the man in the chest with two fingertips. “Every man on Ostia beach is my responsibility. Most will live if I do my job. Do not make me show you how seriously I take my obligation.”
Between the painful grip on his arm and the fingers bruising his chest, the stableman reconsidered.
“Ponies are best for courier duty,” the stableman explained. “They don’t require as much food.”
“I’m not going far,” Alerio described. “But I need the horses so the chariot doesn’t get bogged down in the sand. Oh, and I need a plank mounted across the front of the car.”
After a glance outside at the night sky, the stableman remarked, “Is there anything else you need?”
“That should do it,” Alerio replied. “I’ll be back shortly. Be sure the vehicle is ready for me.”
***
Pounding on an iron cooking pot awakened the weapons’ instructors.
“Get up and get on the street,” Alerio bellowed.
Soon the five Junior Centurions and a new training officer stood wiping sleep from their eyes and gawking at the senior instructor.
“Pretty armor,” one instructor commented. “Did you steal that from an exhibition at a temple?”
“I want to apologize to you,” Alerio announced. He ignored the Junior Centurion’s remark. “When we first met, Ovanter referred to me as Death Caller. And I took offense.”
“That’s understandable,” Centurion Hysopum suggested. “No one wants a label forced on them.”
“Going forward, when I approach your training station, you will warn the oarsmen and Marines that Death Caller is coming,” Alerio directed. Seeing bewildered expressions on their faces, he added. “Trust me, I’ll do my part.”
“What part is that?” two instructors asked at the same time.
“To make the oarsmen more afraid of me,” Alerio replied. “than the Qart Hadasht fleet or their mercenaries.”
He tossed the pot to the ground and his red cloak over his armored shoulder. Then Centurion Sisera marched off in the direction of the stables.
***
Horses snorted as the chariot drove into the courtyard. In the light of a new day, the driver guided the animals around until they faced the exit.
“Medic, I have a request,” Alerio stated while stepping down from the chariot.
“What ails you, Centurion,” the field medic inquired.
“Me? I am fine,” Alerio informed him. “What I need are people who aren’t fairing so well.”
“How bad are you talking about?” the medic asked.
He was becoming worried by the conversation. The officer wasn’t making sense and there were no medical officers at the naval medical facility this early in the morning.
“Really bad,” Alerio described. He draped an arm around the medic’s neck and propelled the man towards the clinic. “About as bad as it gets. Let’s go inside and I’ll tell you what I need.”
***
Centurion Hysopum’s legs were braced on the upper beams of the rowing station. Below him, a Second Principale and a Third Principale prowled the rower’s walk. As they moved, the deck officers distributed threats and encouragement to the inexperienced oarsman.
“Drummer, if you don’t increase the pace,” Hysopum shouted. “I’ll come down there and shove the drumsticks down your throat. These men need a combat rowing beat, not music for a dinner party.”
The pace picked up and the rowers fell out of rhythm.
“Principales. Get you oarsmen together,” Hysopum instructed the inexperienced deck officers. “Start with your stroke. Control them and the engine will follow.”
The group in the stern, t
he stroke, were the best oarsmen. They needed to be together and set the rhythm. Once the stroke was pulling together, the big oarsmen in the center, the engine, picked it up. As if madmen, the deck officers ran from section to section, clapping their hands with the drummer and showing the pace. Finally, the bow section, the lightest rowers with the smoothest strokes, fell into the pattern. For a few heartbeats, the oarsmen in the training rowing station moved as a crew.
“Drummer, slow beat,” Hysopum called to the musician. “Give them a rest.”
The rest comment was sarcastic. What the drastic change in tempo did was throw the oarsmen back into disarray.
Faces turned up at the weapons’ instructor and a few rowers mouthed threats. It was the reason a weapons’ instructor directed the training. If the same animosity were directed at a deck officer, the oarsmen might be tempted to get physical with the close at hand Principale. The weapons’ instructor did not go on the warships, staying away from the possibility of violence. Plus, the Junior Centurions were experts with the gladius and shield. A confrontation might cost the fleet an oarsman.
“You look like a drunken octopus,” Hysopum accused the three hundred oarsmen. “arms a flutter with no idea what your neighbor is doing. Principales, sort them out.”
Three of the biggest rowers from the engine pushed away their oars and jumped from their benches.
“You can take your insults, changes in tempo, and ugly face,” one cried out. “I have had enough.”
“Me too,” another one announced.
Revolts in the infantry were usually handled by the Centurion distributing some physical discipline. In the confines of the rowing shell and surrounded by hundreds of men who didn’t care about the instructor, physically confronting the rebellious oarsmen was dangerous.
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