Rome's Tribune (Clay Warrior Stories Book 14)

by J. Clifton Slater

  Legion rank aside, social standing among staff officers, and a few Patricians who could only afford Centurion positions, carried weight. And General Calatinus had just reminded everyone in the tent that Alerio’s adopted father was a powerful Senator.

  “With your permission, General, I will sneak and peek around the heights,” Alerio proposed,” and investigate. If nothing else, we’ll have intelligence for tomorrow’s patrol.”

  “But General, I need Tribune Sisera in command of the Second Maniple,” Iterum protested.

  “Nonsense, Iterum,” Calatinus insisted. “You can spend the night with your Maniple. It’ll do the men good to see their Senior Tribune sleeping with them. Especially after they saved the Legion. I’ll order vino sent up. You can share drinks and toast their bravery.”

  For Iterum, being a senior staff officer meant perks. And one of them provided him a bed in the command area. Banishment to the Centuries felt like unwarranted punishment. He started to protest when Digessi draped an arm over his shoulders.

  “When the attack started, I assumed you were with your Maniple,” the Colonel remarked. Dropping the thread of reminding the Senior Tribune that he was out of position, the Battle Commander continued. “Perhaps I will come by tonight and share a cup with you and your combat officers.”

  “That would be most pleasant, Colonel,” Iterum acknowledged. “My Centurions will be honored.”

  ***

  Alerio grinned in the dark as he climbed. Despite his weariness, the miserable task ahead, and his need for sleep, the search of the wagons for the woolen pants and shirt brought a moment of levity to his mind. The teamsters were outraged that he tore apart an entire baggage transport while looking for this outfit. But the woolens had proved lucky in the past, and he felt he needed as much help from providence as he could muster.

  Or maybe the smirk formed from the half-truth he told to General Calatinus.

  While he certainly planned to look for Iberians and try to discern what transpired on the clifftop, his real thought was to bring Marcus Flamma home to the Legion. If Alerio could prevent it, Tribune Flamma’s body would not rest as wolf bait for even one night.

  Far below him, four squads of veterans held the approach. Located a mile south of the battlefield, the gully was wide enough for three columns of mercenaries to charge the Legion. In reality, they would rush headlong into the shields and gladii of men from the Third Maniple. As he reached the end of the ravine, Alerio was thankful that he hadn’t met Empire soldiers coming from the other direction.

  Once on level ground, he jogged northward. Stars twinkled overhead providing enough light to see bigger rocks and larger obstacles. The features didn’t mean much until he reached an area almost parallel to where the Legion had been trapped. There he found the bodies of two Legionaries at a narrow gulch.

  Several paces beyond the gully, Alerio squatted at the bodies of twenty soldiers of the Empire.

  “Nice going, Tribune Flamma,” he whispered as he moved by the bodies.

  Farther along the clifftop, he found a pair of Legionaries and several Qart Hadasht light infantrymen. In his mind, he pieced together the circumstances as he identified the result of two-on-two drills against a dispersed enemy. Nodding his approval, the former Weapon’s Instructor moved northward.

  Wagons with bodies on one side showed him the route taken and disruption inflicted by Tribune Flamma’s detachment. Then he began finding pairs of Legionaries.

  At first three pairs, then four, with two more off to the side. Following the change in direction, he stumbled on five pairs of infantrymen. Almost fearing what he would find ahead, Alerio stopped to catch his breath. In the silence, he heard camp noises.

  Rapping on armor, files gliding on blades, and indistinct voices drifted to him from the north. Several paces away, he rustled aside branches and peered through a bush. Two hundred feet from the hedgerow, fifty campfires blazed in the night. The Iberians had not retreated with the main body of the Empire’s army. Perhaps they were rearguard or maybe an ambush for a small patrol from the Legion. In either case, he knew about them and the Legion patrol would be a full Maniple. And they would not come slowly and timidly across the clifftop.

  Returning to the trail of bodies, Alerio crept forward stepping over the Legionaries who almost carpeted the ground. Then the orientations of the bodies changed. They became as spokes on a wheel, radiating out from a hub. If Marcus had made it this far, Alerio was sure to find his corpse in the center of what had to be a terrifying battle.

  Stacked and left as they had fallen, Alerio located the command staff. One Centurion, a big Optio, and a handful of Legionaries constituted the pile. But there was no sign of Tribune armor.

  Alerio faced north and crouched. Having failed in his personal mission, he would have the satisfaction of finishing the official task and telling the Colonel how to bring pain down on the Iberians.

  “Nenia Dea,” Alerio whispered. “I pray that you took all of them into your arms quickly.”

  With reverence, he reached out and hovered his hand over the pile of dead. Seeking to give the Legionaries one final goodbye, he lowered the palm.

  Under his touch, a warm hand jerked and a groan escaped from a pair of very much alive lungs. Alerio was torn.

  Whoever was alive in the pile couldn’t have much life left. If he groaned loud enough, the Iberians would come to investigate. Alerio needed to be gone from here and on his way to warn Colonel Digessi.

  But one of Marcus’ men lived. And because Alerio respected the Tribune who loved King Leonidas, Alerio leaned over the stack and began untangling arms, legs, and torsos.

  Another groan came from under the muscular Optio’s body and Alerio almost stopped and fled.

  “Be quiet you fool,” he warned. “Do you…”

  As the body of the big NCO rolled away, starlight reflected off Tribune armor.

  Marcus Flamma groaned again. But Alerio didn’t care. He pulled his fellow Tribune onto his shoulders and headed south as fast as he could travel.

  Act 3

  Chapter 9 – Heroes of the Legion

  Alerio unstrapped Marcus’ chest and shoulder armor and took his time easing the leather and iron around the twisted arm and the collection of bloody cloths. Then, he gently unstrapped the hobnailed boots and was extra cautious removing the footwear from the oddly bent leg. As he unbuckled the armored skirt, Alerio wondered how he could slip the gear from under Marcus without hurting his friend.

  The tent flaps moved and rather than the servants with water, soap, vinegar, and clean bandages, a doctor breezed into the tent.

  Physician Oisin, Consul/General Calatinus’ personal doctor, crossed to the cot, stopped, and rubbed his chin as he studied Marcus Flamma.

  “The Tribune needs to be clean for me to see his complexion,” the Greek doctor announced. “And his issues collected so I can investigate his humors.”

  “What about the broken bones?” Alerio inquired. “And the sword wounds?”

  “I treat ailments of the entire body,” the physician explained. “You’ll need a surgeon for the other maladies.”

  “Barley soup and vinegar drink,” Alerio said in disgust.

  “Excuse me?” Oisin demanded.

  “At my father’s farm, we treated our own wounds,” Alerio informed the Greek. “My father calls over educated physicians barley soup and vinegar drink merchants.”

  “I don’t have to stand here and be insulted,” Oisin exclaimed.

  “Just the fact that you are here makes that a lie,” Alerio suggested. Three servants came in with the supplies. “You supervise getting him clean and the collection of his issues.”

  “Where are you going?” Oisin asked.

  “To find a veteran infantryman and a sheep herder,” Alerio replied. He addressed the half-conscious Marcus Flamma. “I apologize, Leonidas.”

  Lifting Marcus’ lower back, Alerio slid the armored skirt free.

  Marcus screamed.

  “
Can you treat his back?” Alerio asked the doctor.

  Physician Oisin shrugged and said, “It could be internal bruising.”

  “Can you treat that?” Alerio questioned while standing.

  “His humors will tell us more,” the Greek assured him.

  “Someday, every Legion will have doctors and surgeons assigned to them,” Alerio complained as he headed for the exit. “Until then, we will depend on infantrymen and sheep herders.”

  ***

  Alerio returned to find a servant pushing and kneading Marcus’ stomach. With his eyes squeezed tightly and face grimacing, Flamma endured the pain in silence.

  “Is that a treatment?” Alerio inquired from the entrance.

  “No. We are attempting to help Tribune Flamma void his bowels,” Oisin replied.

  “Stop. Just stop before I cut you, Doctor, and show you two of your humors,” Alerio thundered.

  “Two of my humors?” the physician gasped.

  “The second is blood,” Alerio described. “Because when I draw my blade, I bet you will deliver a healthy dose of merda. You can gaze upon them all you want but leave Marcus alone.”

  Alerio stepped clear of the entrance and two Legionaries followed him into the tent. One was older and the other barely out of his teens.

  “As near as I can tell, Tribune Flamma has three deep gashes from the fighting,” Alerio explained. “And a broken leg and a broken arm. Can you help?”

  The older Legionary had battle scars covering his arms. Several were puckered and raised from old sutures showing the veteran had experience with blade cuts.

  “I can sew him up better than most,” the veteran infantryman declared. “Do we have vinegar?”

  From a pouch, he pulled bronze needles and catgut thread made from twisted strands of sheep’s intestine. He washed his hands and the needles in vinegar before lifting the bloody cloths. After examining the wounds, the veteran pressed the cloths back over two and located flaps of skin on the third.

  “The Tribune is a fighter,” the Legionary declared as he poked the needle through the skin at the end of the gash.

  “How can you tell?” Alerio asked.

  “A blade slashes front to back if you are advancing,” the scarred veteran stated. “Or back to front of you are moving away. Based on these wounds, the Tribune was attacking into the swords when he won these cuts.”

  “You mean sword thrusts,” Alerio corrected.

  “No, sir. These three wounds were made by three different blades,” the man described as he drew the needle and thread through Marcus’ flesh. “He must have been fighting a running battle against multiple enemies.”

  “King Leonidas,” Alerio commented subtly.

  “Did you say something, Tribune?” the younger Legionary asked.

  “Not important,” Alerio admitted. “What about the breaks? Can you help?”

  “While tending the herd in the mountains at home, we had to mend broken legs ourselves. I’ll need two pairs of hands to help straighten the limbs,” the shepherd Legionary described. “Give me them and enough wrapping to swaddle the limbs, and I’ll have him trussed up like a prized ram before you know it. But first, I’ll need to fashion slats to support the bones.”

  Alerio dispatched a servant to fetch pieces of wagon bed. Having been worn down by use, the boards would be flat and easily carved into slats.

  “Where was the Tribune positioned during the action, sir?” the man pulling sutures asked. “It looks like he was mixing it up with the light infantry around the bend.”

  “Tribune Flamma was not with the Velites,” Alerio told him. “Marcus took a detachment to the clifftop to stop the archers, slingers, and spearmen.”

  “My Third Maniple was under the cliffs catching those missiles,” the veteran remarked while tying off a line of sutures. “It felt like we were down range of Queen Lampedo and her army of Amazon women archers. Then it all stopped, and we could concentrate on the mercenaries.”

  “You can thank Tribune Flamma for the reprieve,” Alerio informed the Legionary.

  The servant returned and handed flat planks to the other Legionary. Pulling his pugio, the former shepherd began whittling on one of the pieces of lumber.

  “My Century was near the second bend in the river,” he offered while shavings of wood fell around his feet. “We were in a narrow part of the valley. The archers were shooting almost directly down onto our shields. And the spears, the ones that didn’t get through, nearly broke our arms when they hit. We were grateful when they stopped, and we could take revenge on the soldiers of the Empire.”

  “Again, that was due to Tribune Flamma and his detachment,” Alerio explained. “They volunteered to clear the clifftop of mercenaries.”

  “Where are they being treated,” the shepherd asked. “I’d like to thank them.”

  “Aye, as would I,” the veteran said, seconding the thought.

  “Tribune Marcus Flamma was the only man to make it off the clifftop,” Alerio advised. “Iberian heavy infantry got the rest. But Marcus made it back to honor the fallen and to warn us that the Iberians are still up there.”

  In mid stitch, the veteran stopped sewing. And with a curl of wood dangling on the edge of a board, the shepherd stopped carving. They stared at Tribune Flamma with renewed curiosity.

  “You saved First Maniple, sir,” the younger Legionary exclaimed.

  “You saved Third Maniple,” the veteran barked. Then with a shake of his head, he looked at Alerio and rephrased the statement. “Not just Maniples. Tribune Flamma saved the entire Legion.”

  “Yes, the entire Legion,” the young infantryman echoed.

  ***

  Before the first rays of light graced the eastern sky, Third Maniple marched from the Legion camp. Two hundred paces from their bivouac, the eight hundred veterans split into two groups. One climbed a gully to the clifftop. The other half broke into a Legion jog and followed the river northward.

  Out front of the fast-moving file of heavy infantrymen, Centurion Farciminis and three squads of light infantry acted as pathfinders in the dark. Their route took them along the river and around both bends. Where the eastern bank overhung and hundreds of Velites died, they waded across the Irmimio River.

  The noise of over four hundred armed Legionaries splashing across might have reached the Iberians on the clifftop. No one cared if the Qart Hadasht force heard, anticipated, prepared, or tried to run. It was too late for them, too late for anything except to die.

  Centurion Farciminis was the first up the winding trail. With his gladius in hand, he searched the clifftop praying for an Iberian sentry or one seeking to relieve himself in the early morning. Any of them would do to sate the officer’s desire for revenge. Not finding any ready victims, Farciminis directed his skirmishers to form a line. Once the heavy infantry dispersed behind them, the Velites moved forward.

  The Legionaries halted when the Iberian campfires came into view.

  “Centurion Farciminis, you did a good job of getting us on location,” Battle Commander Digessi complimented the light infantry officer. “Withdraw your squads. We will take it from here.”

  There was rustling of grasses and low voices requesting retribution as the skirmishers shuffled to the rear. They received promises of just that from the heavy infantrymen.

  Once the maneuver was completed, near quiet settled on the early morning. It lasted for several moments.

  Colonel Digessi’s voice cut the silence, “Third Maniple, stand by.”

  “Standing by, Battle Commander,” the four hundred Legionaries on either side of him responded.

  Then, from the far side of the Iberian camp, an equal number of veteran Legionaries replied, “Standing by, Battle Commander.”

  Resembling a kicked hornet’s nest, the Iberians rousted from their tents. But it was too late.

  “Third Maniple, draw,” Digessi ordered. “Forward.”

  “Forward. Rah!” the Legionaries responded.

  “Forward.
Rah!” echoed back from the other side of the enemy camp.

  ***

  Consul/General Calatinus carried a chest to his camp desk. After resting it on the tabletop, he opened the lid and began sorting jewelry, coins, and bars of metal. In the lamplight, items of gold, silver, and copper reflected the flames in a variety of colors and shapes.

  “General, the metalworkers you requested are here,” his house manager announced.

  “Bring them in,” Aulus Calatinus instructed while making come-in-motions with one hand as his other selected less than desirable objects from the chest.

  Two Legionnaires from the First Century entered and stepped to opposite corners of the General’s tent. Following the bodyguards, five craftsmen, rubbing sleep from their eyes and yawning shuffled into the command area. Two more veterans from First Century entered on their heels.

  “General, if this is about our grinding prices,” one craftsman began. He looked at the armored Legionaries and shivered, “we can discuss lowering the price. There is plenty of work for all of us.”

  “I am sure First Centurion Sanctoris will be happy to hear that,” Calatinus acknowledged. “But that is not the purpose of this visit. Are any of you proficient with sand casting?”

  Three of the craftsmen raised their hands.

  “Excellent. You three will pour and create the medals. The other two will clean and polish them,” the General/Consul directed. “I am ordering a celebration and need awards for the heroes of the Legion.”

  “Sir, when do you need the medals?” a craftsman inquired.

  “The day after tomorrow,” Calatinus informed them.

  “Sir, that is impossible,” another metalworker offered. “We need weeks to create medals in quantity, and more days beyond to assure quality.”

  Calatinus’ house manager carried a small set of scales to the desk.