Rome's Tribune (Clay Warrior Stories Book 14)

by J. Clifton Slater

  We stopped far enough from the gap to allow porters carrying the injured to get by. But close enough to our other file to react in concert to defend a breach.

  “Men of Thespiae, lift your heads high,” Demophilus announced from the top of the wall. One of his servants helped strap on the Commander’s armor while he addressed us. “Today we fight under the watchful eye of a King.”

  Our eyes shifted to Leonidas. A Helot helped the Lacedaemon put on his armor. Before the Spartan donned his helmet, he noticed our focus.

  “Don’t look at me, brave Thespians,” the Spartan King declared. “I don’t watch. I prefer to fight alongside of you.”

  At the notice that a Spartan King had acknowledged Thespiae as a worthy companion, we cheered. Then groups of blood splattered Spartans came through the gap. From the rounding of their shoulders and shuffling of their feet, we could tell they were exhausted.

  “Thespians do not keep the King waiting,” Demophilus exclaimed. “El-el-el-el-Eu! El-el-el-el-Eu!”

  Picking up the war cry, we roared it as we marched to the wall and through the gap.

  “El-el-el-el-Eu! El-el-el-el-Eu!”

  ***

  Just as we did the day before, our files were ordered to abut the Lacedaemon formation to prevent the Achaemenid’s from flanking the Spartans. But unlike before, the attackers were not a mixture of tribes with inferior equipment. Those attacking and hacking down our Arcadias, Tegeans, and Mantineans were uniformly armored. And to the horror of the soldiers from our sister cities, they fought as well as a Thespian.

  “Pull them out and show the Immortals your iron,” Demophilus instructed.

  As we shoved into the back of the Greek formation, we saw the problem for the Spartans. Because their flank protection kept collapsing, they were fighting on two fronts.

  I reached the forward rank, anchored one end, and paused as my file caught up.

  “Take the front,” my file leader ordered us.

  We used our shields to hook the men in front, and as we pulled them off the defensive line, we slashed and stepped into the forward row.

  “Trouble, Spartan?” I asked Eurytus.

  He looked at me while defending against two Immortals.

  “Took you long enough to get here,” he reprimanded me before spitting a glob of blood onto the ground between us.

  By then, I had come to recognize the comment as high praise from one of Sparta’s stoic warriors.

  And stoic, plus a fistful of honorable terms, could have described Eurytus the Spartan at that moment. One eye was swollen and leaking a clear fluid. The gash that took his eye flowed red down his face. And what he spit on the ground wasn’t blood from a cut in his mouth, but from the bleeding he inhaled while fighting in two directions.

  “You might want to take a moment and get that treated,” I suggested to Eurytus.

  Bashing aside an Immortal’s shield, I stabbed under the enemy’s armor. The man folded forward and I ran my blade down his neck. Unlike yesterday when their dead piled up, the man was pulled away as soon as he fell. Another took his place.

  A scarf over his face and identical armor made it seem as if I was fighting the same man and not a replacement. In that respect, battling Xerxes’ Immortals was unnerving.

  “Good stabbing combination,” Eurytus complimented me. Then he responded to my recommendation. “I’ll not leave as long as he is watching.”

  Eurytus fended off two Immortals with his shield so his sword was free to indicate an area behind the enemy formation. I followed the direction of his blade and my eyes beheld a wonder.

  A bone white throne on a raised platform of polished wood supported King Xerxes. He was standing and screaming something. I assumed it was his anger at the failure of the Immortals to penetrate our lines.

  The throne gave credence to Commander Demophilus’ remark about being watched by a King as we fought.

  Our second Phalanx shoved us back and took our place in the fight. Another unit of Spartans did the same on our flank. At the gap, I looked back to witness a sea of sameness on the other side of the combat line. The Immortals did seem to be never-ending.

  “Don’t let them fool you,” Eurytus informed me. His arm landed on my shoulder as if he were a brother greeting a sibling. Except, the Spartan sagged against me. Using my shoulder to stay upright, he twisted back and made a crude gesture towards the Immortals. “They bleed and die just like any normal man.”

  The other Spartans coming off the line swaggered as if not tired at all. And they also added insults and dismissive motions in the directions of the Immortals.

  The Spartan’s insolence drew raised swords and spears shaken in anger from the Immortals. Following the display, they broke ranks and surged forward. Many died on the fresh blades and rested muscles of the Thespians and the Spartans.

  Suddenly, I understood the Lacedaemons use of show. It was more than intimidation. An irritated enemy made emotional and unwise choices.

  Then Eurytus collapsed but I caught his armor and held him upright. We strolled around the wall as if nothing were wrong. Far be it from me to spoil the illusion of a Spartan circus.

  ***

  My sword suffered the three harlots of a battle. It was nicked, notched, and dull. As I sat with my rasping tool honing the blade, a Helot wheeled a cart to my side.

  “Any man who stands with Eurytus the Spartan in battle,” the Spartan slave exclaimed, “deserves as much wine as he can handle. Be careful, Thespian, that you don’t drown.”

  He placed a cask at my elbow and rolled the cart away. We boasted two hundred and fifty-six Hoplites in our Phalanx. After everyone had a couple of mugs, there was little wine left for drowning or carousing. Yet, we all saluted the half blind Spartan’s generosity.

  ***

  Imagine my surprise when we rotated back to the fight. I found Eurytus standing to my right.

  “I can’t see out of my left eye,” he informed me. Under his helmet, a bloody bandage covered half his face. “I’m depending on you to guard my flank. Don’t fail me, Thespian.”

  Unaware of my fate, I replied, “As long as the Gods allow me to stand, your left side will be as strong as if you had both eyes and four arms.”

  “You can’t ask the Gods for more than that,” he added before we both got busy defending ourselves.

  The day passed in flashes of moving up to fight and standing exhausted while chewing bread I could not taste and drinking wine I could not enjoy. Then it was back to the front and the fighting.

  I remember the Thespian on my left absorbing a spearhead. He wasn’t from my file and that puzzled me. Of course, we had lost a lot of men and the Lieutenants were shuffling Hoplites to maintain our files.

  An Immortal came in with a low slash and I checked the blade. But I was slightly off balance when the injured Hoplite tumbled into me. I locked my knees and caught his weight on my shield arm. Rolling away from his weigh to keep the shield forward, I stepped back and…

  I do not recall anything of the battle beyond that point.

  ***

  Lightning flashed in front of my eyes and my neck protested. Someone was wrenching my head and twisting my neck.

  “Hold still,” a Lieutenant ordered.

  He grunted and jerked while leaning his chest into my face. Then a blinding headache blocked my vision and I screamed. When my vision cleared, he was holding my helmet by a flap of bronze.

  “Am I still pretty?” I asked.

  My joke was supposed to lighten the mood of the Thespians around me. It did nothing except deepen the frowns on their faces.

  “He is addled,” the Lieutenant declared.

  “It was a joke,” I protested. Then the sound of my voice registered with my ears. I thought the words, but they hadn’t traveled to my tongue and out of my mouth in any coherent manner.

  With one man supporting my head and two more carrying my body on a shield, they took me to a campsite with other injured. I slept and awoken when the campfires we
re low and mostly cold embers. It was either late at night or just before dawn.

  “King Leonidas, the Phocians have fled,” a man reported.

  I struggled and managed to lift my head and then my chest. Balanced on an elbow, I looked around. We injured had been placed at a fire next to Commander Demophilus’ camp.

  In the dark, Leonidas and my Commander sat at a dying flame. Neither man had the strength to lift an arm to rebuild the fire.

  “What happened?” the Spartan King inquired.

  “A goat herder showed ten thousand of Xerxes’ soldiers a trail through the mountains,” the man answered. “Sir, we should flee before they arrive.”

  “We are here to give the coalition a chance to gather a proper army,” Leonidas proclaimed. “The Spartans will stay to delay Xerxes.”

  “The Thespians will also,” my Commander declared.

  “Your Hoplites have done enough, Demophilus,” Leonidas remarked.

  “The men of Thespiae have held your flank for two days, Spartan,” my Commander reminded the King. “We will not abandon you now.”

  “At lease put your wounded on wagons and get them to safety,” Leonidas instructed. “And warn the rest, we stand here at Thermopyl for eternity.”

  I collapsed to the ground. Then, in the center of a storm raging in my head, I passed into oblivion.

  ***

  When I awoke, I was sitting in the bed of a wagon. Beside me was Eurytus with both eyes bandaged. His head lulled to the side.

  “Are you alive, Spartan?” I said slowly testing my ability to speak.

  “Thespian? Is that you?” he asked. “I thought you dead from the looks of your smashed helmet.”

  “How did you see my helmet with both eyes bandaged?” I inquired.

  “My Helot described the wreckage of your head gear,” Eurytus admitted. “It sounds ugly. How are you?”

  “Bad enough that I’ll hinder my Phalanx during the final battle,” I told him.

  “What final battle?” he demanded. “They put me in this wagon last night and I’ve been asleep since.”

  “The Phocians fled and left our flanks unguarded,” I informed him. “Our positioned is compromised.”

  Eurytus felt around until he located the tail gate of the wagon. Once there, he crawled over and fell to the ground. Steading himself with his hands, he stood, raised his face to the sky, and shouted for his slave and his armor.

  In a matter of moments, the Helot had him dressed for war. Then he guided Eurytus to the gap. The last time I saw the Spartan and my Phalanx mates, they were marching around the wall as my wagon drove away.

  You might wonder why I didn’t follow the blind Spartan to the battle. In truth, I had such a headache that my legs wouldn’t support my weight.

  My name is Erechtheus, and I was at Thermopylae with the three hundred Spartans and the seven hundred Thespians. So swear I, on what life the Gods grant me.

  ***

  Marcus rolled the scroll and tucked it into a pouch.

  “Heroes all,” he said.

  “They all died,” Alerio pointed out. “And for only three days delay. If I had been in charge, I would have used a fighting retreat to slow Xerxes down.”

  “And once you reached wider ground, the end would have been the same,” Marcus suggested. “With a static defense, Leonidas was able to deliver more damage.”

  Alerio fell silent before announcing, “Tribune Flamma. If the opportunity ever presents itself to lead a blocking force, I elect you to be the hero.”

  “Thank you, Tribune Sisera,” Marcus acknowledged. “But glory like that is rare.”

  “It is,” Alerio agreed.

  Act 2

  Chapter 5 – Boar Hunt

  Legionaries hated, then loved, and in the end hated again the building of the nightly marching camp. After a long day of hiking and searching for the enemy, they became construction crews. Then, during the night, they slept knowing the ditches they labored to dig, the stockade walls they constructed, and the spikes they planted in the ground stood between their tents and the enemy. But in the early morning as the sun rose, they were required to dismantle the marching camp.

  “Stack those posts carefully,” the Optio at the supply wagons directed. “If any get damaged, I’ll be sure you are on the detail to cut and trim the replacement logs.”

  In reverse order of how they came out, the salvageable sections of the Legion marching camp were stowed and readied for another day of traveling.

  “What is the order of march?” Marcus Flamma asked.

  “We are walking rear security,” Iterum answered. “Keep the men sharp.”

  The Senior Tribune rode away and Alerio Sisera strolled up behind Flamma.

  “Dust detail he means. And there is no we,” Alerio teased. “He’ll be riding with General Calatinus. Not eating trail dust and dodging cow paddies with us.”

  “I believe as the commander for Second Maniple,” Marcus corrected. “the Senior Tribune will be with Colonel Digessi’s staff.”

  “As you wish,” Alerio bowed to his fellow staff officer. “But Iterum is a political beast and his red meat is power. And there is nothing as enticing to his ilk as the ear of a bored Consul/General on a long march.”

  “You are too cynical, Sisera,” Marcus observed. Then he waved at a Centurion. “Keep them moving. We are last out but that doesn’t mean we can delay the supply wagons.”

  “Yes, sir,” the combat officer responded.

  ***

  The Veles skirmishers stepped off when the orange ball of the sun touched the horizon. Hourglasses might be at different stages of a turn, but the appearance of the sun let everyone know it was time to go. Resembling a fan, the four Centuries of light infantrymen spread to the sides and front of the line of march.

  Shortly after the Velites jogged away, the First Maniple marched forward as if a shaft to the skirmishers’ arrowhead. Accompanying them were the contubernium mules with a servant for each eight-man squad. Behind the inexperienced infantrymen, the Battle Commander’s staff rode walking horses while surrounded by squads from First Century. Along with Colonel Digessi were Senior Tribune Lacrimari, Senior Centurion Sanctoris, and the Senior Tribunes for the First and Third Maniples, the Veles, and the cavalry. Rushing back and forth along the three quarters length of a marching Legion were a gaggle of Junior Tribunes delivering orders or reporting on the position of each Century.

  Six Centuries of the Third Maniple marched behind the Battle Commander’s staff. Following the infantry were the General’s organization and the Tribunes and Optios of Planning and Strategies. Visitors who came from the Capital to elicit favors from the Consul, staff specialists, and Senior Tribune Lacrimari, all shuffled around the Centurion of First Century and his veteran bodyguards to get close to General Aulus Calatinus.

  The remaining six Centuries of veteran Legionaries from the Third followed the General’s staff. Behind them came their one hundred and twenty mules.

  Cavalrymen assigned to the march walked behind the infantry while the rest of the mounted Legionaries ranged near and far from the sides of the columns.

  Controlling the rear were Alerio and Marcus. Between the horses and their droppings, the leavings of the mule, the merda from the extra cavalry mounts, and the manure from the cattle, the center of the marching columns got smelly and sloppy. Only a few Centuries from the Second had to walk directly behind the columns. Thankfully for most of Second Maniple, the Centuries at the very back spread out to guard against a rear ambush.

  “Any word?” Alerio inquired while riding across the trail.

  “Nothing from the head,” Marcus told him. “Let me know when you get tired of your perpendicular route.”

  “I am fine. You stay there and let me know if any Junior Tribunes bring good news,” Alerio replied as he reached the other side of the trail. “Until then, I’ll keep in contact with our outlaying Centuries.”

  “You are still a combat officer at heart,” Marcus accused.
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br />   “No, I am not,” Alerio countered. “Don’t let the horse fool you. At my core, I am still an infantryman. But don’t tell our Senior Tribune. By the way, where is he?”

  “Don’t you have a flank to inspect,” Marcus said brushing off Alerio’s comment.

  They both knew Iterum was riding with the General and his staff.

  ***

  A mile and a half ahead of where Marcus and Alerio guarded the rear, the forty-fifth Century patrolled ahead of the Legion. Centurion Farciminis noticed a cluster of his Velites and rode to the squad. The skirmishers seemed interested in something on the ground.

  “Are we taking a rest?” Farciminis inquired.

  “No sir,” the squad leader assured him. “This is the third campfire we’ve discovered. But the first with discarded bandages.”

  “Show me,” the light infantry officer instructed.

  The squad split and men went to stand by tiny dirt mounds. From horseback or even while hiking, the covered campfires would not be obvious. The discovery came from the curiosity of a few Skirmishers who kicked the mounds.

  “How many more?” the Centurion questioned.

  The squad leader sent three men ahead. One located another mound. With four identified, the Lance Corporal guessed and indicated another direction.

  “Try over there,” he told two other skirmishers.

  Two more mounds, then two more, became apparent once the topcoat of dirt had been kicked away.

  “Think this is the bivouac for the mercenaries we tangled with the other day, sir?” the squad leader asked.

  “I do,” the combat officer told him. Waving his arms, he signaled for two more of his squads to come to him. When they arrived, he sent them off in different tracks. “Spread out. Find me the Qart Hadasht direction of march.”

  ***

  Frustration nagged at Battle Commander Bonum Digessi. For a week, the Legion had captured small towns along the southwestern coast of Sicilia. Captured was an exaggeration. None of the garrisons were prepared to stand against his heavy infantry. They surrendered, signed trade agreements, and showered General Calatinus with praise and gifts. None of that pomp and ceremony helped a Colonel win glory and build a reputation.