Unjust Sacrifice

by Slater, J. Clifton

  From his perch at the top of the structure, Centurion Hysopum spotted a chariot with two horses racing towards him. At the reins, a man in old style leather armor with a red cloak billowing back, drove the horses. But there was something odd about the chariot. A board laid on top of the car and there was something bouncing up and down on the plank.

  ***

  Alerio pulled back on the lines, bringing the horses to a halt just beyond the tips of the starboard oars. The vehicle intentionally positioned at the midsection, so all the rowers had a clear view of the chariot.

  “Instructor Hysopum. How goes the training?” the senior weapons’ instructor shouted from the chariot.

  “Death Caller, we were just sorting out an issue with the engine,” Hysopum reported.

  Peering closely, the oarsmen on the right side of the training ship were shocked at what rested on the chariot. Two dead bodies, pale and limp were stretched out on a plank.

  “Excellent, I have room for a couple more kills,” Alerio informed the instructor. Before stepping down, Alerio patted the bodies as if saying goodbye to old friends.

  He reached into the car and selected a spear with a longer than normal steel head and a spear with no head, just a simple shaft.

  ***

  With the deadly weapon in one hand and the pole in the other, Alerio marched to the steps leading up to the rower’s walk.

  “Trouble in the engine?” Alerio questioned.

  Hysopum pointed down at the three standing oarsmen.

  “They have opinions on the training,” the Junior Centurion added.

  The deck officers, the drummer, and the two hundred and ninety-seven oarsmen not involved in the rebellion waited to see how the senior instructor handled the situation.

  “Do you know what they call me?” Alerio demanded from the entrance of the training structure.

  “Something foolish,” one of the big oarsmen responded.

  The spear with the oversized head arched down the length of the rower’s walk before dropping and sticking in the wood.

  “Pick it up,” Alerio challenged the big rower.

  The massive oarsman had a hand outstretched and reaching for the weapon when a youthful voice called out.

  “Don’t do it. I’ve seen him in the Capital,” a youth warned from the bow section. “They call him Death Caller because he has a relationship with the Goddess Nenia. He is a killer.”

  Alerio glanced over to see who was helping him and noted one of Thomasious Harricus’ gossip collectors. The youth, probably there because he was conscripted, had done a good job of pumping up Alerio’s reputation.

  “Who is that on your chariot?” a stern rower asked.

  “The last two men to pick up the spear,” Alerio answered as if it was no big deal to kill a couple of oarsmen. “I have room for two more. What about it, big man? Oar or spear, your choice.”

  The oarsmen sat down at his single oar and the other two took their places on a double rower oar.

  “Centurion Hysopum. Since I’ve been here, there has been no rowing performed,” Alero scolded. “These men need training.”

  “Yes, sir,” Hysopum replied. “Drummer. Set a medium tempo.”

  ***

  Alerio snapped the reins and the team stepped off. Enough of the crews working with shields and the Marines had seen the demonstration. They would spread word of the incident to other boat crews.

  Death Caller guided the chariot around the shield walls before heading towards the next training station.

  Thankfully, there were only five more rowing stations because the bodies of the men killed in the construction accident were getting ripe. He needed to get them back to the medical facility before the hottest part of the day.

  Chapter 29 – Cost of Business

  Arm loads of hemp were carried from a wagon. After chopping off the small branches and leaves, workers flipped the stalks upside down and sank them into an iron pot of boiling water. As the hemp boiled, another worker stirred the pot with a paddle.

  At an adjacent pot which had been bubbling for a while, they dumped out the hot water. Dense with plant matter, it resembled a pale watery broth. The pour left a heap of long, wilted filaments in the pot. Workers collected the fibers and carried them to drying racks. But the fibers weren’t abandoned to dry. Workers rolled and rubbed the loose, wet strains back and forth between the palms of their hands.

  “It’s called buffing the fibers,” a First Principale informed Alerio. “It removes the last bits of plant material.”

  “Rope made with fibers that fat will rot in a season,” Alerio offered to the deck officer. “At my father’s farm we used flax. If we had flax fibers that thick, we’d boil them again.”

  “Don’t let the robust fibers fool you,” the Principale assured him. “It’s why the sailors prefer hemp rope. Notice the fibers becoming fluffier and stringier as they’re buffed? Despite your comparison to stands of flax, those are pure and strong fibers.”

  Once buffed, the strands were hung on the rack to dry.

  From a different rack, three apprentices gathered a handful of dried strands. They separated the fibers into two parts. By twisting one way and wrapping the other way, they weaved the fibers. Repeating the movements, the students created long lengths of twine.

  Then the three apprentices offered their twine to a Master Rope Maker. Combining the three strands of twine, he manipulated them by twisting and counter wrapping until, as if by magic, a thumb sized rope emerged from the blur of his fingers.

  “Do we have enough?” Alerio questioned the deck officer.

  “They’ve been at it since yesterday,” the First Principale stated. “It’s not the rope or the lumber that’s holding us up.”

  “Let me guess,” Alerio moaned. “It’s the iron brackets?”

  From the ground below the quinquereme’s steering deck, a gruff voice called up.

  “Centurion Sisera,” the First Centurion beckoned. “Would you please come down here and explain a few things?”

  “Right away, First Centurion Typus,” Alerio acknowledged. Before climbing over the side, he promised the First Principale of the warship. “I’ll look into the delay.”

  Then he scurried over the rail and down to the beach.

  “First Centurion, good afternoon,” Alerio greeted Typus. Adding a salute, he asked. “Is there a problem?”

  “Walk with me, Sisera,” Typus urged. He didn’t say anything else unto they were down the beach and away from stray ears. “I am familiar with the Death Caller bovem-merda. But I didn’t know you wanted it public.”

  “At the Capital, I realized most of the good weapons’ instructors I worked with over the years had monikers. One’s that conjured respect if not fear in their trainees,” Alerio described. “My reputation is not widely known but, it’s not a secret.”

  “And you believe you’ll get the best from the oarsmen and Marines by making them afraid,” Typus summed up. “I get that. But a number of Tribunes and ship’s Centurions are asking about your fighting and killing uncooperative oarsmen.”

  “It’s the cost of doing business, First Centurion,” Alerio assured him.

  People died in Legion training. It was expected when you pushed men to be their best. Yet, no instructor intentionally fought and murdered a trainee to make an example of him.

  “You are kidding, aren’t you?” Typus questioned.

  “I am,” Alerio admitted. “The bodies were on loan. I needed a display to get the oarsmen’s attention.”

  “Well you did, as well as the scrutiny of staff and line officers,” Typus warned. “They want you removed from authority. After speaking with you, I’ll take care of them.”

  “Please don’t,” Alerio begged. “As long as I’m not relieved of duty, their opinion of me, balanced against the training of oarsmen and Marines, has little value.”

  “Most Centurions care about the opinion of other officers,” Typus observed. “Life would be much easier if the Tribunes
knew the truth about you.”

  “What I care about is staffing the fleet with proficient combat rowers,” Alerio stated. “Look up and down the beach. Over thirty-one thousand men for one hundred and three warships. The Empire has crews with years of experience. The Republic does not.”

  “I can’t argue that point. Praetor Sudoris mentions it at every meeting,” Typus conceded. “Alright, Death Caller, you work the oarsmen and Marines. I’ll cut off any official actions against you by the staff and line officers.”

  “Thank you, First Centurion,” Alerio remarked. “If you’ll excuse me.”

  “Where are you going?” Typus inquired.

  “To threaten the lives of the metalworkers and their officer,” Alerio replied.

  “Carry on, Centurion Sisera,” Typus ordered. “I need to get to headquarters and stop any response to your gentle persuasions.”

  ***

  The horses and wheels of the chariot crunched and threw gravel. As if charging an enemy, Alerio raced up the drive and yanked the reins, bringing the team and the vehicle to a stop. He leaped from the car and stomped into the Centurion’s office.

  “Where are my bars and brackets?” Alerio asked.

  “You can’t just race in here making demands,” the officer in charge of the metal works informed him.

  “That was a question. I haven’t made a demand, yet,” Alerio replied. “You’ll know when it escalates to a demand.”

  “And how will I know that?” the Centurion challenged.

  “Because, you will have a gladius in your hand,” Alerio warned.

  “You can’t come into my command area and threaten me,” the line officer assured Alerio. “My Tribune will have you on the punishment post at dawn if you start a fight.”

  “Just so you know, my assignment as the fleet’s weapons’ instructor came directly from General Duilius,” Alerio informed the officer. “and I don’t start fights. I give classes on the proper usage of gladii. Now, where are my brackets and bars?”

  “My head craftsman doesn’t see the value in building novelty items,” the Centurion offered. “no matter how big the toy. He’s given the brackets, bars, and spikes a low priority.”

  Alerio started to lose his temper. Then he calmed, after thinking through the situation. Most of the naval base felt the same way. The corvus ship-to-ship boarding ramp appeared to be an enormous waste of manpower and material. Despite the ramp’s success in the war games, the action was viewed as just a game. And a hardnosed master craftsman, especially one who understood the alchemy of iron, would consider the corvus hardware a make-work project.

  “Can’t you just order him to make the brackets?” Alerio inquired.

  “Most of our apprentice metalworkers are students of Master Eburarius,” the officer related. “If he leaves, this place will be crippled. There are warships that require his iron and steel work.”

  “Let’s go see him,” Alerio suggested. “Maybe I can sway him.”

  “Weapons’ instructor or not,” the officer cautioned. “I will defend my mechanics. At any cost.”

  “A bold statement,” Alerio informed him. “and admirable.”

  They marched out of the office, heading for the forges. Centurion Sisera moved confidently while the duty Centurion shuffled in an uncertain manner.

  ***

  “See the stacks of nails and hinges?” Master Eburarius pointed out. “Those, and requests for a hundred other items made of iron and steel come to my forges weekly. This is a hot and dangerous enterprise. A serious place for serious work. Oversized brackets and spikes the length of your arm belong to myths and tall tales.”

  At the appearance of the two Legion officers, the apprentices and journeymen left their forges, anvils, and work benches and crowded around to watch Eburarius. They knew the master craftsman to be stubborn. Once he settled on a notion, it was nearly impossible to sway him in the opposite direction.

  “Speaking of myths,” Alerio replied with a smile. “Let me tell you a story.”

  “Say what you will,” Eburarius invited. “You can entertain my people, but I will not change my mind.”

  All eyes followed the Centurion in the leather armor. If they didn’t appreciate him wanting to argue with the Master Metalworker, they did acknowledge the craftsmanship of the steel inlaid in his leather gear.

  Alerio strolled around a couple of workbenches. Behind one he found a long narrow plank. Dragging the board from the recess, he positioned the plank between the benches and lifted one end to the top of the work surface. Then he dropped the other end on the second workbench. The impact echoed around the shop building.

  “In the first days of the Roman Republic,” he began. Stopping, Centurion Sisera placed a hand on the plank and used it to vault up onto the narrow board. It bent and bowed under his weight but held. “King Tarquin the Proud was driven out by the Latian people and the Senate was established. The dethroned King fled to the Etruscans.”

  Alerio walked to one workbench and the board became solid under his feet.

  “There’s gold and riches in Rome, Tarquin the Proud informed the northern people,” Alerio strolled away from the hard surface and bounced as he moved. The board dipped then flexed upward threatening to toss the Centurion into the air. “Incited by the former King, the Etruscans gathered their army and marched on our Capital.”

  Bending his knees, Alerio bobbed up and down as if crossing a rope bridge. The metalworkers watched, waiting for the Legion officer to lose his balance and fall. But he bounced all the way to the second workbench.

  “News of the approaching Etruscan army sent civilians into the city for safety,” Alerio described while strolling back to the center of the plank. “The Tribunes of the home guard set about building defenses and organizing a battle plan. In the rush of activity, they neglected to destroy a bridge over the Tiber River.”

  Alerio jumped up and down. The plank bent then flexed upward. Only his outstretched arms and bent knees allowed him to maintain his footing on the unsteady board.

  “Too late, the Tribunes realized the Etruscan army was heading directly for the bridge,” Alerio informed the group. He stood still. His weight bowed the board slightly. “A young Legionary, Horatius Cocles, seeing the danger, collected craftsmen and apprentices with their tools. He led them and a squad of Legionaries to the unguarded bridge.”

  Alerio had changed the story to fit his audience. By calling the hero Horatius Cocles rather than Publius Horatius Cocles, he made Horatius sound like a relatable citizen rather than a nobleman. Also, the tale did not specify that Horatius took craftsmen to the bridge. But the open mouths and wide eyes of the apprentice boys and a few of the journeymen gave Alerio confidence that including tradesmen was a good idea.

  “We all know the quality of the Republic craftsmen,” Alerio assured the audience. He was rewarded by nods and words of approval. “The bridge of cord and lumber was not easily destroyed. While the tradesman and Legionaries set about cutting and hacking the bridge material Horatius, as if he was Mars the God of War himself, raced across the span.”

  Alerio bent his knees, causing the plank to dip low. When it sprung back, he jumped into the air while drawing his gladius. Landing, it required a drastic bend of one knee and a wobble to maintain his balance.

  “Horatius clashed with the Etruscan. Standing as the only force between the Capital and the enemy, he slashed, hacked, and stabbed,” From atop the board, Alerio mimicked the description with his gladius. A quick check showed the men and boys in the forge following every movement of the blade. “Seeing Horatius almost overrun, the tradesmen sent two Legionaries to help the lone Latian in his struggles.”

  The idea of craftsmen ordering infantrymen into combat brought a yell from the forge floor. Shaking their fists, the journeymen and apprentices were transported to the bridge.

  “Ignoring the fighting and the horde of Etruscans struggling to cross the bridge and kill them, the craftsmen cut and chopped at the bridge supports,�
� Alerio exclaimed. His blade now making the motions of an ax. “When a section finally separated, and the bridge rocked, Horatius sent his companions back to the safety of the far shore. But the craftsmen did not retreat. They continued to work on dismantling the bridge.”

  Alerio begin gently pressing with his feet and causing the plank to flex up and down.

  “Now Horatius stood alone against an entire army,” Alerio told them. His up and down movements and swipes with the gladius adding tension to the tale. “And just as he was about to be trampled by the enemy, the final cords parted. Behind Horatius…”

  Alerio looked back over his shoulder as if peering down the length of the narrow bridge.

  “The bridge began to collapse, trapping Horatius on the other side and leaving him at the mercy of the Etruscan warriors,” Alerio shouted. He bounced higher and the forge workers could see light between his hobnailed boots and the wooden plank. “Although the Capital was safe, the lone Legionary battled on against the odds. Then, he gave a mighty shove and pushed the warriors back. Given space, momentarily, between him and their blades, Horatius spun around and jumped into the Tiber.”

  Centurion Sisera shot into the air. As he came down, the journeymen and apprentices saw that the Legion officer would miss the plank. They inhaled sharply and held their breath, waiting for him to crash onto the forge floor.

  Alerio bent both legs, absorbed the jolt of the landing, and stood upright.

  “In his heavy armor, Horatius Cocles should have drowned,” Alerio explained. “But the God Tiberinus recognized the valor and heroism of the young citizen. Lifting him, he deposited the Legionary safely on the far bank.”

  Alerio lifted the gladius triumphantly overhead before lowering it and his head as if exhausted from the battle.

  “And that story is supposed to make me want to change the forge around to accommodate your wishes?” Eburarius argued.

  “The story shows that the Gods stand with Rome and her Legionaries against our enemies,” Alerio responded. “Once again, our Republic is threatened. And again, it calls on our craftsmen to help Legionaries stand on a bridge to defend the Capital.”