Death Caller (Clay Warrior Stories Book 13)

by J. Clifton Slater

  The Noricum warriors, that was what a wounded mercenary named them, were muscular, organized, and carried almost magical blades. Staff officers and Centurions needed to believe in the infallibility of their Legionaries and in the tactics of the Legion. Most of the time, Alerio did. But today, deep in his heart Alerio was glad to see the Noricums row away. Losing Legionaries for a miserable section of beach in a forgettable battle held little appeal. For the Tribune, there was no post battle prize worth the cost.

  At the far end of the beach, a Legion warship backed to the shoreline and began depositing Legionaries onto the sand.

  “Centurion Pashalis, hold here and go on the defensive,” Alerio ordered. “We’ve done enough for today.”

  “Yes, sir,” the Centurion acknowledged. Then he shouted. “Formation halt, step back, and brace.”

  The Empire mercenaries, no longer pursued by Legion shields and blades, continued to move away.

  “Left side, Second Maniple, Paterculus Legion West, rest,” Centurion Pashalis instructed. “Officers set a watch for your section and give me work details. Let’s bring our wounded and dead up to the formation.”

  ***

  Along the shoreline, Legion warships landed. In the shallows, other vessels hooked and towed sunken ships-of-war away. When the approaches opened, more Republic vessels, along with captured Empire ships-of-war, beached. Guards marched prisoners off those vessels.

  At collection areas, squads stood guard over the prisoners while other squads patrolled along the water’s edge. Qart Hadasht soldiers and rowers, lucky enough to swim to shore, were collected and marched to the holding areas.

  Tribunes strutted around checking on their Centuries making sure none of their men had fallen overboard during the sea battle. And at the center of the beach but high up on the bank, Legion engineers cleared and marked off a giant circle.

  A large tent went up in the middle, then the engineers tamped and leveled the ground around it. Once prepared, three smaller tents were lashed to the large center tent. Before the Legion headquarters was completed, squads of the First Century jogged to positions around the structures. Tribunes and Centurions from the command staff wandered over to wait for the General.

  While the construction progressed, General Gaius Paterculus walked the beach inspecting the trophies of the battle. In front of each captured ship-of-war stood the Centurion from the warship that captured it. And each of the ships-of-war abandoned on the beach had an infantry officer claiming it.

  “We should have claimed all of them instead of just two,” Tribune Sisera complained. “We bled for them.”

  “Sir, we were a little occupied to worry about bragging rights,” Centurion Pashalis suggested.

  “Centurion, what do we do about that?” a Corporal asked.

  Out on the bay and heading towards the beach was a large fishing boat. Alerio dug into his coin purse and extracted a gold coin.

  “Go to the water’s edge and hold this up for the fishermen to see,” Alerio instructed.

  “Why am I doing that, Tribune?” the Tesserarius inquired.

  “You are telling him that you want to buy his fish,” Pashalis explained. “Now hurry before he lands on a different part of the beach.”

  The NCO sprinted to the water’s edge and waved the coin. Late afternoon sunlight reflected off the metal. Seeing the glint of gold, the fishermen rowed their boat to the end of the beach.

  “How was the fishing today?” Alerio asked as he and Pashalis joined the Corporal.

  “We have fish, both big and small,” the fisherman exclaimed. “How many will you take?”

  “Where are you out of?” Alerio questioned while peering into the boat.

  “If I knew this was going to be an inquisition, I would have put in further up the beach,” the man complained as he hopped out of the fishing boat. In the sand he traced a map of the coastline to his village. “If you must know, Portoscuso, about thirty-fives miles sailing northwest of here.”

  “You have a fine boat,” Alerio commented. “And your haul looks fresh.”

  “It is. We caught them in deep water.”

  A messenger came running to the group.

  “Tribune Sisera. Senior Tribune Vergilius requests your presence at Legion headquarters,” the runner told Alerio.

  “Buy all the fish and make sure our Centuries get as much as they want,” Alerio directed while handing his coin purse to Pashalis. “Sell the extra. And keep in mind, I would like to have some coins left when I get back.”

  “Yes, sir,” Pashalis responded. Then to the fisherman he offered. “I’ll pay a half bronze for the small and a full one for the biggest fish.”

  “For that, I might as well dump them back into the sea,” threatened the fisherman. “A full bronze for the small…”

  Alerio walked to his equipment. As he slipped on his scarred combat armor, he heard Centurion Pashalis protest, “For that amount, I could put Legionaries in the water and catch my own fish. Let us talk about reasonable prices.”

  Alerio tucked the Tribune helmet under his arm and hiked away. Based on the Centurion’s negotiation skills, he felt confident there would be coins left after the sale.

  ***

  First Century Legionaries parted to allow Alerio access to the command tents. His easy passage reflected his rank and status. It was a far cry from when he was an infantryman and had to explain himself whenever he walked close to a General’s tent. It was good…

  Alerio’s sense of entitlement ended when he pushed through the tent flap.

  “Tribune Sisera, you could have cleaned up and put on more appropriate dress,” his direct superior scolded.

  Most, no, all the staff officers and quartermaster officers wore clean tunics or ceremonial armor. Even the maniple Tribunes and combat officers were unsoiled. None had blood stains, fresh scratches, or dirt on their armor.

  The conflict between Alerio and Second Maniple’s Senior Tribune started when Alerio joined the Legion. Few Patrician/Tribunes trained with their Legionaries. And an even smaller number participated in shield and gladius drills with their Centuries. Only one, according to Senior Tribune Vergilius brought the shame of brawling with Plebeians to the staff officer’s mess.

  “At least change out of the infantry armor,” Vergilius declared after their fourth or fifth conversation about the matter. “Remember Tribune Sisera, an officer must dress the part to get the respect.”

  As a result, Alerio had purchased a set of ceremonial armor. The armor was stored with his possessions on Sors' Talisman.

  “I apologize,” Alerio said with no enthusiasm. The pretty Tribune armor could not stop a spear thrust or a dedicated sword strike. Had he donned it for the beach assault, he would be in the arms of the Goddess Nenia on the way to Hades. “There wasn’t time to get to Sors' Talisman and change.”

  “I guess we will excuse you this time,” Vergilius blustered, although no one else in the tent seemed to care. “But remember, you represent the Second Maniple and I expect you to be professional in the future.”

  A reply welled up in the pit of Alerio’s stomach and he almost vomited it all over the Senior Tribune. But the General and his Battle Commander pushed through a flap from a side tent and prevented any more exchanges.

  “Where is Sisera?” Colonel Leporis Damocles asked.

  “Here, sir,” Alerio responded.

  The Colonel studied Alerio’s armor then shifted to the General.

  “You held the beach?” General Paterculus inquired.

  “General, Second Maniple, left side held the beach,” Alerio replied. “I was honored to be assigned to lead them.”

  “All well and good, Tribune,” Colonel Leporis Damocles said. “Are your Centuries fit to fight?”

  “Yes, Colonel. We have four dead and six critical…”

  “Fine, fine,” the Battle Commander interrupted. “Give your report to the Senior Centurion.”

  “What Colonel Damocles is getting at. And we do not have a
lot of time,” Gaius Paterculus exclaimed using the shorted sentences with little meaning that Senators practiced in order to keep from committing to anything. “Well. I’ll let the Battle Commander fill you in.”

  “Legion Paterculus won a great victory here today,” the Colonel declared. “To keep pressure on the Empire, we row for Tharros in the morning. That means the Legion will go back into combat the day after tomorrow.”

  Alerio, angry at his Senior Tribune for singling him out, chewed on the bile, and allowed the blood to pound in his ears. Thus, he ignored the Battle Commander’s speech. Then a few things broke through his ego induced deafness and he flinched.

  “After this last push, we will have driven Qart Hadasht from Sardinia,” Damocles announced. “No longer will the Empire threaten our Republic from this island.”

  Applause and cheers, the most enthusiastic from the noncombatants, filled the command tent.

  “Allow your Centuries to rest,” Gaius Paterculus urged the officers, “for tomorrow we row for glory.”

  More clapping with the flat of the palm and verbal endorsements followed the General’s words. When it died down and before anyone else could speak, Alerio did.

  “Tharros is home to the Qart Hadasht infantry on Sardinia,” Alerio cautioned. “Do we have any intelligence on their strength, Colonel?”

  “We know the Empire is there and that’s all we need to know,” Damocles chastised Alerio. “Are you having a crisis of courage, Tribune Sisera?”

  Alerio bristled and he began to lift his hand, point at the Battle Commander, and give him the facts of the matter. A cautionary hand gripped his wrist and tugged hard. Centurion Siglum, the acting Tribune for the right side of Second Maniple, added a twist to impress on Alerio the dangerous path he walked.

  Tribunes argued with Colonels at their own peril. Then, Alerio’s counterpart released his arms and the Centurion stepped away. Because the only person in more danger then an unruly staff officer was a Centurion seemingly supporting the Tribune in a stand against a Battle Commander.

  “Sir, I was in Tharros a few years ago. It was fortified then,” Alerio described. “There is a chance they improved the walls and ditches. Let me go in tonight. You’ll have a report on the facilities and strength tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow, we plan to be halfway to Tharros,” Leporis Damocles advised.

  “That is perfect Colonel,” Alerio brightened. “I can go in, snoop around, and meet you with the details.”

  “Perhaps I wasn’t clear Tribune Sisera,” Battle Commander Damocles said with a set of his jaw. “The Legion rows out in the morning. The next day, we attack Tharros. Think for a moment. Would you want a man who knows your plans to walk into an enemy camp?”

  “No, sir,” Alerio confessed. “I understand, sir.”

  “Now that the junior staff officer is satisfied, let’s go take care of our Legionaries,” Damocles advised. “And because of the work by the Second Maniple, left side, you Tribune Sisera will be in reserve, guarding the warships.”

  Later, in the waning light, Alerio thought about his attitude as he and the other officers left the briefing.

  The Battle Commander had a point about security. But Alerio still believed the Colonel was making a mistake going blindly into Tharros. His attitude didn’t perk up until he reached his Centuries.

  Smoke laced with the aroma of roasting fish drifted to his nose.

  “I have two questions, Centurion Pashalis,” Alerio remarked.

  “Tribune Sisera, I have coins for you and three cooking fish,” Pashalis responded. “What do you need?”

  “That about covers it,” Alerio replied. He slipped the purse into a pouch and began unstrapping his armor. “We row out at daybreak. Pass the word. And pass me a fish.”

  Chapter 26 – Staging for the Assault

  The close quarter maneuvers used by the Legion transferred readily to sea battles. Moving in coordinated lines, both Legionaries on land and warships at sea proved efficient at breaking their opponent’s formations. The other tactic favored by the Republic’s land warfare machine dealt with the location for staging before an assault.

  Most armies gathered near the point of attack and camped nearby the battlefield to save their warriors from an exhausting march. But the Legion favored a distant staging area.

  From the prospective of the defenders, they woke in the morning, saw no threat, and sat down for breakfast. Then, after jogging for miles, the Legion appeared. And soon, Legionaries were bashing the defenders, storming the walls, and cracking open gates. All orchestrated from miles away. The scheme suited a naval assault as the oarsmen did the hard traveling at sea and allowed for the delivery of fresh Legionaries to a fight.

  “Two days ago, we were first off the beach,” Ship's Centurion Naulum grumbled. “Now, our squadron and your Centuries are last.”

  “This time, we are the reserves,” Alerio pointed out. “It won’t get interesting unless the fighting reaches the beach.”

  “And what would it take for that to happen?” Naulum inquired.

  “The Empire forces would need to defeat twenty-four hundred heavy infantrymen,” Alerio listed, “eight hundred Velites, and dodge fifteen staff officers.”

  “Why staff officers?” the Ship’s Centurion questioned.

  “On the shield wall, heavy infantrymen always discuss what to throw when they run out of javelins,” Alerio told him. “The consensus always comes down to throwing Tribunes as a last resort.”

  “First Principale, where are we in the launch order?” Naulum inquired, as he turned away from the crude staff officer.

  “As near as I can tell, sir, our squadron should get off before the sun is fully risen,” the first deck officer informed him.

  “There is one bright spot,” Alerio mentioned to Naulum. “If a Qart Hadasht fleet comes from the south, you’ll be their first contact.”

  “I believe we destroyed their fleet,” Naulum remarked. “The chance of that happening is slim. About as slim as your Centuries getting into this battle.”

  “And there, Ship’s Centurion, is the knotty problem with war,” Alerio advised. “You can never tell when a slim chance of contact will become a blood bath.”

  ***

  The day dawned clear and bright. Warships hauling the First Maniple rowed along the beach. A short distance north of the village of Tharros, the Republic ships spun and backstroked onto the beach. There were no signs of Qart Hadasht ships-of-war or soldiers to challenge the landings.

  Tharros sat on an arm of land that formed the seaward limb of a bay. Isolated, the fort had no approach except by water on both sides and to the south where the land ended. Second and third Centuries jogged confidently along the only land route to the wooden palisades of the fort. Coming rapidly behind, the other ten Centuries of the First Maniple followed.

  Although inexperienced, the nine hundred and sixty heavy infantrymen had the confidence of Legion training and its esprit de corps hammered into their hearts. Boldly, the leading squads approached a series of defensive ditches.

  As planned, they formed two combat lines and locked shields. Light infantry Centuries filtered through the forest along the flanks, checking against mercenary units hiding in the brush and behind trees.

  “Tribune, there is no sight of an enemy,” a Centurion from the third Century informed his staff officer.

  “Acknowledged. I’ll pass the word to the beach,” the Tribune replied. To a runner, he instructed. “Alert the Senior Tribune that the trenches at Tharros are empty of combatants.”

  The messenger raced back to the beach and located the maniple’s Senior Tribune. But the commander of First Maniple was in a conversation with two other staff officers. Holding up a hand, he waved the courier forward and made an ‘I am listening’ sign while still talking.

  “Sir, First Maniple has encountered no resistance,” the courier spoke in a raised voice. “The ditches of Tharros are deserted with no sight of enemy combatants.”

 
“Very well, return to the combat line,” the Senior Tribune told him.

  Excusing himself, the staff officer backed out of the conversation. He sauntered to the Colonel and erroneously relayed the message.

  “The fort is deserted, sir,” the Senior Tribune announced.

  The Legion had planned for the First and the Third Maniples to assault the fort. Centuries of both would act as a blocking force for any Empire units coming from the north to help their trapped comrades. A deserted fort changed the assault to an expedition of discovery.

  “Hold the Third Maniple afloat. And signal the Second Maniple’s right side to land,” the battle commander ordered. “We’ll sweep through the fort and see if Qart Hadasht command left us any clues as to where they went.”

  The ships with the hardened veteran Legionaries rowed away from shore while half of the Second Maniple hit the beach. Leisurely, the Centuries moved to set up blocking positions facing north.

  ***

  While most of the fleet remained on the seaward side, Sors' Talisman and four other warships rowed into the bay. From the steering platform, Naulum and Alerio watched the trees slide by.

  “The sharpened posts are the top of the fort’s walls,” Alerio described.

  “What do you suppose is happening in there?” Naulum asked.

  “I imagine the First Maniple is advancing into the Empire’s combat line,” Alerio answered. “When they stall, and they will because of their lack of familiarity with combat, the veterans of the Third Maniple will move up.”

  From the Third Principale at the bow, and alert was passed back, “Movement on shore.”

  Squads of infantrymen stepped from the tree, marched onto the beach, and waved at the passing warships.

  “It’s just Legion infantry,” Naulum observed.

  Alerio moved to the rail and bent forward watching the Legionaries.

  “Those are Second Maniple,” he offered. “They should be on ships as reserves.”

  “Why would the Battle Commander order them ashore?” Naulum questioned.