Tribune's Oath (Clay Warrior Stories Book 17)

by J. Clifton Slater

  “And go directly into the city’s coffers.”

  A hand landed on Regulus’ shoulder and guided him away from the conspirators.

  “My apologies, Marcus,” Paltibaal stated as they crossed the room. “We have a report on one of my Generals. In Gades, that’s far to the west of Iberia, he has declared himself King of the Region.”

  “A General cut off from his administrators is bound to make bad decisions,” Marcus stated.

  The truth of it cut deeply into the Republic General’s heart.

  “It is ever so. Or so it seems,” Paltibaal projected. Then he asked. “The servants assigned to your quarters. Are they satisfactory?”

  “I would prefer Legionaries who understand how armor and leather are supposed to be cleaned,” Marcus responded. “And who know the correct order for the display of medals.”

  They approached a group and the Military Suffete boomed, “Come here and touch the Republic General. He’s relatively tame. Just don’t hand him a sword.”

  The group shouted in mock horror before bursting out in good natured humor. Marcus stood stone faced, accepting the ridicule. He was after all, dead inside.

  ***

  Late midmorning, two days after the dinner party, Bagarok and his henchmen strutted onto the plaza. Spying several men wrapped in blankets and asleep under an awning, he went directly to the sleeping area.

  “Get up,” he screamed at the Latians. “Get up and be busy. You are not to sleep away the day.”

  Kicking one of the sleeping men, the overseer backed away quickly and directed his bodyguards to beat the men awake.

  The kick woke one of the sleepers. But still half-awake, the Legionary rolled over, threw off the blanket, and pushed to his feet. He might have been angry enough to fistfight. But it wasn’t a fist coming at his head. It was the knot of a hardwood club.

  Too late to duck, Remus realized the danger but could only throw up his arms to ward off the strike. A flying body came racing around the building, and dove between the Master of Clay and the club. Absorbing the blow with his shoulder, Alerio fell as Remus jumped back. Rolling twice, he came up on his knees holding a shoulder that already showed signs of bruising.

  “Him. Use him to set an example,” Bagarok yelled while pointing at Alerio. “Show these Latians that crossing me has consequences.”

  With his right arm tucked into his ribs to ease tension on the shoulder, Alerio circled with the bodyguard keeping his left arm out.

  “I enjoy a good fight as well as the next man,” the Spartan Hoplite stated. He stopped a few feet from the combatants, drew his kopis, and tossed it to Alerio. “Here, let’s see how the guard feels about facing a blade.”

  Already hurt and angry at the attack, Alerio forgot he was only a draftsman. After a smooth catch, he brought the sword down to the back of his thigh. For an instant, the thug lost sight of it. Then Alerio’s wrist snapped the blade up ninety degrees, putting the tip on a direct path to the thug’s gut. All it would take was a simple stab to…

  “Enough,” the Spartan roared.

  Alerio froze and the guard stared at the short distance between the steel blade and his lower belly.

  “I guess that answers one of the questions,” the Spartan said. He marched to Alerio and took his sword. “Walk with me Latian.”

  “Wait. Why were these men sleeping?” Bagarok demanded.

  Remus walked to a rough mud and stone mound, lifted a door off the front, and exposed racks of tiles.

  “My team and I were up all-night firing flooring tiles,” the Clay Master stated. “The fire needed to be at a constant temperature and that required feeding in wood and manning the bellows. We just laid down when you showed up, overseer.”

  No one expected an apology and Bagarok didn’t offer one. He and his two guards stormed off.

  “Come,” the Spartan directed Alerio. They had gone several feet and were away from the men gathering around Remus when the Hoplite remarked. “We have a bet in the barracks. Are you a Lieutenant or a Sergeant?”

  “Why do you ask?” Alerio inquired.

  “We Spartans observe everyone,” he said. “It’s hard to miss your influence no matter how hard you attempt to disguise it. I thought an NCO. But after your foolish interference, I’m changing my wager to a Tail-Leader.”

  “How does getting clubbed make me an officer?” Alerio asked.

  He massaged the shoulder. Nothing felt broken, but based on the pain deep in the muscle, he knew it would be a week before he could use his right arm.

  “Your willingness to sacrifice for your men,” the Hoplite replied. “And only a swordsman trained since birth could have caught a spinning sword left-handed, transited to a feint, and brought the blade to a killing plain that quickly.”

  “It’s a natural talent,” Alerio told him. “What now? Now that I’ve been discovered.”

  “Nothing. We don’t care,” the Hoplite answered. “But there is a message. If any of your people escape, we will march to this courtyard and gut the ones remaining.”

  “I understand,” Alerio assured him. “Until I can take them all out, you won’t have trouble with us.”

  “We thought not, Lieutenant,” the Spartan commented.

  He walked out of a side entrance and Corporal Philetus came into the courtyard from the opposite side.

  “Did you guys plan that?” Alerio asked when Philetus crossed to him.

  The Corporal blinked as if the comment caught him off guard. Recovering after a pause, he asked, “Plan what?”

  “Never mind,” Alerio told him.

  He still gripped his shoulder, favoring the right arm.

  “Do you need to lay down?” Philetus inquired. “If so, I can talk to Didacus about the General’s need.”

  “I’m fine, tell me what the Proconsul requires.”

  “The Qart Hadasht Suffete wants to assign a Legion aide to him,” the NCO reported. “Any idea who to use?”

  “Absolutely,” Alerio assured him. “I have just the man for General Regulus.”

  ***

  In the early evening, two Legionaries climbed the stairs towards the top floor of the apartment building.

  “The General is living good,” Vitus observed.

  “He’s a General,” Tutus reminded the other potential aide. “Aren’t they supposed to live good?”

  At the top floor, the pair approached an Empire guard. One lowered his hood and addressed the soldier.

  “Which apartment is General Regulus’ quarters?” Vitus asked.

  There were three doors off the landing. None were marked to identify the occupants.

  “All of them,” the soldiers stated. He leaned a spear in the direction of one door. “Most servants use that entrance. VIP guests use the other.”

  “What about the center door?” Vitus inquired.

  “No one ever uses it,” the sentry replied.

  Titus and Vitus walked to the center door and pushed it open. To their surprise, Marcus Regulus stood at a window with his back to them.

  “Sir, we are assigned as your aides,” Tutus announced.

  “Assigned by whom?” Marcus asked. “General Bostar?”

  “No sir, Centurion Lophos sent us,” Vitus replied.

  “Lophos? Isn’t he the fat cartographer from Legion North?” Marcus Regulus questioned. He turned to face the door. Looking from Tutus to Vitus and back again, he inquired. “Are you brothers, half-brothers, or cousins?”

  “No, sir,” Vitus answered.

  “As far as we know, our family villages are over a hundred miles apart,” Tutus stated.

  “With no shared relations,” Vitus said.

  “We’ve talked it over, sir,” Tutus added.

  “And can’t find a connection,” Vitus assured the General.

  Marcus Regulus blinked. Vitus and Tutus were lean and of average height. Besides their similar forms, they had small noses, wide set brown eyes, high foreheads, and full lips. There was nothing extraordinary about t
heir looks except they were identical in appearance.

  “How did you come to be assigned to me?” Regulus asked.

  “We are both Friends of Hektor,” Vitus responded by holding out an arm and displaying a line of neat stitches along his bicep.

  “And Centurion Lophos advised that a Latian couldn’t blend in around Qart Hadasht,” Tutus clarified. He raised the hem of his tunic and showed Marcus a thigh wound with the same professional sutures.

  “So, he decided, the next best thing was for us to be in two places at once,” Vitus informed Marcus.

  “If that meets your approval, sir?” Tutus inquired.

  “Where did you come from?” Marcus asked. “I thought they broke up the five hundred Legionaries.”

  “No sir. Thanks to the Centurion and the Spartans, we are all on the same worksite,” Vitus related.

  “The Spartans?” Marcus asked. “You can be aides later. Pour us some vino and give me a full report.”

  “Yes, sir,” Vitus and Tutus replied.

  Chapter 15 – Raw Materials to Coins

  Ten wagons rolled through the main entrance along with twenty mounted warriors. A shudder ran through the unarmed Legionaries at the presence of the riders, until Corporal Philetus jogged into view. He waved to Didacus but walked to Alerio.

  “I have the ink you wanted,” he stated while handing over a clay container.

  “What’s with the wagons?”

  “Lumber, rocks, stones,” Philetus listed while indicating pairs of wagons. “And the last four are for your clay and sand.”

  “It seems the Punic nobleman wants this building done quickly,” Alerio guessed. “I’ll assign Captains for each work site.”

  “I thought you might,” Philetus remarked. “Are you going to let Didacus pick the teams?”

  “Yes,” Alerio told him before walking towards the building. On the way, he waved two men into his wake.

  The three vanished into the structure. Moments later, they reemerged. The two Legionaries went through the courtyard pulling Friends of Hektor to the back of the assembly for conferences. Alerio went to stand with the crowd, but Didacus stormed up to him.

  “See here, Lophos,” he scolded. “I’m the foremen for this building. I make the decisions. I may have given you the impression that you’re special. But you aren’t. How dare you force managers on my work sites?”

  “Didacus, you run the teams working on the building,” Alerio cautioned while taking the foreman’s arm and pulling him in close. “Otherwise, stay out of my business.”

  Didacus swung wide. The fist traveled across Alerio’s chest and punched his right shoulder. Doubling over with shooting pains crippling his arm, Alerio stumbled a step before a pair of hands caught him.

  “Steady there,” Remus comforted him. “Let me handle this.”

  The Clay Master didn’t challenge or threaten. He released Alerio and drove his knuckles into Didacus’ belly. As the foreman bent, Remus punched him in the side of the head.

  “If you want to fight, pick on someone with two good shoulders,” the Clay Master threatened. “I have both and I’m right here. Come for me.”

  “My argument isn’t with you,” Didacus responded. He held the side of his head trying to clear his thoughts.

  “You are the foremen because the craftsmen back you,” Tullius remarked. “Don’t fool yourself. You can be replaced.”

  The carpenter stepped up and stood shoulder to shoulder with Remus.

  “Being prisoners of the Empire is hard enough,” Alerio said. Although bent over and nursing the shoulder, he coached. “The last thing we need is to start fighting amongst ourselves. Until we’re all free, let’s focus on the tasks in front of us.”

  Tullius and Remus contemplated the comment and stared at Alerio without saying anything.

  But Didacus questioned, “Do you think we’ll ever get out of Qart Hadasht?”

  “Yes,” Alerio responded. He uncurled and grimaced from the pain. “When it’s time.”

  “And when is that?” Didacus demanded.

  “When I tell you,” Alerio barked at the foreman. He started to walk away but stopped and directed. “Pick work crews to go with my captains.”

  ***

  Seven miles south from the defensive walls of Qart Hadasht, the two wagons and twenty-seven Legionaries stopped. Next to the trail, a hill of stone waited to be quarried. After unpacking tents, wedges, and hammers, twenty men began clearing off the soil to give them access to more stone. While they worked, seven of them pulled poles and nets from the wagons and marched towards Lake Tunis.

  “Where are they going?” a mounted guard asked.

  “Going fishing,” one of the two captains of the stonework party replied. “We’ll have fresh fish for dinner.”

  “I like fish,” the second guard stated.

  “They are my best fishermen,” the captain told him. “I would guess there will be plenty for everyone.”

  ***

  A second set of wagons moved east along the coast. At an area between the Gulf of Tunis and the northern end of Lake Tunis, the sand team unloaded shovels and baskets. The guards got excited when seven men pulled bows and arrows from the wagons and walked towards the lake.

  “They’re armed,” one warrior remarked.

  “How else are they supposed to hunt birds?” a work captain inquired.

  ***

  Eight miles southeast of Qart Hadasht, a third team stopped at the southern end of Lake Tunis. They pulled curved pieces of iron from the wagons and baskets for the reeds. Seven men took spears from the wagons.

  “Stop right there,” a guard ordered. His horse danced backwards. “Spears are not allowed.”

  “How are my hunters to take down the hartebeest, if we’re lucky enough to locate a herd?” one of the captains challenged. “Do you want to chew mushy grain. Or feast on roasted meat?”

  A few heartbeats later, the guards waved the armed Legionaries away.

  “If they escape, you all will die,” the other guard threatened.

  “We are aware,” the captain assured him.

  ***

  Twelve miles from the Capital of the Empire and three miles from the hill fort at Jellaz Hill, a fourth expedition set up camp at the other lake. Their wagons held straight iron slats that resembled unformed sword blades and blunt tipped shovels. In with the tools were boards for carrying cut blocks of white clay.

  “The fort is close,” the guard stated when he saw the big bows and iron tipped arrows.

  “So it is,” a captain acknowledged. “Between there and here are red deer. But don’t tell the men in the fort. They’ll want our venison. Unless you want to share your portion with them?”

  “Go hunt,” the second guard instructed.

  ***

  The last work team rolled beyond the hill fort before angling off into the woods. On a trail that was almost too tight for the wagons, they camped at a grove of cork oak.

  “They aren’t good for building,” a guard pointed out. “The wood is too soft.”

  “That’s true,” one of the captains agreed. “But we have Eucalyptus trees nearby. That’s hardwood we can use for construction. Plus, the leaves make good herbal tea for the throat.”

  “Then why stop here?” the guard asked.

  “We’ll cut the bark off the cork oak,” he said, “and punch out stoppers for clay jugs from the cork.”

  “What good is that?” the warrior inquired.

  “A cork plug is reusable after opening a jar or a bottle,” the other Friend of Hektor’s described.

  “I don’t see the value in that,” the guard admitted. “But as long as nobody escapes, I’ll allow you to cut bark as long as you harvest hardwood.”

  ***

  Over the next week, no one ran away. Logs of hardwood and rolls of cork bark arrived at the compound. Wagons with clay blocks, others filled with reeds, and still more came in with slabs of stone or piles of sand came from the work sites.

 
In addition to the raw materials, dried fish, smoked venison, beef, and fowl arrived. They provided better food then the overseer allotted. Enough meat and fish came in that the Noricum guards were invited to the daily feast. As a result of proper feeding, unlike most slaves or prisoners, the Legionaries maintained their stamina and their muscle mass. Another benefit, the happy guards allowed Alerio to go outside the courtyard so he could sketch the surrounding buildings.

  “We want this structure to be special,” he explained while the guards chewed on pieces of duck or maybe goose. “I need to see how it fits in the neighborhood.”

  “Just don’t try to escape,” they cautioned between greasy bites.

  Every day, he had the same exchange with the guards. And each time, Alerio assured them he had no intention of running away.

  ***

  A week after he sent Vitus and Tutus to General Regulus, Alerio sat on a wall behind the building site. On his lap was a board with a sheet of parchment on top. But he wasn’t drawing. He hadn’t been for most of the afternoon. Now as the sun sank low in the sky, he prepared to pack up and return to the courtyard.

  “Centurion Lophos, I’m glad I caught you,” Vitus greeted Alerio as he strolled from an alleyway. “General Regulus sends his congratulations for organizing the Legionaries. He did ask if you had any word on the whereabouts of Colonel Sisera.”

  “He didn’t make it to the five hundred,” Alerio lied. As far as he knew, the Empire and the Spartans wanted to see Battle Commander Sisera dying slowly on a high cross. “What else does the General need?”

  “The General was surprised the Spartans were taking care of our men,” Vitus reported. “He said if it will help you, the Qart Hadasht finance committee is getting ready to dismiss the Iberians and the Noricum soldiers.”

  “How does that help us?” Alerio questioned.

  “Because once the infantry leaves, the Special Branch will charge the Spartan with murder,” Vitus answered. “They want their gold back from General Xanthippus. Can you use that information?”

  “That will be useful. But I could use some funds,” Alerio told him.

  “The Empire is keeping the General poor and dependent on them,” Vitus informed Alerio.