Tribune's Oath (Clay Warrior Stories Book 17)

by J. Clifton Slater

  Before the General could comment, Centurion Miklos sprinted into the command area.

  “The corridor is gone, sirs,” he stated. “We managed to get over two thousand men out before a horde of Iberians crashed the walls of the passageway.”

  “Where did they come from?” Alerio asked.

  “I’ve had no reports of the Empire holding a large unit in reserve,” Marcus told him.

  “Before we knew they were there, they came out of the smoke,” Miklos answered, “probably from behind Legion West’s bivouac.”

  Alerio went to the General’s map of the area. He studied the location of the road through the forest and that of the marching camp. After a few beats, he stepped back.

  “They were waiting for us,” Alerio stated. “Staged and waiting for Legion North to come out of the forest. Who thought of that?”

  “The Spartan,” Marcus answered.

  “What Spartan, General?” Alerio asked.

  “Qart Hadasht put a Spartan in command of their army,” Regulus said. “He’s orchestrated everything from the slaughter in the treaty tent to the destruction of Legion South and everything since. His intelligence is solid enough, it seems, he targeted you, Battle Commander.”

  “Me, sir,” Alerio questioned. “Why me?”

  “For the reasons Balint and Ferenc envy you,” Marcus informed Alerio. “You are successful and a threat.”

  Centurion Nugari marched up and saluted.

  “Tell me something good, First Centurion,” Marcus requested.

  “General, we’re pressed on all sides and trying to cover too much territory,” the veteran combat officer informed him. “We should collapse into a proper defensive square and pray, sir.”

  “Or beg for peace,” Marcus added. “Pass the word. Pull all units back and don’t engage unless defending yourself. Let’s see if the Spartan will consider a surrender.”

  Chapter 12 – Not the Spartan

  At first, warriors and soldiers chased after the withdrawing Legionaries. But after a few steps and unanswered strikes, they allowed the Legion formation to shrivel into a mound of shields. But left in the open were thousands of dead or wounded Republic infantrymen.

  “I’ve murdered four Legions,” Marcus Regulus uttered in a weak voice. His back bent as if his spine was failing. “Had we stayed in the valley, Mount Boukornine would have provided a barrier. But I didn’t and now I’ve executed fifteen thousand men.”

  “Sir, you have almost a Legion left alive,” Alerio whispered. “Those men need your strength.”

  Marcus Regulus stood a little straighter.

  “You’re right. I’ll negotiate for their release. And I’ll work at sending as many home to Rome as possible. Even to my own detriment,” Marcus promised. “Let’s see what the Spartan has to say.”

  But it wasn’t the Spartan who rode to the forefront. The Spartan was there. Sitting on his horse among the ranks of Noricum infantry with the scarlet cape and the crest on his helmet motionless.

  Taking command for the Empire were General Bostar and General Hamilcar. They walked their horses through the army to stand before Marcus Regulus.

  “Have your men lay down their arms,” Bostar demanded from horseback.

  “What do I get in return?” Marcus inquired from the ground.

  It was symbolic that the victor should be on a higher elevation than the vanquished.

  “You will submit, or you will die,” Hamilcar responded.

  “What are my terms for surrender?” Marcus questioned.

  “Drop your weapons. Or this will continue to its inevitable end,” Bostar threatened.

  The three men considered each other with blank faces and stiff necks. Finally, Hamilcar shifted in the saddle and allowed a lighter expression to cross his face.

  “Maybe, there is a term,” Hamilcar proposed.

  Grasping for any sign of conciliation, Marcus asked, “What term?”

  “Qart Hadasht is growing. Unfortunately, the building trend is due to the war industry,” Hamilcar apprised him. “But growing as it is, we need craftsmen. Perhaps some of your infantrymen have skills we can use.”

  Alerio stood several paces behind Marcus. When an object pushed between his hip and wrist, he glanced back to see Nugari shoving the rolled-up command map into his hand.

  “If they take craftsmen,” the First Centurion whispered. “Our men will need a staff officer among them. And you’re the only one here not in officer’s armor.”

  After the map, Nugari handed Alerio a felt petasos.

  “Do what you want, sir,” he challenged. “But the men need you.”

  Alerio had no interest in becoming a slave. To be an officer without authority over slaves with no freedom was useless. Despite his misgivings, he held onto the map and the hat.

  “I offer myself as a hostage,” Marcus stated. “Take me. I’m more valuable than a hundred craftsmen.”

  “How about five hundred?” Bostar questioned.

  “We’ll take you and five hundred men to work on buildings in the Capital,” Hamilcar stated. “But first, order your infantry to lay down their arms.”

  After a few beats, Marcus Regulus turned to the three thousand remaining Legionaries. He bowed his head before lifting it and peering around at the sweat lined and blood-stained faces.

  “It has been an honor to lead you, sons of Rome,” Marcus announced. “Men with building skills, report to your Centurions or NCOs. Those in command, pick the ablest and bring them to the front.”

  Alerio put the hat on his head and nodded to First Centurion Nugari.

  “Every construction site needs the building drawn on the plot of land, and the structure pictured,” Alerio informed Nugari. “I’m Alerio ‘Lophos’ Carvilius and I am a cartographer. You can see my name on this map, it’s Lophos.”

  Understanding the ploy, the First Centurion took Alerio by the elbow and guided him to a Centurion.

  “Where is Colonel Sisera?” Bostar called to the Legionaries. “I want to meet the heroic commander of Legion North.”

  Because none of the other Battle Commanders had been singled out, Marcus and Nugari froze. If anyone pointed to Colonel Sisera, he might be put on trial and executed. Marcus Regulus glanced around. He saw a man with a felt hat on, which he thought odd, but didn’t see Alerio. When no one answered Bostar, Hamilcar added his own solicitation.

  “Come, step forward, Battle Commander Sisera,” the Empire General encouraged. He waved an arm as if inviting Alerio forward. “Come, claim your just reward.”

  A silence fell over the army and the Legion. No one responded until an officer of skirmishers spoke out.

  “Colonel Sisera died at the escape corridor,” Centurion Miklos lied. “If you search the dead, you’ll find the Colonel’s helmet with the white horse-hair crest among the bodies of his command staff.”

  “That is a shame,” Bostar grumbled. “I so looked forward to crucifying the cowardly dog.”

  ***

  The afternoon was taken up by Legionaries filing by a growing stack of discarded shields and piles of gladii, javelins, and spears. Further away, helmets and armor were taken off and dumped.

  Another area had a line of combat officers and NCOs standing with men who had building experience. The craftsmen were interviewed and judged by Qart Hadasht managers. Some marched through the ranks of the Empire army to a holding area. Others were turned away and sent back to their Centuries.

  “Name and specialty?” one manager asked.

  “My name is Alerio ‘Lophos’ Carvilius,” Alerio reported. He unrolled the parchment and displayed the map. “I’m a map maker. You’ll notice the exactness of the elements and my signature in the corner.”

  The manager inspected the work, nodded his approval, and turned Alerio over to an escort. They walked through the army to a shaded area where other Legion builders sat.

  “They’re taking five hundred of us to Qart Hadasht,” a man protested. “I got picked because my officer doesn�
�t like me.”

  “I can’t blame your Centurion,” another Legionary with building skills responded. “I don’t know you, and already, I don’t like you.”

  Both men began to rise.

  Fearing a fight and repercussions, Alerio asked, “Has anyone ever been to the city? I hear it very cosmopolitan.”

  “What does that mean?” the complainer demanded.

  “Spices and women,” a third build submitted.

  “From all around the known world,” Alerio added. “All in one place.”

  “But we’ll be slaves?”

  “Working building sites,” Alerio said. “It’s not like we’re digging in mines. They need our skills. Just stay calm, and everything will work out.”

  Later in the afternoon, Marcus Regulus and an Empire cavalry escort appeared. The horses reached the five hundred and stopped.

  “You people, get on your feet,” a horseman ordered.

  Alerio and the builders stood and faced towards Qart Hadasht. It was an easy ten-mile hike for the Legionaries.

  Generals Bostar and General Hamilcar rode from between the ranks. Following the Empire commanders were a company of Iberian soldiers. The Generals reined in beside Regulus, but the soldiers continued until they crowded around the Legionary builders.

  “What about my Legions?” Marcus asked.

  “That’s right,” Bostar admitted. He looked around as if he had lost something. Then he spotted the Spartan, sitting quietly. “Xanthippus. Kill them all.”

  The Spartan shook the scarlet cloak from his arms and signaled left and right. In response, the Empire army leveled spears, roared, and rushed forward.

  Marcus shouted in horror, but a horseman rapped him in the head with a sword. Regulus collapsed onto the horse’s neck.

  The cries of the dying filled the air. And yet, the pleading from individuals drifted above the shrieks. Alerio felt every voice begging for mercy and suffered with each until a thrust silenced the infantrymen. Iberians poked and prodded the Legion builders into motion. They shuffled away from the massacre. All of them angry, and grateful to have escaped with their lives.

  Half conscious, Marcus Regulus seemed unaware of the slaughter of twenty-five hundred unarmed Legionaries. Almost the opposite of the Republic Proconsul, the Spartan Commander watched intently as if he was memorizing and learning from each death.

  Act 5

  Chapter 13 – Spartan Control

  The building had holes in the walls. And at one end, the wall was tilted and fractured. An irregular crack in the floor divided the flat segment from the part dipping below level. Above, the roof threatened to collapse. The broken support rafters were obvious through the openings in the ceiling of the first and second floors.

  “Do you think the second floor will handle a load?” one of the Legion builders asked.

  “I wouldn’t trust it to store hay,” Alerio replied.

  “Well, it’s home for now,” another Latian stated. “We should figure something out.”

  Most of the five hundred Legionaries waited in the courtyard. A few had ventured into the dilapidated structure to survey the damages.

  “If I had a choice,” another offered, “I’d demolish it and start over with a better foundation.”

  The Iberian overseer, who greeted them when the prisoners arrived, came in and overheard the comment. Two massive bodyguards carrying clubs followed him. They flanked the manager and made a show of holding their herding clubs with two hands when he stopped.

  “The building’s owner wants this floor for storage with apartments on the second story,” he instructed. “There will be no demolition. You Latians need to get creative.”

  “Any chance of food while we work up a plan? How about bedding?” Alerio asked. “And we’d like to inspect the tools.”

  “No food. No blankets. No tools,” the manager asserted. He turned to leave but stopped and forewarned. “You will show progress, or you will be beaten before your mob is broken up.”

  “Broken up?” Alerio questioned.

  “Yes. I’ll send each of you to work at a different project,” he replied. “Keeping you Latians together is a mistake.”

  After the Iberian overseer and his guards left, one Legionary kicked the dusty floor.

  “He reminds me of my Master when I was an apprentice,” the Latian builder said. “Never enough time or supplies. And every project is a rush job. I hated that guy, too.”

  “What’s your trade?” Alerio asked.

  “I’m Tullius, a Master Carpenter,” the Legionary replied.

  “We need to show progress, or the Iberian will separate the Legionaries,” Alerio remarked. “Where would you start?”

  “We have a few daggers hidden away, but no real tools,” Tullius responded. He reached out and took the large piece of parchment from Alerio. “We can start by designing something the Punic owner wants. No. Make that something he desires.”

  “If you plan to go higher,” another Legionary stated. “You’ll need to rework the foundation.”

  No one had ventured the idea of adding to the tilted building. No one did as the building was half sunken, uneven, and obviously unstable.

  “Who are you?” Alerio inquired.

  “Naevus, a foundation mole,” the man bragged. “From deep beneath the earth to the top of the sky, if it needs to be structurally sound, you want me in the hole.”

  “I hadn’t considered adding a level,” Alerio admitted. “The second floor is barely there as it is.”

  “I’ve put a third floor on worse,” another man stated. “But it took a lot of shoring up. Where do I get the lumber?”

  “Name and occupation?” Tullius the carpenter asked.

  “The name is Didacus,” the Latian stated. “I’ve been a foreman on projects since I was a teen. Learned structure and bracing, scheduling, and material handling from my father.”

  “Find me a piece of cinder or a soft stone,” Alerio requested. “Let’s clear a spot on the floor and draw up something.”

  With a branch, Naevus, the mole, swept an area clean. Then in the fading light, the men sketched a three-story structure on the rough stone of the floor.

  “That’s not a pretty building,” Tullius observed. “It looks more unsteady than this one.”

  “I’ll work on it,” Alerio commented.

  Then from outside a voice ordered, “Stay back.”

  Alerio and the Legion builders rushed to the doorway. Armed men with torches pushed back the Legionaries to make room for a trio of wagons. The overseer stood off to the side with a scowl on his face.

  “They haven’t done anything to earn food, bedding, or tools,” he protested.

  A man dressed in a scarlet cloak stepped from between the soldiers. For a beat, Alerio thought it was the Spartan Commander. But once the man was bathed in the flickering light, he could see it was a different Spartan.

  “Master Bagarok, answer this. How can a man accomplish anything if he falls ill from starvation?” the Hoplite questioned. Then he added. “As long as General Xanthippus is in command, these men will be guarded closely, worked hard, but treated well.”

  “Spartans,” Bagarok said it as if it was a curse.

  The overseer and his thugs walked away. Then a figure stepped forward with a tablet.

  “Who is in charge?” he asked. “I need someone to sign for the equipment.”

  Alerio took Didacus by the arm and marched the foreman to the scribe.

  “Master Didacus is in charge, sir,” Alerio stated. He emphasized the words master and sir, hoping the NCO would catch on to the meaning.

  Corporal Philetus, formerly of the Sixth Century, blinked in the weak light. The speaker was familiar but couldn’t place him. Then his mouth fell open when he recognized Colonel Sisera.

  “Here, sir, use me as a writing surface,” Alerio said quickly. He spun around and bent, offering his back as a flat surface so Didacus could sign for the wagon loads of supplies.

  “You are
who?” Philetus inquired.

  “Alerio Lophos Carvilius, a simple draftsman,” Alerio replied.

  “I see,” Philetus remarked. “You and Foreman Didacus are lucky.”

  “We know,” Didacus agreed, thinking the NCO was talking about Tunis. “It’s terrible.”

  “What’s terrible?” Philetus asked. “I was referring to having the Spartans in command. Before they took over, workers were starving because the guards didn’t care. Most didn’t bother showing up for duty. Yet when they got in trouble for the lack of progress, the soldiers took it out on the captures. Since Xanthippus got control, we’re treated better.”

  “The butcher of Tunis is our benefactor?” Alerio inquired. “How can that be?”

  “All the guards and managers are foreigners,” Philetus informed him. “This is Qart Hadasht and it’s complicated. My next delivery here is in two days. What do you need?”

  “A layout of the city, a schedule for the gate guards,” Alerio whispered, “and some drawing materials.”

  “That won’t get the structure rebuilt,” Didacus scolded. “We need buckets for water and material hauling, axes, hammers, shovels for digging, and hand trowels.”

  ***

  The morning found Alerio sitting on the rickety roof with a flat piece of board and the nub of a burnt stick. To his front, he could see the eastern defensive walls of the city. Somewhere in the distance lay Tunis and the bodies of Legionaries.

  To the north, orchards started at the bottom of the hill, outside the ring of fruit trees, vegetable gardens spread to the defensive walls, and beyond the tall structures, fields of grain stretched to the horizon. Behind him, Byrsa Hill rose to a collection of government buildings and a market. Just below the crest of the hill, tall buildings encroached on the heights. Wrapping around the hill were the flat roofs of buildings. Almost as if giant stair steps, the residential and commercial structures marked the falling elevation of Byrsa Hill. And finally, along the southern edge of Qart Hadasht were beaches, docks, and warehouses. Plus, there was an odd watercourse in the form of a round harbor cut into the shoreline.