Tribune's Oath (Clay Warrior Stories Book 17)

by J. Clifton Slater

  At the gate to the street, a Helot bowed and slung open the door. From a pleasant morning, the Spartan Commander’s day transition into a struggle. From the street outside, a Punic Captain and fifty infantrymen attempted to shove their way into the compound.

  Although a slave, the Helot was trained in battle tactics and instantly shouldered in beside the Tail-Leader. Together, they held the doorway. While he pushed against the intruders, Xanthippus dropped a hand behind his back.

  The Hoplites had stopped their exercises and were sprinting towards the entrance. But Xanthippus’ hand pivoted at the wrist. With spread fingers, he rotated the palm from side to side.

  It was the same motion used to sow seeds over a prepared field. And it served as a sign for the Spartans to disperse around the city. With spies and lovers in every quarter, the highly visible Hoplites could easily vanish among the population. And they did.

  By the time the Commander and the Helot backed up and allowed the gate to swing open, the practice field and buildings were empty. Immediately, the Qart Hadasht officer and his detachment raced in.

  “Where are your Spartans, General?” the Empire Captain demanded.

  “I gave them a few days off,” Xanthippus responded. He pointed to the buildings around the exercise area. “Go see for yourself. You’ll find the barracks are empty. As all infantrymen do, my Hoplites enjoy a variety of things in their leisure time.”

  “You’re under arrest for insolence among other more serious crimes,” the officer charged.

  A slight quiver in his voice ruined the effect at projecting authority.

  Xanthippus jerked his sword from the scabbard and his knife from its sheath. The nearest soldiers and their Captain jumped back. With a smile, the Spartan spun the blades on his palms and offered them hilt first.

  “I trust you’ll take care of these. I’ll want them back in the same condition when this is over,” Xanthippus directed. Then to the infantrymen, who had been trained by the men from Sparta, he ordered. “Detail, forward march.”

  With the Spartan Commander out front, the infantrymen filed from the compound and proceeded up the street towards Byrsa Hill and the Special Branch. Meanwhile, the Captain remained in place. Mesmerized by holding the Spartan’s weapons, he was oblivious to the movement of his detail.

  Long moments later, the Helot cleared his throat and noted.

  “Sir, your detachment has left.”

  ***

  The walls of the amphitheater rang with the voices of men attempting to talk over each other. A cacophony of words and phrases bounced back on the bleachers, drowning out new comments and the same arguments.

  “We have the army, isn’t that enough?” the military Suffete shouted.

  “Apparently not against the Legions,” a Special Branch member yelled.

  “Nonsense, we have to fight,” Bostar exclaimed.

  Around the arena, the same type of discussion was repeated over and over. Yet, neither the unsure, the fearful, nor the hawks could take control. Then a voice bellowed out the question no one wanted to broach.

  “You lost, General,” a member accused Hamilcar. “Who will lead us? I ask you, who will lead our forces and defeat the Republic?”

  It might have been exhaustion from the morning of debate or the booming voice of a powerful speaker cutting through the racket. In either case, the questioning hushed the Special Branch. When they fell silent, a rustle of cloth and hard boots on the tile floor drew the members’ attention.

  Tail-Leader Xanthippus marched through the doorway. Tucked under his left arm was a Greek helmet with a long red and yellow crest that cascaded from the top. Swept out behind him, his cloak billowed before he stopped, and the scarlet material folded around him as if the wings of a giant bird-of-prey.

  Seeing an opportunity to change the topic and bring the members together, the speaker rapped the floor with his staff.

  “The Special Branch has voted, General Xanthippus,” he informed the Spartan. “You have been convicted of subversion. From this moment onward, you are designated an enemy of the people of Qart Hadasht. Before your arrival, you were tried, convicted, and sentenced to death by crucifixion.”

  Still heated from the debates, the Special Branch erupted in cries for an immediate execution.

  “Do I get a say?” Xanthippus asked. “Or is justice as gone as reason from the Empire’s Capital?”

  Several members called for openness and a chance for the Spartan to make a comment. After getting a sign from the Suffete, the speaker rapped for order.

  “The Special Branch will hear from General Xanthippus,” he announced.

  Xanthippus turned and walked to the bench where guests sat. He placed his helmet on top of the backrest with the eyeholes and slit down the front facing the assembly. Blackness under the helmet filled the holes giving the orbs the appearance of dark eyes peering out and observing the bleachers of the amphitheater.

  While adjusting the headgear, he inquired, “Can you see?”

  “General, we can’t hear you,” the speaker directed. “If you want to address the Special Branch, please give us the courtesy of looking in our direction.”

  He didn’t respond to the speaker. Instead, the Spartan unclipped his cloak, fluttered it through the air before guiding it down and around the helmet. Now the cape resembled a distorted body wearing a phalanx Tail-Leader’s helmet.

  Once the display met his approval, Xanthippus turned to face the Special Branch. But he didn’t talk. Instead, he pulled a leather tie free and unbound his mane. After lifting a brush from a pouch, he began combing his long hair.

  “Let me tell you a secret,” he imparted in a conspiratorial tone. He combed in long even strokes while talking. “Yes, the Spartans are great warriors. In battle we fight as if possessed and we win. But is that from years of training? Or something else?”

  He stood in one spot, brushing with one hand, and making eye contact with different members. It wasn’t lost on them that for a condemned man, Xanthippus was relaxed and holding a one-way conversation.

  “On the day of a battle, we cut our toenails, trim our fingernails and, as you can see, we comb our hair,” he enlightened the members. Waving the comb in the air brought chuckles from several of them. “Why you ask? Because a Spartan has already sharpened his blade, polished his shields, and repaired his armor and helmet. There is nothing else to do on the day of battle except to groom and be bored while waiting.”

  The Tail-Leader stopped brushing and raised the comb in the air. Holding it aloft for several counts, caused the assembly to stare at the bristles as if the comb were going to change form. Once he had everyone’s attention, Xanthippus moved the comb in an arc, and pointed it at the helmet and cloak.

  “We are relaxed because we know our enemy did not sleep well the night before,” he stated. “Maybe they got a little sleep, but it was troubled. Maybe they woke and drank wine or beer all night. Or, maybe they stayed awake, quivering, and praying to their Gods. In every case, they didn’t get a good night’s sleep. Unlike Spartans.”

  Xanthippus bowed to the helmet and resumed combing his hair.

  “How can we know our enemies are weak from lack of sleep?” he asked. “Because Epiales, the God of Demons and Nightmares follows Spartans wherever we go.”

  The Tail-Leader dropped to a knee and bowed to the helmet.

  “He enjoys the terror Spartan Hoplites cause during the daylight,” the Tail-Leader described. “And in return, he delivers terror to our enemies during the night.”

  Still bent in the helmet’s direction, Xanthippus cried out.

  “Oh God Epiales, why have the Gods deserted Qart Hadasht?” he demanded of the helmet and cloak.

  There had been no talk of the Gods abandoning the city. But now that the Spartan mentioned it, a few members decided it was true. Every member of the Special Branch locked their eyes on the Spartan and his cloak and helmet.

  “Why, God of Nightmares do you deliver terror to the Empire?”
the Spartan thundered. “Give us a sign so we can right the wrong.”

  The only sounds in the amphitheater were those of quick breathing in anticipation and the thumping of racing hearts as the members waited for a sign.

  “I am Xanthippus, a Spartan Commander,” he roared. “In the names of the Kings of Sparta, tell me.”

  Undulating as if a spirit moved beneath the scarlet cloak, the material lifted and fell in waves. Then, as if the God Epiales bowed his head, the helmet slid from the top of the backrest, skated down the cloak, hit the seat, and bounced into the air. It crashed to the floor and spun a half revolution before coming to rest on its side.

  The Spartan remained stooped over his knee as if overcome with emotion.

  “What does it mean?” members cried. “Please, tell us the meaning. Why have the Gods deserted our city?”

  Xanthippus remained as still as a statue except for the movement of breathing. Finally, he finished stealthily wrapping the thread around his left hand and he regained his breath. Blowing hard enough into a gap in the material to make it move had left him lightheaded.

  He picked up the cloak and clipped it around his neck. Then with the helmet under his left arm, the Tail-Leader broke the thread off from the helmet. He stood and faced the Special Branch.

  “What did the sign mean?” the Suffete demanded.

  “It seems obvious to me, sir,” the Spartan replied. “You have thrown the savior of your city to the floor. Discarded him as if he were nothing but a fallen piece of gear.”

  “Who, who have we overlooked?” the speaker shouted.

  “Me,” Xanthippus informed the Special Branch. “Make me the commander of your army and I will crush the Legions for you. However, there is one stipulation.”

  “What stipulation?” the Suffete asked.

  “It’ll cost you gold,” Xanthippus told the assembly. “Lots of gold.”

  Chapter 8 – Winds of Regret

  The forty Hoplites took the entire afternoon to regroup at the barracks. Most came with smiles, but a few arrived wearing frowns. The difference told on the faces of the ones who indulged in pleasure while hiding and the Spartans who worked.

  “I don’t know what you did Tail-Leader,” one said, “but Congress has created a committee to investigate stripping you of all your property.”

  “Stay on that source,” Xanthippus urged. “I’ll need to know when the talk shifts to taking a contract out on me.”

  In addition to the Spartan’s fighting abilities, they were experts at information gathering. Through their network of paid informers and supporters, the men from Sparta kept tabs on persons of interest and events around the city. Of special interest were political moves that effected the phalanx.

  Another Spartan examined the Tail-Leader from head to toes.

  “How did you convince the Suffetes to make you a General,” he inquired, “and us Captains of the army?”

  “It wasn’t me,” Xanthippus protested. “They were persuaded by the God Epiales.”

  “Sir, those are tricks we all learned as boys,” the Hoplite remarked. “But the Punics fell for it?”

  “The Punics have never been boys training in the agoge,” the Tail-Leader laughed. Then he got serious. “We have a lot to do before we take their army to war. First, find us a ship and reserve it.”

  “It’ll cost bags of coins to convince a merchant Captain to wait around for us,” the Sergeant in charge of transportation informed him.

  “With the gold the Special Branch is paying us, we can afford to be generous,” Xanthippus remarked. “Also, we need to secure horses for the phalanx. I can’t have my Captains hiking all over the battlefield.”

  “With the number of horsemen and extra mounts brought in to fight the Republic,” the procurement Rank-Leader reported, “buying horses will be easy.”

  “How many cavalrymen have they hired?” Xanthippus asked.

  “Four thousand horsemen, plus one hundred war elephants,” the NCO charged with keeping track of the Qart Hadasht army listed. “Heavy infantry consists of three thousand Noricum and twenty-five hundred Iberian soldiers. The rest are a mixture of light infantry, warriors, archers, and slingers numbering around sixty-five hundred.”

  “And the Legions?” The Tail-Leader solicited the Hoplite detailed with evaluating the Legions. The man looked perplexed, so the Commander inquired. “Is there a problem, Rank-Leader?”

  “More of an enigma, Tail-Leader,” the Spartan NCO responded. “Their best Battle Commander, Sisera, and his Legion North have been assigned to guarding the supply route.”

  “He doesn’t have the honor of having a seat at the negotiation table?” another of the Spartans inquired.

  “Legion North and Battle Commander Sisera have been exiled to Jellaz Hill,” the Legion expert stated. “I don’t believe he’ll be at the negotiations.”

  “That is a problem,” Xanthippus contemplated. “Rank-Leaders, work up a plan to stop Legion North. I don’t want to isolate the Republic’s leadership only to have their best Commander show up and stab me in the back.”

  ***

  In anticipation of the arrival of the Qart Hadasht representatives, the treaty tent went up a safe distance from the Legion lines.

  “Do you think they’ll feel secure enough?” Marcus Regulus inquired.

  “That’s not the question, General,” Colonel Ferenc said. “My worry is, will our committee be safe that far away?”

  “I can’t imagine General Bostar will allow any trickery,” Regulus stated. “Before he left with the demand list, I felt we bonded over the need for peace. Didn’t you?”

  “I did, sir,” Ferenc confirmed. He indicated his left flank commander. “I’m sure Senior Tribune Triticeus is honored to be selected to represent the Republic. I know, I am. We’ll do our best to get a good treaty.”

  “You’ve been my primary Battle Commander since my election. I can’t think of anyone else I’d trust to negotiate for us,” Marcus told him. “As for your senior staff officer, he’s shown himself to be a stellar officer. I only wish I could be present in the tent.”

  “General, you’re the authority figure,” Ferenc reminded him. “If you’re in the tent, who are we supposed to blame when we don’t agree on an article.”

  “I envy you,” Marcus admitted. “Sitting across from an adversary, looking him in the eyes, while haggling over points of contention. The act of parleying is exhilarating.”

  “I just need to remind myself not to give away too much of our advantage,” Ferenc confessed. “I’m as homesick as a raw recruit on the third day of Legion training.”

  “Why the third day?” Marcus asked.

  “By day three, the recruits are exhausted from running, exercising, and lack of sleep. And they are missing home.” the Colonel said. “It’s then the Legion issues shields. The regret for joining the Legion gets very real when the recruits start getting bashed around by the heavy scuta.”

  “Just be sure you, Triticeus, and the other staff officers don’t get pushed around by the Qart Hadasht emissaries.”

  “That won’t happen, General. You can count on us.”

  “I am,” Marcus said before walking to his horse.

  Mounted, he had a better view of the isolated tent and the Punic delegation as they approached.

  “Colonel Ferenc, duty calls.”

  Battle Commander Ferenc, Triticeus, his right flank commander, and the Legion’s Tribune for planning and strategies, plus five Junior Tribunes mounted and rode to meet the Punic officers. The youths were included so they could witness the great negotiation that ended the war with Qart Hadasht.

  ***

  The First Centurion of Legion East positioned his twenty veterans on one side of the treaty tent. Once his Colonel and the staff officers dismounted and entered the open sided pavilion, the commander of Ferenc’s security detail searched for his opposite number. While twenty Qart Hadasht soldiers mirrored the formation of his Legionaries, none wore an officer’s hea
dgear.

  “I don’t expect trouble. They didn’t even bring a line officer,” the Centurion commented before asking a squad leader. “Isn’t that Noricum armor they’re wearing?”

  “It is, Centurion,” the Decanus confirmed. “But aren’t the Celts big men?”

  “Everyone I’ve faced required me to reach up when we fought,” the veteran officer remarked.

  “Not them,” the squad leader pointed out. “They’re muscular, but don’t have the mass and height of the typical Noricum. Maybe they select their bodyguards by running marathons.”

  “Now there’s a terrible selection process,” the Centurion joked, “picking your security detail by who can run the farthest and the fastest.”

  ***

  On the far side of the tent, the Rank-Leader examined the Legionaries.

  “They shouldn’t be a problem,” he observed.

  “I agree,” another Spartan confirmed. “I like this armor. Noric steel is solid.”

  “You can buy some with the gold from this assignment,” the NCO stated.

  ***

  When all the negotiators arrived, the Legionaries of the security detail relaxed. Behind the Legion line, their General, Marcus Regulus didn’t.

  “Our Legions need this treaty,” Marcus remarked to an aide.

  “I’m sure they’ll work it out, General,” the staff officer replied.

  The negotiation teams had entered the tent, exchanged salutes, and poured beverages. As they sat, a wind rose from the north.

  Riding on the winds, the Goddess Victoria came to collect on Marcus’ pledge.

  “This day, Victoria, grant my warships the strength to be triumphant,” Regulus had prayed during the sea battle at Cape Ecnomus. “For that blessing, if you choose, I offer myself as a sacrifice.”