“Marcus, I don’t think it was us,” Alerio informed the excited Tribune. “Their cavalry left the field of battle before we moved on them.”
“Did you think they were going to retreat anyway?” Marcus questioned. A little of his enthusiasm faded but not much. “Still, we royally bloodied them.”
Both staff officers regarded the hills where the last of the mercenary soldiers were carrying their wounded to the crest. The slow retreat seemed to offer an opportunity to pursue the fleeing enemy forces.
“Do you think Battle Commander Digessi would allow us the privilege of pursuit?” Marcus inquired.
“I hope not,” Alerio said surprising the other Tribune.
“Remember, upon the conduct of each depends the fate of all,” Marcus mumbled.
“Excuse me,” Alerio remarked, “I didn’t catch that.”
“It’s from General Alexander the Third of Macedonia,” Marcus told Alerio. “He said, remember, upon the conduct of each depends the fate of all.”
“What does a General from ninety-two years ago know about our situation?” Alerio asked.
“I, or rather we, could end this war right now by annihilating General Hamilcar’s army,” Marcus explained.
He indicated the remnants of the mercenaries still visible on the slope.
“Do you think that mob was ‘Elephant Trunk’s’ army?” Alerio inquired while pointing at the retreating units.
“Well, yes. Intelligence reports that he is spread thin with no reserve Companies,” Marcus commented. Then he paused and thought before saying. “I see. You don’t believe we just fought the Empire’s Sicilia army?”
“Two observations, Tribune Flamma,” Alerio offered. “I did not see a General and his staff come over that hill. And I have seen unopposed withdrawals before. Never have I witnessed wounded left trailing behind like bait for wolves.”
“You think they wanted us to give chase?” Marcus guessed.
Their conversation was interrupted by a galloping horse. It stopped and the Legion’s senior staff officer, Lacrimari, glared down at them.
“You two report to Colonel Digessi, this instant,” Lacrimari ordered.
“Are we to be commended, Senior Tribune?” Marcus inquired.
The ground trembled. A moment later, the Legion’s cavalry closed in from the flanks. They met in the center of the Second Maniple and came abreast. Then in a line, the horsemen charged up the hill.
“Useless,” Alerio uttered.
The last of the Qart Hadasht forces had topped the rise and vanished down the far side.
“You will be lucky not to be demoted to Centurions after that stunt,” Lacrimari informed them. “Get going before the Colonel sends the First Century to collect you.”
Lacrimari kneed his horse and moved off in the direction of First Maniple.
“Maybe we should have thrown the javelins earlier,” Marcus offered as he walked to his section.
“I don’t believe the javelins are the problem,” Alerio called after him. Then to his half Maniple, he announced. “You took the fight to the enemy and won. Thank you for the honor of allowing me to serve with Second Maniple.”
The six Centuries, including the wounded Legionaries, responded with a boisterous, “Rah!”
Alerio was part way to the gap in the Third Maniple’s line when the other half of the Second replied to Tribune Flamma longer speech, “Rah!”
***
“I don’t care about the javelins,” Battle Commander Digessi thundered at Senior Tribune Iterum. His words and some spittle from the angry Colonel shot across the space between the mounted officers.
“You were right,” Marcus whispered as he came up behind Alerio, “it wasn’t about the javelins.”
He eased to Alerio’s side and braced. Together, the Tribunes for Second Maniple waited for the Battle Commander to turn his rage on them.
“Iterum, when I give an order, I expect it to be carried out by my senior staff officers all the way down to my greenest infantrymen,” Digessi bellowed. “And if I wanted any of my units to advance, I would have given the order. Your rogue Tribunes tipped the enemy off to our true capabilities and crushed my chance to end the Qart Hadasht army. And to win victory and glory for General Calatinus.”
Without realizing it, Alerio rocked his head. The horsehair comb on his helmet magnified the nod of disagreement. Colonel Digessi and Second Maniple’s Senior Tribune Iterum caught sight of the contrary motion. Iterum slid off his horse.
“Do you have a problem with the Battle Commander’s analysis, Tribune Sisera? Or is it you don’t want the Consul/General to win glory?” the Senior Tribune for the Second growled as he stomped across the distance. Once his face was pressed into the opening of Alerio’s helmet, Iterum clarified. “Because if you do, maybe you should petition the Consul for your own Maniple command. Or maybe you are holding out for someone to hand you a Legion of your own. Is that what you want?”
“No sir,” Alerio responded. “It’s just…”
The Senior Tribune pulled back and spun in a circle.
“Everyone, pay attention. After consulting with the Goddess Veritas,” Iterum mocked, “Tribune Sisera is about to give us the facts from the Goddess of Truth.”
The time to negotiate was always before a duel started. Once blades crossed or concepts collided, only the hostility remained. Even caught up in a mismatch against an unbeatable opponent, Alerio did what had served him for years, he attacked. But first he wanted to know if he would be allowed to fight.
“Permission to speak freely, sir,” Alerio requested.
“You seem to have no problem communicating your views silently,” Digessi pointed out. “Go ahead, try it with words.”
Before Alerio could begin, his boss spoke up.
“You heard the Colonel,” Iterum ordered. “Speak up, Tribune Sisera.”
The prompt from the Senior Tribune was unnecessary as the Battle Commander had already given permission. Then, it occurred to Alerio. Iterum’s blustering was an attempt to deflect the Colonel’s anger away from him and transfer it to Alerio.
***
Alerio’s proposed argument had an elusive danger running through the heart of the reasoning. The young Junior Tribunes and veteran bodyguards of the First Century presented no issues. And the opinions of Marcus Flamma and the other Tribunes did not carry weight.
In a Legion, there were just seven officers with the power to ruin the career of a staff officer who spoke against authority. And while the protection afforded by his adopted father softened the punishment from most, Alerio still had to be careful of his words. With General Calatinus in Messina, the Battle Commander reined as the ruling authority. After acknowledging Colonel Digessi, Senior Centurion Sanctoris, the Legion’s senior combat officer, Senior Tribune Iterum and the other two Maniple commanders, plus the head of Planning and Strategies, Alerio stepped to the center of the command staff.
“I really have no remarks,” he stated to a round of groans. Their outburst intended nothing personal, it had more to do with wanting a good drama than with malice. Alerio allowed the sounds of disappointment to fade before continuing. “I do sir, have questions.”
“Ask your questions, Sisera,” Digessi directed.
With the Colonel’s permission, Alerio felt safer in rattling off his list of defensive queries.
“Did you see a General and a command staff on the far side of the battlefield?” Alerio inquired while indicating the large staff around the Colonel. Then he waved a hand at the Legionaries from First Century. “Or a ring of men sworn to die to protect a General or a Battle Commander?”
Most of the command staff perked up at the hint of theater in the Tribune’s presentation.
“Was there a triple line of hardened veterans waiting to engage the enemy standing between the fighting and a General? And why did the cavalry withdraw before your Maniple advanced and decimated the enemy?” he continued working outward from the Battle Commander. “And at the shield
wall, did they have two brave and inventive staff officers going above and beyond their duty to save the lives of their Legionaries?”
For a moment, the staff was silent when Alerio stopped. Then one by one, they chuckled, realizing that Tribune Sisera had turned the questions into a defense of his actions.
“I ask you, Battle Commander, was that a battle with an army? Or was it a skirmish with regional units?” Alerio inquired. “And finally, sir, I ask. When do you plan to give a medal to Tribune Marcus Flamma for his courage and intuition?”
Colonel Digessi peered across the battlefield to where the horses of his cavalry picked their way down the slope. Returning, it seemed, from a fruitless pursuit over the hills.
“Your argument has merit,” Digessi conceded. “And to answer one of your questions, I will gladly award a medal to Tribune Flamma, when he has done something to earn it.”
Having dodged the punishment for not getting permission to engage off the Legion line, Alerio felt cocky.
“Thank you, sir,” he beamed up at the Battle Commander. “Is that your final thought on the subject?”
Then in a feat of self-restraint, Alerio resisted the urge to mention that he looked forward to drinking vino at Flamma’s fictitious award ceremony. But only because, he could not think of how to phrase it in the form of a question.
***
Late in the evening of the next day, Alerio ducked out of the brightly lit interior of the staff officers’ mess. Three dark rows of Legion tents over, he pushed aside another flap and walked into the muted interior of a big tent.
“Tribune. Is it that bad?” a heavily bandaged Legionary inquired.
“You are too mean to die,” Alerio said to the wounded infantryman.
“He is more like, too ugly,” a patient on the other side of the tent added.
“You are both too feisty to be in the hospital,” Alerio teased. “I have latrines that need tending. Maybe in the morning…”
Fake outrage and laughter came from the ten men in the hospital tent. The room stunk of vinegar, blood, and sweat. It was unpleasant and most staff officers avoided the environment.
“You know, sir,” an older Legionary admitted. “The first time you came in, we were afraid you would pray for us.”
“None of you seem to be candidates for the Goddess Nenia. Your bodies are intact, more or less,” Alerio replied. He peered around with a serious expression. “Although you all seem to embrace the gift from the Goddess Algea.”
“Pain is our friend,” an infantryman declared while raising up on an elbow.
“How is that?” Alerio questioned.
“Algea’s pain lets us know we are alive,” the young man responded. Then with a moan he dropped back on his pallet.
“And so, it does,” Alerio agreed. “Now. Do you need anything? Vinegar, food, or…”
“We could use more vino, sir,” another patient said.
“Odd that,” Alerio admitted while pulling a wineskin from under his cloak. “I seem to have an extra.”
Alerio handed the man the vino and walked down the bedrolls. He stopped and talked with each injured man. The wineskin followed as men took streams of vino before passing it forward. At the last patient, he handed Alerio the wineskin.
“Delicious,” Alerio pronounced after taking a drink. “And much too good a vintage for a lot of malingering infantryman.”
With a disapproving shake of his head, Alerio dropped the wineskin into the hands of the patient next the exit as he left.
Outside, Alerio inhaled the clean night air.
“You know Tribune Sisera,” a voice mentioned from the dark. “Stealing from the Tribune’s mess is a punishable offense.”
“What do you expect me to do, Senior Centurion?” Alerio commented. “They will not let me into the Centurion’s mess. Who else am I supposed to steal from?”
“Command thinks you are a lush, sir,” Sanctoris added.
“Maybe I am,” Alerio offered.
From the hospital tent, a few rough, moderately drunk voices sang.
“Tullia Major, Tullia Major
Leave the mug be
Open your eyes and see
The vino is tainted
By jealousy.”
“Tullia Major, Tullia Major
Beware your spouse
He is an unfaithful louse
Guard your position
from abuse.”
“Tullia via your birth order
Your last sip brings death
Your last kiss becomes your last breath
All for naked ambition
All to drive your sister’s ascension.”
Although a few gasped for air between words, most of the wounded in the tent joined in the singing.
“Tullia Major, Tullia Major
Rush now and flee
You are your sister’s trophy
A way to the crown
She foresees.”
“Tullia Major, Tullia Major
Driven by need
Your death by others’ greed
Is as gruesome
As the deed.”
“Tullia via your birth order
Your last sip brings death
Your last kiss becomes your last breath
All for naked ambition
All to drive your sister’s ascension.”
Sanctoris allowed a knowing smile to light up his face. It was clear the Senior Centurion understood and appreciated Tribune Sisera’s attention to the wounded.
“Tullia Minor, Tullia Minor
Evil you embrace
Sitting in your sister’s place
Ruled by her husband
In disgrace.”
“Tullia Minor, Tullia Minor
What a legacy
Open your eyes and see
The present is tainted
By jealousy.”
“Tullia via your birth order
Your last sip brings death
Your last kiss becomes your last breath
All for naked ambition
All to claim your sister’s ascension.”
“It takes good vino to grease an injured man’s throat for song,” Sanctoris explained. “Good night, sir.”
“Good evening, Senior Centurion,” Alerio acknowledged.
As he walked away, Alerio pondered just what the Senior Centurion wanted to speak about. Figuring the Legion’s senior combat officer would get around to it eventually, Alerio headed for his quarters.
Chapter 3 – Thermopyl
In the tent he shared with Marcus Flamma, Alerio found his fellow Tribune in his usual position. Sitting at a camp desk with his nose stuck in an old scroll.
“What are you reading tonight?” Alerio questioned.
Marcus lowered the paper and fixed his eyes on Alerio.
“You don’t seem to be as inebriated as they suggested,” Marcus observed.
“Yet, you are exactly as they described,” Alerio retorted. “Brain somewhere else and a piece of literature in your hand.”
“Aren’t you curious?” Marcus mused.
“I read enough to be educated,” Alerio said in his defense. “Just not as deeply as a scholar, or a certain Tribune that I know. I might be interested, unless you have changed to bawdy texts. In that case, I am definitely not interested in what you are reading.”
“I meant what people around the camp say about you,” Marcus corrected. “The opinions range from holy man to talented tactician and extend all the way to brutal killer or a full on drunk.”
“If it pleases you, I am all of those,” Alerio replied. “Usually one at a time but often I combine them.”
“See, you don’t care what other’s think about you,” Marcus summed up. “How can you do that?”
“Pray and think?” Alerio asked. “Or fight and drink?”
“No, no. Care about their opinions,” Marcus admitted. “I care so much I am afraid to take a chance. I fear disappointing my superiors and letting down my
family.”
“Wait. You weren’t afraid of dying during the battle?” Alerio asked while sliding his chair over.
“Only of failing the Goddess Pietas and dishonoring her gift of duty,” Marcus answered. “Of dying, I expect the Goddess Nenia to be swift.”
“Sometimes she takes the soul quickly,” Alerio confirmed. “Other times, Nenia is painfully slow.”
“I am petrified of failing, not death,” Marcus assured him. “How can I win medals and glory if I fear taking a chance? Unlike you, or King Leonidas the First of Sparta, I haven’t the courage of my convictions.”
“King Leonidas?” Alerio inquired. “What are you reading?”
“It’s an account of a battle from two hundred and twenty-two years ago,” Marcus responded by offering the paper rolls to Alerio. “It happened at Thermopylae a place off the Malian Gulf. That is in the heart of the Greek city states.”
“Tell me about it,” Alerio requested while waving off the scroll. “But hold on, I want to get a beverage to sip while I enjoy the story.”
“You expect me to read it to you?” Marcus asked as his head turned to follow Alerio.
“Read to me,” Alerio instructed. “or be bothered by my questions about translating from Greek. I’ll leave it up to you.”
Alerio poured a dash of vino into a mug than topped it off with a healthy filling of water.
“That is not the drink of a lush,” Marcus commented.
“Don’t believe everything you hear,” Alerio suggested as he leaned back in a chair. “Now tell me about the battle at Thermopylae.”
Marcus Flamma rolled to the beginning of the scroll and began to read.
***
I, Erechtheus of Thespiae, declare this account to be as accurate as I can recall. You see it’s the headaches and the insistent itching of the scar on my scalp that distracts me. Although the scar is why the scribe paid me for this accounting of how I earned the wound.
Earned you ask? Yes, the mutilation that leaves me confused at times, in pain often, and clawing at my head with my fingernails was surely earned.
Where? At a hot spring near the Gulf of Malian.
Rome's Tribune (Clay Warrior Stories Book 14) Page 2
