Death Caller (Clay Warrior Stories Book 13)

by J. Clifton Slater

  “I can’t get it all at once,” Aquila advised.

  “That is fine,” Mattia acknowledged. “As long as I have the total amount by the time I return to Alban Hills for the Festival of Jupiter.”

  “That’s only seven months away,” Aquila pleaded.

  “I am heading back to Rome in three days,” Fetial Priest Mattia imparted. “I expect a down payment before I leave.”

  He stood and strutted from the room. Behind him, Lady Aquila Carvilius Maximus trembled and wept.

  Act 6

  Chapter 21 – Southern Coast of Sardinia

  Rain poured down and wind lashed the wet and miserable oarsmen, sailors, and Legionaries. Along the beach at Solanas, no tents or covers protected the men. As a matter of fact, no men were on the sand. Four miles away at Baccu Mandara beach, the rest of the Roman fleet suffered in the same wretched conditions.

  “I have a new goatskin cover,” an oarsman boasted.

  Shaking his head, he attempted to avoid the rain that fell through the overhead decking.

  “A lot of good it’s doing you today,” another rower remarked.

  He ran a palm over his head to clear the water. Then he shoved the hand back under his armpit to rewarm it.

  “Stop your complaining,” the deck officer instructed. “You’ll soon be warm enough.”

  “I’d be plenty warm if we were on the beach, Second Principale,” the oarsman protested, “with a fire, a pot of boiling oats, and my new goatskin cover.”

  “Get over it,” the deck officer instructed than pointed out. “We are all exposed.”

  To keep peace with the rowers, the Second Principale did not have on his waterproof wrap. He strolled the rowers walk getting splashed with cold rain from above, the same as his oarsmen. From the Stroke section at the stern, by the big rowers of the Engine at midship, and the light oarsmen of the Bow, he moved back and forth encouraging his charges.

  “The rain can’t last all day,” the deck officer advised.

  “You might want to consult with Tempestas about that,” suggested a big oarsman from the Engine section.

  “General Paterculus made an offering of a sacred chicken to the Goddess of Storms,” the Second Principale advised. “His Augur read the signs and the Gods are happy with the plan.”

  “Maybe,” offered a rower from the Bow section. He cupped a hand and caught a stream of water then poured it out. “And maybe not. At least, we’re not infantry or sailors.”

  Below them, sailors scooped pails of water from the bilge and passed the buckets to the upper deck. In a smooth loop, empty containers got handed down where they were refilled. Since before dawn, the ship’s sailors had been bailing water. Although tired, they were warm.

  On the deck overhead, Legionaries huddled. They could use bulky rain gear but were restricted from moving around the deck. All areas had to remain passable at a moment’s notice.

  Five men stood on the steering platform watching the rain fall.

  Ship's Centurion Naulum squinted up into the gray sky.

  “We need a break in the weather or an order to stand down,” he offered.

  “I can’t argue that sir,” First Principale Dormivi replied. “Should I signal the fleet commander?”

  He looked towards the flagship where General Gaius Paterculus and his staff stood in the rain. On the decks of the quinqueremes separating the warships, the muted shapes of crewmen were barely visible in the blowing rain.

  “From what the General told us during last night’s briefing,” Naulum reported. “His priest read the signs in the chicken entrails and assured us the fleet could row out.”

  “Tribune Sisera, you haven’t said anything,” the first deck officer pointed out. “What’s your opinion?”

  “I was trained as a heavy infantryman,” Alerio answered. “We are taught to ignore heat, cold, and discomfort.”

  “Does it help?” one of the two navigators on the rear oars inquired.

  From under an oiled hide near the steering platform a Legionary responded, “No.”

  One upmanship was a time-honored tradition in the infantry. If someone tossed out a response, someone else was duty bound to top it. Without thinking and probably because he was tired, wet, and bored, Alerio participated in the ritual.

  “I don’t know about chicken gazing,” he announced. “My personal Goddess is Nenia. We’re better at eviscerating chickens than reading their guts.”

  “Rah!” was shouted from under several of the covers.

  While Alerio had endeared himself to the infantrymen, his crude admission drew hard stares from the Ship’s Centurion and the First Principale.

  Before they could scold him about blasphemy on a seagoing vessel, the rain stopped, and the clouds parted. Flags on General Paterculus’ warship flashed messages and the crews on the nearby ships went into action.

  “First Principale, beach the launch team,” Naulum ordered, “stand by the oarsmen, and ready the musician.”

  “Yes, Centurion,” the deck officer acknowledged. “Third Principale, send out the launch team.”

  On the rowers walk below deck, the Principale reminded the oarsmen, “I told you, you wouldn’t be cold for long. Launch crews, get to the beach, and stand by.”

  The third deck officer followed a third of the ship’s oarsmen to the upper deck and over the side. Once on the sand, the deck officer shouted up to the steering platform.

  “First Principale, ready,” he bellowed.

  From up on the platform, the first deck officer instructed, “Launch the warship.”

  The Third Principale called down the Port side, “Get Sors' Talisman wet.”

  Then at the Starboard side, he repeated, “Get Sors' Talisman wet.”

  Responding to the muscles of the rowers, the warship, named after the God of Luck, slid off the beach and into the sea. Running and splashing, the launch team climbed on board. Last up, the Third Principale ran for his bow lookout position.

  Along the beach, only eight of the quinqueremes and two of the triremes slid into the surf. Four of the large warships carried the five hundred men and officers of Alerio’s half maniple line. The other four heavy warships hauled a compliment of seventy-five Marines, the heavy corvus boarding ramps, and sported two bolt throwers. They would, along with the triremes, attack and prevent the Qart Hadasht ships-of-war from launching. While they targeted the enemy fleet from the sea, Tribune Sisera’s combat line would land and attack, occupying the mercenaries to delay them from reaching their vessels.

  It was a good plan, endorsed by the Gods according to the Augur Priest. However, it only took one God to declare his displeasure to throw the entire operation into disarray.

  ***

  “Hadad is displeased,” ventured a Qart Hadasht Lieutenant.

  He stepped away from the doorway and faced the room.

  “It does seem our God of Rain has his temper up,” Senior Captain Barekbaal concurred. “Don’t you think so, Admiral?”

  Hannibal Gisco shifted in his seat. Ever since the naval tribunal in Carthage, where he barely escaped execution, the Admiral had been careful with his words. Because of envious Gods, ambitious politicians, and vengeful royals, he guarded against saying anything that could be used against him.

  “The will of the Gods is the will of the Gods,” Gisco replied.

  “There is one benefit to the storm,” the Senior Captain offered.

  “And that is?” Gisco questioned.

  “The Republic fleet cannot row out either,” Barekbaal replied. “They are as beached as our fleet.”

  “Are the crews and our mercenaries comfortable?” Hannibal Gisco inquired.

  “They are here to do our bidding,” Barekbaal declared. “Their exposure to the elements is of no importance.”

  Major Vinzenz of the Noricum mercenaries bristled but remained silent. His Celtic height and muscularity easily dominated the room. Compared to the lean shape of their Qart Hadasht masters, Vinzenz and the warriors in his Co
mpanies were almost all above average height. It was the reason Hannibal Gisco chose a unit from the Noricum as his bodyguards on Sardinia.

  “Men cannot fight if unrested and hungry,” Gisco offered. “Lieutenant, we have thirty ships-of-war on Porto Botte beach. Go check on every one of the sailors and mercenaries. Then report back to me if any are lacking supplies.”

  Major Vinzenz did not say anything, but internally, his heart filled with respect. Hannibal Gisco was a commander who understood fighting men. It was the reason the Noricum officer proudly provided bodyguards for the Empire Admiral.

  ***

  They attack warships had sailed for a good part of the morning when trouble struck. Sors' Talisman and the other nine warships of the squadron ran into an isolated squall. To save their masts and sails, the materials were rolled.

  “This could be bad,” First Principale Dormivi warned.

  “I see blue sky ahead,” a navigator on one of the rear oars described. “This may be a last kiss from Tempestas before she departs.”

  “Let’s hope so,” Ship's Centurion Naulum stated. “If the rest of the fleet thinks the rain is returning, they might not launch.”

  “Where will that leave us, Tribune Sisera?” Dormivi asked.

  “Without orders to the contrary,” Alerio responded, “we continue the mission.”

  “We are still on the southwest heading,” Naulum described. “Once we reach Chia, we have to decide. Turn back, or cross the bay, round the point, and row into Empire territory.”

  “I believe, sirs, the General will see the clear sky,” Dormivi suggested. “And the fleet will arrive as planned.”

  “So, First Principale, you agree with the Tribune,” Naulum explained. “But if our fleet isn’t at Sulci Bay and enough Qart Hadasht ships-of-war get off the beach, our squadron will be destroyed. Not to mention the Second Maniple being stranded on the beach. Are you sure Tribune Sisera?”

  “Centurion, the infantry goes where we are ordered,” Alerio answered. “I have confidence my Legionaries can do damage with few losses until the fleet arrives.”

  The shower stopped and Naulum stiffened and watched the coast of Sardinia slide by. Then he shifted his eyes southward and studied the land where it ended at the edge of a broad bay.

  “First Principale, unroll the sails,” he ordered. “Keep the rowers at their oars so we don’t lose momentum.”

  “Yes, sir,” Dormivi acknowledged before stepping off the platform.

  He marched to where he could talk to the Second Principale down on the rowers walk.

  On the steering platform, the ships’ commander addressed the Legion staff officer.

  “Tribune Sisera, I don’t have enough ships to land Marines if I’m busy defending the squadron,” Naulum pointed out. “This is your last chance to change your mind.”

  “Centurion, we are the infantry of Second Maniple,” Alerio assured him. “My Legionaries are experienced and tough. We can hold until the fleet arrives and delivers the rest of the Legion.”

  Ship’s Centurion Naulum did not respond. He watched ahead for sight of the other side of the bay. And Alerio went to check on the one hundred and twenty-five infantrymen crowding the deck of the quinquereme.

  “Are you the officer known as Death Caller?” a grizzled Optio asked Alerio. “I heard you say Nenia Dea was your personal Goddess.”

  “It’s a name I picked up in Sicilia when the Legion first landed,” Alerio offered. “Because so many were suffering, I prayed for them.”

  “And because your personal Goddess is Nenia, they tagged you as Death Caller?” the NCO questioned.

  “Yes,” Alerio told him. “But it’s not…”

  “Nineteenth Century will offer a sacrifice to Nenia after the battle, sir,” the NCO from his most experienced unit promised. “And we will carry prayers to her on our lips as we fight.”

  “Thank you,” Alerio said accepting the NCO’s declaration.

  Many units honored their leader’s personal Gods or Goddesses. The reverence they hoped would strengthen their commander’s attachment to the deity which would curry favor and, hopefully, bring victory. Alerio didn’t know if the tradition helped, but he figured it was better than the Legionaries of his detachment being afraid of him.

  “Tribune Sisera,” a Decanus solicited him. “Second squad of the Fourteenth will also honor your Goddess.”

  After a brief talk, Alerio moved to another squad’s area. Once the Tribune had moved down the deck, a sailor tightening a line leaned down and asked a Legionary.

  “Your commander walks with Nenia?” he whispered.

  “We all do,” the infantryman informed him.

  “But you are courting death,” the sailor cautioned.

  “Our gladii and the muscles of our right arms send her offerings,” the Legionary bragged. “It’s only fitting, wouldn’t you agree, that we honor the Goddess and that our Tribune is known as Death Caller.”

  “You are all mad,” the sailor decided.

  “We are heavy infantry,” the Legionary countered.

  “It appears to me, to be the same thing,” the Sailor offered as he finished tying off the line.

  Sors' Talisman and the warships of the attack squadron zoomed around the rocky southern tip of Sardinia and sailed towards Sulci Bay.

  Then a disgruntled God decided to interfere with General Paterculus’ plan. Notus began blowing from the south. While the strong wind hastened the journey of the advance squadron, the stiff breeze swept along the Sardinian coast. The strong headwind almost stopped the progress of the Republic fleet.

  Ship’s Centurion Naulum realized the wind meant the majority of the fleet would be delayed. Before he could order the ten warships of the squadron to turn about, Porto Botte appeared on the horizon.

  ***

  At the Qart Hadasht headquarters, an Empire officer slammed through the doorway.

  “Admiral, the Republic fleet is here,” he cried.

  “Define here,” Gisco requested.

  “There are warships on the horizon,” the Lieutenant replied. “Orders, sir?”

  “If the Captains of my ships-of-war are waiting for orders,” Hannibal Gisco complained while reaching for his armor, “then the battle is already lost. Go to the beach. Instruct any Captains, not preparing to launch, to get off the beach.”

  “Yes, sir,” the officer acknowledged before running from the room.

  “Admiral, I am assigning more men to your protection detail,” Major Vinzenz offered.

  “Fine, fine,” Gisco said accepting the increased security. “Just make sure they don’t get in my way.”

  The Noricum squads brought up to help guard the commander only knew the Admiral by sight. They had no idea of his affection for his mercenaries. Even so, the Celtic warriors met Gisco and jogged alongside his horse as he rode to Porto Botte beach.

  Chapter 22 – A Deadly Efficient Plan

  The blessing and the curse of Notus’ gift sent the attack squadron racing quickly into Sulci Bay. Arriving shortly after being sighted allowed the Republic warships to attack the first of the Empire ships-of-war to launch. Additionally, the four quinqueremes hauling the half maniple, reached the start of the beach, and began offloading Tribune Sisera’s Legionaries.

  Conversely, while the wind pushed from the stern, speeding Centurion Naulum squadron, the stiff breeze from the God of the South Wind hit the Roman fleet in the bow and slow them. Isolated and against a larger force, the warships and Legionaries spearheading the plan were cursed with following the scheme, without knowing when or if reinforcements would arrive.

  “Centurion Pashalis get them off the ship and formed up,” Alerio ordered. He indicated a marching force of mercenaries further up the beach. “Give me a triple line and set a center position.”

  “Yes, sir,” the combat officer replied. He ran down the ramp, jogged by the staff officer, and grabbed the senior NCO of the nineteenth. “Optio, position them in the middle of the beach.”


  The eighty men of the nineteenth Century and forty Legionaries of the fourteenth trotted away from the warship. Halfway between the surf and the shrubs and trees on the bank the senior Century assembled in three lines while the four squads from the other waited for their officer.

  “Strap them on,” an NCO directed.

  The infantrymen, the two Optios, and the Tesserarius of the nineteenth untied the waterproof covers from their scutums. Once the shields were free, they strapped them to their left arms.

  Behind the triple line, Pashalis directed four Centuries into positions on either side of his. The sixth Century he split. Each half of the fourteenth moved to flank the main body of the formation. As the last of the infantrymen took their places, Alerio jogged out front of the formation.

  “Second Maniple, left side, stand by,” Alerio shouted to the men of the six Centuries.

  The Legionaries lifted their right legs, slammed their feet to the sandy soil, and roared, “Standing by, Tribune.”

  “We did not come here to watch the mercenaries board ships and row away,” Alerio hollered. “We came to Porto Botte to fight. Agreed?”

  “Rah,” came back at him in a wave of voices.

  “Senior Centurion Pashalis get us into this fight,” Alerio ordered while drawing his gladius.

  He held the blade up in a salute as the Legionaries walked towards him, parted to either side, and continued marching forward to engage the Empire mercenaries. Once they passed him, Alerio sheathed his blade and fell in at the formation’s center.

  ***

  Ship's Centurion Naulum watched the Legionaries collect their gear. To his surprise, Tribune Sisera was one of the first men off the warship. In the Centurion’s experience, staff officers usually hung back unless rushing to meet a senior officer or a politician.

  “Get us off this beach,” Naulum ordered when the last infantryman shuffled down the narrow ramp.

  The oarsmen of Sors' Talisman backstroked until the warship pulled away from the shoreline. Once clear, the ship turned and aimed the ram at the row of beached ships-of-war.