Tribune's Oath (Clay Warrior Stories Book 17)

by J. Clifton Slater

  Obviously manmade, the circular harbor housed several ships-of-war on an arched beach. Immediately, Alerio grasped the significance. The shape offered a safe harbor from severe weather and protection from enemy warships. And, as he could tell by the activity, ship repair personnel had access to the clustered vessels. Unlike pulling them onto a straight beach, where the boats were in a long line, in the circular harbor they were close together and accessible.

  A section of roof a few feet from him fell in, leaving a hole. Alerio remained still, thinking if he moved, he too would fall through the weakened structure. But shortly after the collapse, Tullius appeared in the opening.

  “Carvilius, I didn’t know you were up here,” the carpenter greeted Alerio.

  With his torso half out of the hole, Tullius seemed to be floating in the air.

  “I wanted to get an idea of what people would see from the third floor,” Alerio informed him.

  “And what will they see?”

  “Most of the city and the harbor,” Alerio answered. “How did you get up here?”

  “We salvaged boards from the second floor and built ladders,” Tullius clarified. He looked down and shouted. “Put another ladder up here. Carvilius needs a way down. Him? He is our draftsman.”

  “I could scale down on the side,” Alerio indicated the edge of the roof several feet away. “That’s the way I came up.”

  “We’ve already taken out a lot of roof supports,” Tullius warned. “It’s better if you use a ladder.”

  Although he had seen enough to know the setting, Alerio took another look at the landscape. Then, after tucking the board with the sketches into a pouch, he carefully crawled to the hole in the roof. Looking over the edge, he realized it was a long way down to the cracked floor.

  ***

  On the third day of captivity, Bagarok, his two guards, and a tall swarthy man in flowing robes walked onto the plaza. Unlike the thugs with the overseer, the Punic nobleman was accompanied by men with steel blades and dressed in uniformed armor.

  “Noricum soldiers,” Didacus announced. “I heard their steel is the best.”

  “I heard the same thing,” Alerio agreed.

  The Iberian manager whined as the group approached the ruined building.

  “Sir, they don’t know what they’re doing,” Bagarok grumbled. “Let me send them to projects around the city where we have more oversight.”

  “I’m considering it,” the Qart Hadasht citizen responded. “I don’t see any progress. As a matter of fact, they’ve destroyed my roof.”

  Alerio picked up several sheets of the parchment Corporal Philetus provided. With the drawings of the redesigned building in hand, Alerio started for the owner.

  “Sir, if I might have a moment,” he called out while crossing the courtyard. Two guards blocked Alerio’s way, forcing him to plead. “Master, I only want to show you the drawings for your new building.”

  “New?” the Punic owner turned on Bagarok and exploded. “I told you I didn’t want the expense of rebuilding the structure.”

  The overseer stammered trying to organize his thoughts.

  “Our plans use everything here, sir,” Alerio blurted out before Bagarok could respond. “And we’ve added a third floor. That will give your tenants a view of the harbor.”

  The nobleman ceased his tirade, stroked the hair on his chin, and contemplated Alerio.

  “Harbor views fetch a higher lease rate,” the Punic admitted. He reached out and grabbed the drawings. While shuffling through the stack and admiring the solid look of the building, he asked. “How much more will this cost me?”

  “We’ll need clay, rocks, straw, sand, and lumber,” Alerio listed. “All of those are available in the Tunis area. So, your cost will be for guards, wagons, and donkeys, sir.”

  “And you’ll build this structure?” the owner asked. He pointed at a symbol located on the face of the building just below roof level. “Will this be visible from the harbor?”

  “It will be sir. Although, we’ll have to create it from clay which doesn’t catch the rays of the sun,” Alerio expounded on the limitations of clay. “Unless you want the Helios image made of bronze. In that case, we’ll need copper and tin to cast the image of the Sun God.”

  “I want it in bronze,” the Punic noblemen instructed. “The other business owners in this district will be eaten up by jealousy at the sight of it.”

  “Then we have your approval to construct the building, sir?” Alerio asked.

  “Yes. You have my permission to make me the envy of my competitors,” the Punic owner gushed. “Come along Bagarok. I want to inspect my other properties. I can only pray the other sites are as inventive as this one.”

  Alerio relaxed. He had created a building the owner had to have and in doing so he kept his Legionaries together. Once work began, he needed to locate General Regulus and report on the progress.

  “Tell me, Alerio,” Naevus, the foundation mole, inquired. “Why did you add an image of the Sun God to the facade?”

  “To mark the building,” Alerio replied. “Someday, the Legion will land in Qart Hadasht. When they do, I want them to tear down this structure and throw the rubble into the bay.”

  “Because we built it as slave labor?”

  “No. Because it was paid for by the deaths of four Legions.”

  ***

  With the weight of the roof and the second floor gone, Naevus selected fifty men. He placed them on a line fifteen feet from the lopsided wall.

  “We’ll dig a slope down to this section of the foundation,” he said while scooping air with his hands to demonstrate the operation. “Dirt gets stacked behind you and rocks go on the far side of the mound.”

  They began the task with enthusiasm. It was better than sitting around doing nothing. While the Legionaries dug, Alerio sketched from the top of the wall to ground level, then stopped.

  “The soil looks good,” he noted. “Why is the wall tilting and cracking?”

  Naevus hopped over the growing mound of dirt, selected a large rock, a small stone, and a handful of dirty sand. He brushed off the surfaces while carrying them to Alerio.

  “This site has been filled in to make it level,” Naevus explained. He displayed the large rock, held the handful of sand over it, and dribbled the sand over the curved surface. As expected, the fine grains hit the rock and slid off. “Imagine this rock to be the bedrock under Byrsa Hill and the sand the landfill where we’re standing.”

  “You’re telling me, the land under our feet is sliding down the rock face?” Alerio questioned. “How is that possible? I can’t feel movement.”

  “It’s not the earth moving,” Naevus corrected. “It’s the weight of the building pushing the foundation through the soil. Think of it as if you were plowing your foot through loose dirt.”

  Alerio nudged his boot forward. The dust separated but after the heel passed, the material fell back, filling in behind his foot.

  “How do we prevent it from happening again?” Alerio questioned.

  “The Mole will fix it,” Naevus boasted. He used the stone to chip steps in the large rock. Then he poured sand onto the flat risers. Unlike before when the sand slid down the curved surface, the notches caught grains until each flat place held a pile. “We’ll cut steps and build columns to support the end walls of the building.”

  “For three stories?” Didacus questioned.

  The foreman and a group had walked over to check on the digging.

  “After my work,” Naevus pledged, “you could build it five stories tall. And it will stand until the Goddess Hestia tears it down.”

  Without thinking, Alerio injected, “Three stories will serve our needs.”

  “Just what needs are you talking about?” another builder demanded. “You don’t look like a Priest so it can’t have anything to do with Hestia, the Goddess of Architecture. Who are you to tell us what we need?”

  The foremen stepped between the two men.

  “Thi
s is Remus our Master of Clay,” Didacus introduced the man asking the questions. Then he pointed to Alerio. “And this is Alerio Lophos.”

  “I heard about you, Lophos,” Remus sneered. “They described you as being fat. I guess Battle Commander Sisera worked the weight off you. But they also said you were lazy and a coward. And lazy is a trait that’s hard to lose.”

  Alerio wanted to tell the Master of Clay that he was Colonel Sisera. But prisoners have needs. And if the captivity lasted long enough, a weak man might trade the knowledge that the infamous commander of Legion North was one of the Legionaries. He’d hate to be exposed for an extra portion of strew meat.

  “I’m just a simple cartographer, Master of Clay,” Alerio humbled himself by bowing. “If I can help, please let me know.”

  “Then give me that hat,” Remus ordered.

  Of all the scars Alerio had picked up over his life, the one that stood out among men who made their living with blades was the one on his head. It might not be recognized and connected with Colonel Sisera at first. But eventually, someone would connect the scar with the senior officer.

  “Do you like my petasos?” Alerio remarked. “If you want it, I’ll box you for the hat. Apollo’s sport is how I lost the weight.”

  Remus noted the muscles and scars on Alerio’s arms and his willingness to fight.

  “Maybe later,” Remus said. “Right now, I need the rocks they dug up and all the soil with sand.”

  Didacus organized a work party, and they began selecting from the overburden excavated by the diggers. Alerio went to the backside of the building and began drawing in the lower section of the wall. Not surprising, the foundation as it was exposed, lay on the slope of the rock. As he watched the deeper foundation get uncovered, Alerio noted stitches on one of the diggers.

  “Come over here,” he called. “Help me with something.”

  Having reached the correct depth for the upper section, the Legionary had finished digging. He climbed the slope and strolled over to Alerio.

  “What do you need, draftsman?”

  “The stitches in your thigh,” Alerio pointed out. “Those are tight and professional. I bet it healed up quickly.”

  “Thanks to Hektor Nicanor,” the man stated. “If I hadn’t been in so much pain when he washed the open wound with vinegar, I would have stabbed him. I’m glad I didn’t. The Greek boy’s sutures were so tight, I never got even a trace of the rot. With some of our other medics, the wounds leaked for days.”

  “Leaked and healed up looking like a blind man did the stitching,” Alerio sympathized. He lifted his tunic to display the uneven stitch marks rippling along a scar on his hip. “I wish I had Hektor when this happened.”

  “A Legion special,” the infantryman stated, referring to the rustic suture work. “What do you need?”

  “I want to organize our escape,” Alerio told him. “But not for just a few. I want all of us to get home. To accomplish that, we need to organize an escape committee of trusted men.”

  “And you want me on the committee?” the Legionary guessed. “Why me?”

  “Thanks to Hektor, I know the type of man you are,” Alerio replied. “You see, Hektor only treats men with the will to survive. Find other patients of Hektor and have them come see me.”

  “They have Spartans and Noricum soldiers,” the infantryman reminded Alerio. “Yet, you believe we can get out of Qart Hadasht?”

  “And back to Rome,” Alerio assured him. “They do have Spartans. However, I have Republic Legionaries, and a secret society.”

  “The Friends of Hektor,” the infantryman confirmed.

  Chapter 14 – The Generals’ Aides

  Marcus Regulus had one wish and a mission. He wanted to see and hold Marcia Regulus once more. His wife had been by his side for all the important events of his life. With her, he had become a father, a respected Senator, a successful General, and had twice been elected a Consul of the Republic. Without her, he had lost four Legions and been taken captive. If not for the wish, Marcus Regulus would throw himself from the building.

  “General Regulus, you must get dressed,” the servant encouraged. “We have attempted to clean the helmet and the armor. If they are not to your satisfaction, kindly let us know. But for now, please, sir, do get dressed. The Suffete and his guests are expecting you.”

  “Another showing of their prize peacock,” Marcus growled. He looked out on the ships in the harbor. He peered at the roofs of the buildings coming up Byrsa Hill. One caught his eye. Off to the side, he couldn’t help noticing a large structure with a collapsed roof. Lastly, he stared straight down to the courtyard at the base of his prison. Before turning to the servant, he addressed Alerio Sisera’s personal Goddess. “It must be a fall of at least sixty feet. Is that far enough for you, Goddess Nenia, to free me from my humiliation?”

  “Sir, your armor, please,” the servant begged.

  He held up the armored skirt, but it was inside-out. Despite his predicament, Marcus laughed, making a short, hard sound that lacked humor.

  “A proper aide-de-camp would know the correct way to hold it,” Marcus complained. “Give me that.”

  Snatching the armor piece, he spun it around, and secured it to his waist. Then he slipped on the ceremonial armor and dropped the leather truss with his medals and the Proconsul tab over his head. After adjusting the leather bands, he tucked the General’s helmet under his left arm.

  At first glance, he might have been a commander going to review his Legions. Except no Consul would go before his Legionaries without a gladius. As a prisoner he was going unarmed to entertain Punic noblemen. If not for his wish, Marcus Regulus would end it. If not for his mission to return to Rome and tell the story of his brave Legions, he would have jumped from the window.

  Stowing away the thoughts of suicide, General Regulus swallowed his pride, and marched for the doorway.

  ***

  “Marcus Atilius Regulus, Senator, Consul, and General,” the greeter announced when Marcus arrived at the banquet hall. “A Citizen of the Republic, direct from Rome by way of defeat at Tunis, Suffete Paltibaal bids you to make his guest welcome.”

  Applause and sounds of amazement rose for the crowd of Punic dignitaries. Here was a living example of the upstarts from Rome. Terrifying in his armor with the stern look of a defiant man, Marcus Regulus both attracted and repulsed the noblemen and women of the Qart Hadasht Empire.

  “My other guests can’t stop ogling you or refrain from making comments behind their hands,” the Suffete for Military affairs informed Marcus. “General Regulus, you are the hit of the social season.”

  “I would be of better use to you in Rome,” Marcus told him. “Who better to secure the release of your noble brats, than the man who made them slaves of the Republic.”

  “Ah General, you seek to rise my ire,” Suffete Paltibaal remarked. “Unfortunately for you General, you lost. So much waste, I could barely finish reading the reports from the final battle.”

  “If it’s so final,” Marcus insisted, “send me home with your demands.”

  From behind, a voice broke into the exchange.

  “But you are so entertaining,” Bostar commented. He walked up to Marcus and asked. “How can we ever let you go?”

  “General Bostar, I trust you’re having a pleasant evening,” Marcus professed while saluting the old campaigner.

  “You never cease to amaze me, Regulus,” Bostar asserted. “I killed fourteen thousand of your soldiers and personally ordered the murder of another three thousand or so. Yet, you treat me like a long lost, and even revered, uncle.”

  “Nemo dat quod non habet,” Marcus quoted a phrase in Latin. “No one gives what he doesn’t have.”

  “I do love word games,” Paltibaal gushed. “By that, you mean what?”

  “I have no blade nor harsh words for General Bostar, as he has taken everything from me.”

  Hamilcar and the Suffete for Domestic affairs strolled up.

  “Very we
ll stated,” General Hamilcar complimented Marcus. “And very true, I might add.”

  “I hate to break up this private party,” the Domestic Suffete apologized. “But I need Bostar for a matter of some importance.”

  “Please, don’t let me or this fascinating Latian keep you,” Paltibaal said. “We’ll go elsewhere. There are guests who simply must meet General Regulus.”

  They were three steps from the trio when Marcus stopped a servant carrying a tray crowded with glasses of wine. He paused to liberate one just as an Empire Captain marched up to Paltibaal. The officer whispered angrily to the Military Suffete.

  “General Regulus, stay right here,” Paltibaal instructed. “I’ll be right back.”

  Left alone and happy for the reprieve from being both complimented and insulted, Marcus took a step towards the Domestic Suffete and the Generals Bostar and Hamilcar. Not seeing the Republic General, they continued their conversation.

  “It’s too much,” the Suffete grumbled. “Our bank is depleted because of a rash decision by the Special Branch.”

  “What can we do?” Bostar questioned. “He asked, they agreed, and the Spartan got his gold.”

  “And remember, he’s not only protected by his gang of Spartan Hoplites,” Hamilcar added. “But Xanthippus trained the Iberian and Noricum soldiers. They practically worship him.”

  Marcus Regulus wanted to feel hot anger at the mention of the Spartan. But inside, he was dead. Only the wish and the mission held him together. For vengeance to grow, it needed to cling to a matrix of feelings. But inside Marcus Regulus, there was nothing to support the hate.

  “Suppose the finance committee withdrew funding for the mercenaries,” the Domestic Suffete pondered. Then he gave the results. “In a matter of days, the Iberians and Noricums would sail away. What then?”

  “The Spartan did murder the Legionaries after they surrendered,” Hamilcar stated. “Did he have written orders, General?”

  “Nothing in writing,” Bostar assured them. “And we have boat loads of witnesses to the horror. Once he’s convicted, all the Spartan’s possessions will be confiscated.”