Reluctant Siege

by J. Clifton Slater

  “Almost fourteen miles of wall,” a street urchin said.

  Alerio glanced down at the tow-headed youth.

  “I can give you a tour,” the lad offered. “All the best eating places, and the best lodging and, and the best shops, and the best…”

  “Stop. I’ll give you a silver to quit talking and to leave,” Alerio said. “If you can tell me where the army drills?”

  “Drills?” he asked.

  “You know, where soldiers practice with swords and shields,” described Alerio.

  “Oh, beyond the swamp outside the wall. Take the altar gate for the best view,” he replied holding out his hand. “Almost fourteen miles of wall…”

  Alerio dropped a silver into the small hand at the same time as a soldier called out.

  “You there, don’t give them coin,” the armed man ordered as he marched up. “You! Get out of my patrol area. And you sailor, are you heading into the city?”

  “I am,” Alerio responded as he watched the lad scurry away and vanish around a pile of transport crates.

  “The gate is the other way, over the bridge,” the guard pointed out. “And don’t give the street urchins coin. It only makes them brazen.”

  “Thank you for the directions,” Alerio said before noticing the soldier had his hand out.

  So, running off the lads was more than securing the docks. They were cutting into his coin. Alerio dug out another silver and gave it to the guard.

  “Enjoy your stay,” the soldier said as he strutted away.

  ***

  The sun was getting low and Alerio decided he needed a bed for the night. Figuring he’d find an inn closer to where the military drilled, the Legionary set out to cross the city.

  Syracuse was old, far older than the Capital of the Republic. And it was built of mud smeared walls and stone more so than wood and clay bricks. A lot of the pitted black rock he’s seen during the sea trip had been incorporated into the buildings. For use as a façade material, it was smoothed and carved with figures. Greek symbols and Gods were chiseled into the rock. Although prominent, none of the buildings had been built of the ragged black rock.

  Alerio had traversed half the city when the urge to touch the strange black rock overwhelmed him. The street was empty, as most people had gone home to retire for the day. He stopped, set down his pack and the bedroll, and reached out a hand.

  ***

  A shout from an adjacent alleyway echoed down the street. Alerio had turned to face the alley when a man in a military tunic burst onto the street. He stumbled while making the turn and Alerio saw blood on his face. Four men in rough clothing were almost on him. Alerio reached back and drew the long knife with the black and yellow striped hilt.

  The military man scrambled to his feet and unsteadily staggered by Alerio. Seven steps beyond the Legionary, the man collapsed. Behind him the four men yelled with joy and raced towards their victim.

  Hooking a foot under the heavy bedroll, Alerio launched it into the path of two of them. It spun end-over-end and both men ran into the blanket, cover, and the two steel swords. The weighted bedroll slammed into their shins and their feet got tangled. They toppled to the paved street. The other two, seeing their fellows fall, stopped and refocused on Alerio.

  “Nice petasos,” one sneered at Alerio. “I’ve always fancied a fine lid like that.”

  “Just take the dēfutūta hat. Do the sailor lad, the soldier, and let’s get out of here,” the other man urged.

  The two on the street were on their knees and brushing off their hands. Both had dropped their knives which had skipped and slid down the street.

  The hat fancier held his knife as did the other man. Alerio held his knife beside his leg.

  “Excuse me?” begged Alerio. “I’m new in town and I’m looking for an inn. Can you suggest a quality inn for the night?”

  He asked so innocently the two street thugs hesitated. Their mistake.

  Alerio sliced from beside his leg to the air above the cautious robber’s head. Along its path, the blade parted the man’s wrist, his chin and lacerated one eye. As the man collapsed in agony, Alerio leaped over him.

  Expecting the victim with the beaver felt hat to run away, the last sanding thug stomped towards the downed man in the military tunic. But Alerio wasn’t fleeing.

  He reached the two kneeling men and rammed a knee into the side of one’s skull. The man sprawled into the pavers as only a dead weight could, all loose and fluid. The second man caught the bottom of Alerio’s thick sandal in the nose. Blood burst in a spiral shape from under the end and sides of Alerio’s foot. The man with the crushed nose flew backward and when the back of his head knocked into the pavers, he no longer knew he was bleeding. He lay unconscious on the street.

  Alerio spun and saw the last thug reach out with his knife. As if probing, he attempted to place the tip in the military man’s eye. Unfortunately, the man fought off the blade with his hands and forearms. If the two kept up the poking and flesh blocking for much longer, the military man would bleed out before the blade could penetrate his eye and spike his brain.

  Flipping the knife with the black and yellow handle, Alerio caught the blade. Drawing back his arm, he threw the knife. It flipped four and a half times before embedding its tip in the outlaw’s neck. The man reached over his shoulder. Then he staggered two steps before falling to his knees before sprawling on the street.

  Alerio walked over, pull the knife from his neck, bent down and cleaned the blade on the man’s shirt. Then, he went to the military man.

  “Can you stand?” he inquired.

  The man continued waving his hands in the air as if still fending off the blade.

  “Calm down,” ordered Alerio. “They’re all down and you’re safe. Is there somewhere I can take you?”

  The man pointed up the street and tried to stand. His wet palm slipped and he landed back on the street. Alerio looked hard at his hands and forearms. Both were bleeding but none of the cuts pumped or dribbled rivers of blood. Assuming the man wasn’t about to bleed to death, he left him. After putting away the knife, Alerio collected his bedroll and pack.

  With an arm around the man’s back, Alerio helped him stand. Looking around the Legionary didn’t see any witnesses or more thugs. He was pleased as he didn’t want to call attention to himself. Unseen, he and the wounded military man made their way from the scene of the fight.

  However, Alerio was wrong. On a rooftop across the street, an impassionate observer watched as the military man ran onto the street. Her interest still didn’t peak when the four-armed men chasing him turned the corner. Even when the stranger tossed the bedroll, she smiled at the move, but remained bored. The knife from behind the stranger’s back was rudimentary street fighting and she actually yawned. His hand-to-hand fighting skills were adequate. It was when he flipped the knife. The black and yellow hilt flashed in the fading light of early evening and her spine went cold and her body tensed. Before she could act, the stranger and the wounded man were out of danger and moving up the street.

  Chapter – 30 The Somewhat Honorable Macario Hicetus

  The soldier staggered and Alerio could smell vino on his breath. Unable to tell if the head wound or the drink caused the man to stumble, Alerio kept a firm grip as they made their way up the street. Eventually, the man lifted an arm and pointed out a pub.

  They entered and a man behind the counter looked up and, seeing the blood, indicated a rear doorway.

  “Courtyard. I don’t want him bleeding on the tile,” the proprietor instructed.

  “Two mugs of red, a cloth and a pitcher of vinegar,” Alerio replied as he guided the soldier towards the doorway.

  “This isn’t a medical center and I’m not a doctor,” the man warned. “If he’s going to die, take him back to the street.”

  “He’s not going to die and I just want to clean him up,” Alerio assured the proprietor. “Red, cloth and vinegar.”

  In the courtyard, Alerio guided them to a
rough-hewn bench and table. He eased the soldier down on one end of the bench. After shoving his petasos in the pack and placing his gear behind the bench, he slid in on the other end.

  “Let’s take a look at those cuts,” Alerio offered reaching out and taking the man’s arms.

  “They tried to rob me,” complained the man. He winced as Alerio probed the cuts. “Ouch, that hurts.”

  The proprietor arrived with a tray. He set two mugs and a pitcher on the table. When Alerio tilted his head back and stared, the man pulled a semi clean cloth from his apron.

  “Three silvers and two bronze coins,” he stated.

  When the soldier didn’t reach for a coin purse, Alerio dug into his and paid the man. After he left, Alerio lifted the pitcher and poured a splash over the man’s arms.

  “Algea bless me, that hurts,” the soldier exclaimed loudly.

  The pain seemed to have revived the man.

  “I’m Alerio Sisera,” he introduced himself while washing the blood from the man’s head wound. “And you are?”

  “Lieutenant Macario Hicetus of King Hiero the Second’s mounted Signal Corps,” he replied. “And that’s why I was banned from the parade.”

  “Because you are mounted or part of the Signal Corps?” asked Alerio as he moved to gently cleaning the Lieutenant’s hands and forearms.

  “No. Because I am the son of the Syracusan leader Hicetus,” Macario announced.

  “Leader, as in the King? You’re a Prince?” Alerio inquired.

  “No, no. My father was the Tyrant Hicetus. I was born the year he was driven from power and from the city,” the Lieutenant explained. “Today’s my twenty-third year and I wasn’t allowed in the parade.”

  Alerio’s head was spinning from the odd answers from Macario Hicetus, son of a disposed tyrant, mounted signalman, and birthday celebrator. None of which explained why the Lieutenant wasn’t allowed in the parade.

  “One simple question, Lieutenant Hicetus,” probed Alerio. “Why weren’t you allowed in the parade?”

  “Because King Heiro the Second was reviewing the troops,” Macario stated.

  “I gathered that, but why?” demanded Alerio.

  “I’m not allowed in the presence of the King,” Macario finally admitted. “King Heiro’s advisers are afraid I might assassinate him and lead an uprising and claim the throne.”

  “Would you?” inquired Alerio.

  “Good Hygieia no, may she prevent the illness of over ambition,” Macario pleaded. “I just want to go to war and reclaim my family’s honor. A few accommodations, a little blood spilled, and my mother will once again be accepted at Galas held by noblewomen.”

  Alerio wanted to ask about the Syracusan military plans but suddenly he had to relieve his bladder.

  “I’ll be right back,” he informed Macario. He stood and went through the doorway. The proprietor pointed out the necessary closet.

  ***

  While Alerio used the hole in the floor, he heard loud voices and the vino seller reply to a question. When he emerged, the voices were louder and coming from the courtyard. Moving cautiously, he approached the doorway and peered out.

  Five cavalrymen crowded around Macario Hicetus. They were talking over each other about what a grand parade it was and how it was a shame Lieutenant Hicetus had been ordered to stand down. Alerio wanted to join the conversation but one of the troopers grabbed Macario’s hands.

  “What happened to your arms and your head,” the man demanded. “Who did this to you?”

  “I don’t remember,” Macario mumbled. “After you trotted off, I went to have a drink and roll the dice. You know that always cheers me up.”

  “And makes you coinless and hungover,” another cavalryman teased.

  “The next thing I know, I’m sitting here cleaning my wounds,” he mumbled. Reaching out, Macario picked up the pitcher and sniffed the content. “With vinegar and this rag.”

  Alerio realized the injured and drunk Macario was confused. While he watched, the proprietor brushed by holding two pitchers and balancing five mugs. Deciding it was time to leave, Alerio followed the man to the courtyard.

  “I was here earlier and left my pack,” Alerio explained while the men reached out to grab mugs.

  He went behind the bench and picked up the bedroll and the pack. Then Macario turned and studied him.

  Before Alerio could get to the doorway, Macario blurted out, “Hey, I know you. You were on the street.”

  “Is this one of the men who attacked you?” asked one of the cavalrymen.

  Alerio ran before the obvious answer came. As he reached the front door, he heard Macario shout, “Yes. He was one of them.”

  By then, the Legionary was out of the pub and racing up the street. The five cavalrymen poured from the establishment and gave chase.

  Alerio didn’t know the city or which streets were dead ends. It wasn’t in his plan to get into a street fight with five soldiers. Spy on them yes, but not do battle on their home ground. He passed a cross street and several alleyways. After glancing over his shoulder, he put on a burst of speed. The cavalrymen were gaining on him.

  Ahead, a small hooded figure waved and pointed at an alleyway. Not having any other options, he adjusted and ducked into the dark narrow space. The small figure followed. Ten paces in, Alerio slammed into a stone wall.

  The five cavalrymen bunched up at the mouth of the alley. With only a moment of hesitation, they charged into the dark. That’s when a stack of barrels along the wall came free and rolled into their legs. The five tripped and ended up sprawled on the pavers.

  Alerio swung his bedroll around and began to lift the leather flaps. As his fingers reached into the end of the bedroll, a small hand gripped his arm. It was a small hand but the fingers squeezed deeply and insistently into the arm muscle.

  “This way,” came a whisper and Alerio was guided to a rope ladder.

  He climbed and before he reached the roof top, he felt the rope sway as his small rescuer scrambled up after him. Once on the tiles of the roof, Alerio fell back and breathed heavily.

  The hooded figure quickly pulled the ladder up. Then the hood turned to Alerio.

  “Your name, Ally of the Golden Valley?” a woman’s voice asked.

  “You’re Dulce Pugno,” Alerio said. When she didn’t reply, he answered, “I know. You don’t use that name in the city. I’m Alerio Sisera and I thank you.”

  “Are you injured?” the assassin from the Sweet Fist inquired.

  “I am uninjured thanks to you,” Alerio reported.

  “Follow the roof line. You’ll come to a low building. On the far side, it’s a short jump to a set of stairs,” the assassin explained. “You will find an inn three blocks from there.”

  Then she rose to her feet and in four steps was swallowed by the night. Alerio waited for his heart rate to slow and his breathing to return to normal. Then he stood and walked off in the opposite direction.

  Chapter – 31 The Altar of Syracuse

  Alerio woke when sunlight touched the window sill. He rolled out of the cot, poured water from a pitcher and washed his face in the bowl. Once dressed in the workmen’s clothing and with the felt petasos set on his head at a rakish angle, he took the stairs down and left the inn.

  By keeping the rising sun to his right, he navigated northward through the dense streets of the city. Several blocks from the inn, he allowed his nose to guide him to the west and a market. Vendors offered baked yams and other cooked vegetables. At other tents, he found lamb, beef, and fish on sticks turning over open flames. All the odors made his mouth water and after wandering between vendors, he bought a baked yam and several large slices of lamb. One more stop to secure a wooden mug of cider, and he headed north once again seeking a place to sit and eat.

  Ten blocks from the market, he came upon a wall and approached a grassy area. Above the wall, he could see the upper section of a tall structure constructed with granite stones. As if a giant doorway had been removed to revea
l a curved but shallow room, columns on each side framed the decorative arched wall to the rear. Alerio sat, leaned his back against the wall and began peeling back the burnt skin of the yam.

  ***

  “There he is!” a voice called out in a breathy flat tone.

  Alerio glanced up to see a man standing on the street pointing at him. The man had tiny pieces of cloth stuffed in each nostril of a badly swollen nose. Recognizing one of the street thugs from last night, he took a bite of the yam and tossed it away. Then with a slice of lamb clutched in his teeth, he jumped to his feet and ran along the wall. The mug of cider sat in the grass untouched.

  This wasn’t turning out to be a quiet information gathering mission. At a gate, he passed under an arched opening and stopped. In front of him was the curved structure. Acting as giant steps, huge granite blocks tiered from the ground to the floor of the curved room. Off to his right, rows of seating wrapped around an amphitheater cascading down to a performance stage. Neither building caused him to stop.

  A long flat stone surface spanned the entire distance between the theater and the monument. Knee high walls with access ports cut in at areas along the wall showed steps leading up to the flat stones. Priests in ceremonial robes walked behind the walls sacrificing oxen.

  Alerio had seen the death of oxen offered to the Gods before. But, never in such volume. A quick count and he arrived at two hundred oxen laying side by side on the flat rocks. Blood flowed behind the low wall and down the steps. It poured like water into drain channels keeping the blood off any of the assembled crowd who wanted to avoid it. For those seeking a blessing, all it took was to dip a few fingers into sacrificial blood as it flowed by.

  The crowd of witnesses was divided into four layers. To the rear were visitors, workmen and slaves. Next were citizens while closer to the massive alter the Syracusan military stood in ranks. The area in front of them held noblemen, senior staff officers, and advisers. One man, in ornate armor, stood on a step. With arms out stretched, he looked towards the sky while an ankle-deep flood of blood washed his lower legs.