Fortune Reigns

by J. Clifton Slater

  “How did you manage that?” asked Pericles Requiem.

  “By rotating squads throughout the day and all night,” Claudius bragged. “Plus, we trained the squads all day long. The same squads over and over. We had King Hiero so confused he must have thought we had three Legions posted here.”

  “That is an impressive ruse,” acknowledged the Colonel.

  The servant arrived and Claudius washed his hands, scrubbed his face and took a long squirt off the wineskin. Then he raised the leather tube to his eye and scanned the Syracusan camp.

  “Someone has stirred up a hornet’s nest,” remarked Claudius.

  “Colonel Nicephrus made a daring night raid on them,” blurted out Maris Eutropius.

  “And the results?” demanded Claudius.

  A hand reached up and gently moved the tube so the Tribune looked southeast.

  “Not very impressive, is it?” remarked Colonel Requiem.

  “Their formation is a little loose,” Claudius observed while watching Nicephrus Division cross the empty ground. “Although they are running over uneven ground.”

  “What are you looking for?” questioned the General.

  “Every morning, I come out here at daybreak and, while directing the operations, I watch King Hiero’s tent,” explained the Senior Tribune as he shifted the tube to its initial target. “There’s a rhythm to the messengers who come and go. When they plan a probe, the cavalrymen strut. So, we have more bows strung. If they’re lethargic, they have nothing planned.”

  “Very astute of you, Tribune,” Caudex complimented. “What does the rhythm tell you today?”

  “That the Qart Hadasht mercenaries are about to attack,” Gaius stated.

  “However, can you tell that?” questioned Caudex.

  “Because Lieutenant Macario Hicetus has just been invited into the King’s tent,” Gaius reported. Spinning around, he looked at the signal corps’ Centurion. “Find Lance Corporal Alerio Sisera. I need him here, now.”

  “Ah, Gaius. Lance Corporal Sisera is otherwise occupied this morning,” sneered Maris Eutropius as he shielded his eyes with his hand to check the location of the sun.

  “I don’t care what detail he has, get him up here,” insisted Claudius.

  “Now Gaius. Settle down. The Lance Corporal is on the punishment post this morning,” General Caudex stated. “What’s so important about him?”

  “He attacked a staff officer and earned himself ten lashes,” Maris Eutropius interrupted. Then he offered as if it was a superb jest. “The General ordered it personally.”

  “What’s so important about this Lance Corporal?” inquired Colonel Requiem.

  “Without him, the Syracusan and the Qart Hadasht will attack at the same time. Twelve thousand enemy troops will hit us,” explained Claudius. “Lieutenant Macario Hicetus will deliver the royal message from Hiero to coordinate the attacks.”

  “Tribune. What does that have to do with Lance Corporal Sisera?” questioned General Caudex.

  The lower edge of the sun rose over the eastern mountain.

  “General, he is the only one who knows what Macario Hicetus looks like.”

  Chapter 6 – Punishment Post

  Alerio marched through a room of the house and into a storage area. The squad escorting him pulled the leather curtain over the opening, leaving him in darkness and, dropped their equipment in the main room. It was indoor sleeping arrangements for them and a jail cell for the Lance Corporal. While his guards choose places to nap around the walls, Alerio spread out sailcloth and lay down.

  Soon after, there was a commotion beyond the curtain.

  “Where is Lance Corporal Sisera?” demanded a voice that was permanently horse and raspy from issuing loud field commands.

  “He’s in the supply room,” the squad leader replied.

  “If he’s been injured, I’m going to draw my blade and put every one of you in the medical tent,” Brictius threatened.

  “We only marched him in and closed the curtain,” the squad leader promised. “We were warned already by Centurion Carnifex. The Lance Corporal is not to be touched.”

  The curtain shot back and the Legion’s First Sergeant stood in the door frame holding two lanterns.

  “Lance Corporal Sisera. Let’s you and I have a conversation,” Brictius announced. He placed one lantern on the floor and he yanked the curtain closed.

  Alerio rolled over, crossed his legs and leaned against the rough wall.

  “I’m sorry about the lack of amenities, First Sergeant,” he said indicating a place on the sails or a coil of hemp rope. “But there is a choice of seating. I’m afraid there is no repast. My mother would be embarrassed for me.”

  “Because you’re under guard and heading for the punishment post in the morning?” Brictius asked.

  “No, First Sergeant. Because she insisted every visitor to our Villa be served a meal and wine,” Alerio explained. “It’s common courtesy and tradition at the Sisera farm.”

  Brictius reached into a pack and pulled out a stack of oatcakes. He dropped them beside Alerio then he lifted out a wineskin. That joined the cakes on the sailcloth. The First Sergeant sat down with the meal and beverage between them.

  “We must respect our mother’s wishes,” the Legion’s Senior NCO said as he snapped off a small piece of oatcake and popped it in his mouth. Lifting the wineskin, he exclaimed. “To honoring the tradition of the Republic’s mothers.”

  After he drank, he passed the wineskin to Alerio, who took a stream of a very fine vino.

  “Do you do this with every Legionary destined for the punishment post?” inquired Alerio.

  “Of course not. Most of them deserve the whipping and are right dēfutūta cūlī,” admitted the First Sergeant. “You’re a special case and I have an offer.”

  “An offer?” questioned Alerio. “Enough vino so I don’t remember the lashes?”

  “I want you to escape,” replied the First Sergeant. “Leave Messina, leave the Legion and go home to your father’s farm. No record will follow you. I’ll see to that.”

  “But there’s a squad in the other room and Legion troops between here and the harbor,” Alerio reminded the First Sergeant. “And Qart Hadasht Navy ships on the Strait.”

  “You have two healthy Centuries from Claudius Detachment who will get you out of here and to the harbor,” Brictius informed him. “As a matter of fact, I’ve had to stop them twice from busting in here and spiriting you away. Captain Frigian said he’d gladly row you up the coast of the Republic to a beach north of the Capital. Unless Captain Sisera, you want to join the Sons of Mars and command a ship of your own.”

  “How is Milon?” Alerio inquired.

  “He has a nasty gash in his side. Tribune Eutropius doesn’t have the guts to kill a man himself. I believe he just wanted the pleasure of inflicting pain and watching Frigian bleed. The Senior Tribune blusters and dolls out punishment but he has political ambitions. And he couldn’t chance the ramifications of butchering a Sons of Mars’ Captain,” Brictius offered. “Now, about your escape plan.”

  “I can’t do any of those things, First Sergeant. First, it would put our Centuries in danger of decimation. I’ve sweated and bled with those Legionaries. I will not be responsible for every tenth man being put to death on my account,” Alerio replied. “And I’m a Legionary, not a pirate. Besides, there’s another reason I must take the punishment.”

  When the Lance Corporal didn’t expand on the reason, the First Sergeant reached out and took the wineskin. After taking a drink, he handed back the vino.

  “Care to explain?” inquired Brictius.

  “General Caudex ordered the ten lashes as punishment, not for my actions but, for the sins of my patron,” Alerio stated. “I’ve had a taste of the games powerful men play and it’s bitter. Even so, the lashes are for Senator Spurius Maximus and as his protégé, I’m obligated to represent General Maximus with courage and honor.”

  “You will accept the wounds and pai
n to martyr yourself for a man who isn’t here and probably will never know of your sacrifice?” insisted Brictius. “It makes no sense mixing Legion business with political revenge.”

  “Yet, we see it every day from the command staff and among some of the Centurions,” replied Alerio. “I believe General Maximus will hear of the punishment and my reaction to it. In the future, I will show him the scars and collect my reward.”

  “If you intend to stand the punishment with a clear head and embrace the blessings of Algea,” Brictius said. “I guess my offer of excellent, un-watered vino is wasted.”

  “I have no intention of having any more memory of the whip than is necessary,” Alerio said as he lifted the wineskin. “Or of embracing the pain.”

  ***

  Alerio slept and, although the vino ran out before it could block the knowledge of what he faced in the morning, it did allow him to float on a haze of warmth with blurry thoughts. It did until he dreamed of battling giants with clawed hands. As the giants fought, he ran around their ankles dodging their stomping and shuffling feet. Occasionally, one would reach down and swipe at his miniature figure. After raking his back with sharp claws, the giant returned to exchanging flourishes with the other colossus. They fought and he raced around their trireme size feet with sweat stinging his eyes and blood oozing from painful wounds on his back. Then, one of the giant’s toes nudged him in the side.

  “Wake up, Lance Corporal,” a voice ordered.

  Peering up, Alerio saw Sanctus Carnifex standing over him. Rolling to his back, Alerio sat up and hugged his knees to his chest.

  “Good morning, Centurion. Is it a good day to bleed for the Republic?” he asked.

  “In the Legion, every day affords us a chance to mix blood with soil,” Carnifex replied. “But the only good day is when it’s the enemy’s blood. Not a Legionary’s.”

  “Has the sun risen?” inquired Alerio. “On my father’s farm, I always enjoyed the sunrise. As you can assume, today I’m not so pleased with the idea.”

  “I’ve spent the night talking to your officers, NCOs and the Legionaries in Claudius Detachment. Both the healthy and the injured,” the Legion’s weapon instructor stated. “Your command staff is impressed with you but, any merda sucking mentula can cuddle up to his superiors. The true test of an NCO is the responses I received from the infantrymen.”

  Alerio chuckled and dropped his head.

  “I can’t imagine what they said about me,” he ventured. “Between slaps with the blade, trips with my feet and hammering them with shields, it probably wasn’t flattering.”

  “There were a few who volunteered to be the punishment Sergeant today. But the ones with minor injuries were more positive,” Carnifex related. “However, it was the responses from the walking or severely wounded that told me the most about you.”

  “Is this part of the punishment?” inquired Alerio. “Because, if it is, I’d just as soon take the lashes, sir.”

  “Oh, you’ll get the lashes, weapons instructor,” Sanctus assured him. But the use of the title shocked Alerio. As the Legion’s weapons instructor, Centurion Carnifex had the responsibility for certifying instructors in every Century to assure the Legionaries were proficient with their weapons and in maneuvering. To have the Centurion recognize Alerio as a weapons instructor showed a vote of confidence far beyond the young man’s rank. “The wounded all had the same excuse for why they were injured. To a man, they explained that had they followed your instructions and training, they wouldn’t have allowed the enemy to cut them. That, Lance Corporal Sisera, is the highest compliment a Legionary can offer his weapons instructor. Now, get up. You have an appointment with the punishment post.”

  ***

  In a Legion in the field, there were lots of activities. Such as collecting daily rations, cooking at the squad level, sentry duty, inspections, sacrifices to the Gods, both large and small, and there was training. Constant gladius, javelin, shield and bow work, until their arms and legs were exhausted. This put the Legionaries in sync with their squad mates and automatic in their response to an enemy. Then they ran, jumped and wrestled. There were activities aplenty in the field. The one thing missing was entertainment on a grand scale. And despite the thoughts of the command staff that someone sentenced to the punishment post provided motivation, in reality, it served to fill the entertainment gap.

  On the days of a whipping, the punishment Sergeant was the ringmaster and center of attention. He strutted to the post, checked the bindings and proceeded to push Legionaries back to form a circle around the post. This was necessary as over a thousand Legionaries had crowded around to view the spectacle. Relieved of duty for the morning, they jostled for viewing spots and greeted friends from other units as they gulped down vino. Many had climbed on rooftops and walls while others stood on barrels or upended logs to see over the crowd. And, they placed bets.

  How many lashes before the offender bled? Or passed out? Or cried out for his God or Goddess, or his mother were popular wagers. And there was the one with the highest payout and longest odds. Would the Legionary die under the whip?

  A row of Tesserarii had been arranged for the wagering. Who better to handle the coins than the Corporals who did the correspondence, kept logs, counted the Century’s funeral funds and issued pay? Considering the age of the Legionary to be punished, the mother wage far exceeded any of the others. Although, the no cries for all ten lashes came in a close second. These placed mostly by the Sons of Mars who came for the sport of it and seemed to know something about the Legionary.

  Oddly enough, the death bets began to pile up. At first, none of the Corporals paid much attention to the coins placed on the punished dying. But during a lull, one mentioned it.

  “How old is the Legionary?” he inquired of the Tesserarius next to him.

  “I don’t know but I heard he’s young. Why?” came the reply.

  “Any illness or injuries?”

  “He’s fit as far as anybody knows.”

  “Then why all the coins placed on him dying?”

  “Now that you mention it, I have three big stacks for the same wager,” the Corporal noted. Then turning to the NCO on the other side, he asked. “Have you taken any death bets?”

  The Tesserarius pointed to his camp table.

  “Yes, and I don’t understand it,” the Corporal responded. “If he was old or sick, sure. But only ten lashes to a healthy man will put him in medical for a day. But kill him? No way.”

  Then a wave of newly arrived Legionaries lined up and the Corporals got busy.

  ***

  Alerio and the escort squad left the house and marched up the street heading for the empty lot. Except the open area was no longer empty. Legionaries, Sons of Mars and residents crowded the lot and ringed the punishment pole.

  “Big turnout for you, Lance Corporal,” noted the squad leader.

  “Glad I could be today’s circus,” commented Alerio.

  Inside he trembled and his thoughts went to melancholy places. Maybe he should have escaped or run off and joined the Sons of Mars. At this instant, he visualized himself standing on the prow of a bireme with his oarsmen rowing towards a prize transport. But he was a Legionary and a protégé for one of the most powerful men in the Republic. He would accept his fate and abide the lashes like a man.

  In the light of predawn, before shadows formed, the escort squad shoved into the crowd. Some people bristled and looked to see who dared push them from the rear. The sight of infantry shields, helmets and javelins dissuaded any argument and, the crowd parted.

  The punishment Sergeant stood in the open with his implement of authority. The whip handle tapped against his leg, while his hand clutched a loop of braided leather. As he moved the handle, the loop of interwoven leather swung out and back showing the suppleness of the whip.

  Behind the Sergeant, a thick pole jutted from a flat sandy circle. Another bet was how far beyond the sand would drops of blood fly. At the top of the pole, coils of rope
covered a short length before the ends of the lines were allowed to dangle. Tied to the ends were leather cuffs with laces for a secure fit. As the crowd parted for the escort squad, some Legionaries stumbled into the cleared area. The punishment Sergeant stalked the perimeter shoving trespassers back into the crowd. Everyone jeered at the rough treatment but no one called out directly to the punishment Sergeant. Someday they might be sentenced to lashes and offending the man wielding the whip wasn’t a good idea.

  Once through the crowd, eight members of the escort squad dispersed around the cleared area. With Legionaries holding back the spectators, the Sergeant marched to the circle of sand and made a show of inspecting the pole, cuffs, and coils of rope. The final two members of the squad flanked Alerio. The three stood braced and waiting for an officer to arrive and read the charges.

  Also waiting, but on a street to the rear of the crowd, was a Century, their Centurion and Corporal and, a medic. They had no interest in seeing their weapons instructor whipped. In fact, the eighty infantrymen ground their teeth, shuffled their feet and clinched their javelins until their fingers were white. None of them were happy about the punishment.

  “He survived Syracusan phalanx attacks without a scratch. Works his cūlus off to train us,” complained one of the infantrymen. “And now he has to take the whip. It’s just not right.”

  “Stow it, Private,” the Corporal ordered. “We went over this last night. When the tenth lash is delivered, we’re going in and protect him while the medic does his work. It’s the best we can do.”

  “It’s merda, Tesserarius,” another Legionary observed.

  “I didn’t say it wasn’t,” replied the Corporal.

  ***

  A Centurion stepped into the cleared area and unrolled a short scroll.

  “Legionaries. Attention to orders,” he announced in a booming voice. “By command of General Appease Clodus Caudex, Caudex Legion, Senator, and citizens of the Republic, the following charges are levied, judged and directed against Lance Corporal Alerio Sisera, Southern Legion, Headquarters Planning and Strategies Section. The Lance Corporal has been charged with sleeping while on duty.”