Tribune's Oath (Clay Warrior Stories Book 17)

by J. Clifton Slater

  “Take this to the harbor,” Alerio instructed. He lifted a strap from around his neck and handed a large pouch to the aide. “There are pieces of cork in there and clay pots of herbal tea made from eucalyptus leaves.”

  “Raw materials to coins,” Vitus confirmed.

  “Yes. Now you better get back before you’re missed.”

  “That’s not a problem, sir,” Vitus said. “Tutus is getting the General and himself ready for a banquet. I need to stay out of sight until they get back to the apartments.”

  “I need to get back to the courtyard,” Alerio stated. “I’ll be here every other afternoon if you need to contact me.”

  “One of us will leave the coins at the base of the wall,” Vitus commented as he walked away. He turned and asked. “Will you take us with you when you go?”

  “That is the plan, unless something else comes up,” Alerio promised.

  The two went in separate directions. One heading for the harbor to sell the items in the pouch and the other to spend the night speculating when, or if he should use the information.

  ***

  General Marcus Regulus had adopted a slightly different attitude. Not enough to be forceful with the Empire noblemen or to resist them. But the knowledge that five hundred of his Legionaries lived, gave him a tingling of pride in his chest.

  “You look splendid,” Marcus said while admiring his aide.

  Titus wore a bright pink tunic with gold trim and a shoulder scarf with an Optio’s rank on it. From the way the Legionary admired the garment, it was obvious he had nothing like it in his wardrobe at home.

  “It’s a bit much, sir,” Tutus murmured. He touched the NCO medal, the expensive trim, and ran a hand down the vibrant colored linen. “We don’t wear expensive cloth on the farm.”

  “I would hope not,” Marcus said. He held back explaining the too flashy color, the ornate trim, and the rank were intended as insults. It represented a washed-out version of the red Legion cape, the gold trim the captured wealth from the Legions, and one misconception. His Punic handlers didn’t understand it was an honor for a Sergeant to be a servant to his General. Hoping the insults were over the head of his aide, Marcus reminded the young man. “They will offend you and me with slurs and affronts. But fighting and getting beaten down for the entertainment of the Qart Hadasht guests is not our assignment for tonight.”

  “Yes, sir,” Tutus assured him. “Our job, General, is to be stoic enough that we frustrate them, and they send us home.”

  “I couldn’t have said it better myself,” Marcus agreed. “Grab my helmet and let’s go parade around for the nobility.”

  ***

  Marcus Regulus and Optio Tutus were out of the apartment building, and down the street at the banquet hall when someone noticed the Republic General’s aide at the harbor. Thinking he discovered subterfuge on the part of the captured Latian, the Punic nobleman rushed to the party.

  “See here, General Bostar, I saw the aide for your pet General at the harbor,” the man asserted. “I think you might want to question Regulus.”

  “It seems he has abused the freedom we allow him and his aide,” Bostar responded. “Come with me. We’ll confront him this very instant.”

  “An excellent idea,” the nobleman agreed.

  As they crossed the ballroom, the Punic noble signaled others to come along and join in the fun. By the time Bostar located Marcus, they had ten couples following to watch the public scolding.

  “General Bostar, good evening to you,” Marcus greeted the Qart Hadasht Commander with a slight bow. “I trust you are in good health.”

  “I was having a pleasant evening until I learned your aide was at the harbor,” Bostar charged. “What was he doing there? Trying to hire a boat to spirit you away?”

  “My aide, sir?” Marcus questioned. He stepped aside and extended a hand towards Tutus. “Have you been to the harbor?”

  “Me sir?” Tutus asked. He held the General’s ceremonial helmet in two hands as if prepared to lift it as a display or to hand the headgear to Marcus. “General, I’ve been with you all afternoon, sir.”

  Marcus got a serious expression on his face and stared down into Bostar’s eyes. The Punic General shifted uncomfortably. Having this conversation in front of so many witnesses, was not a good idea after all.

  “Is that the youth you observed at the harbor?” Bostar questioned the nobleman.

  Bending forward, the Punic stared at Tutus and admitted, “I thought it was. But now that I look closely, and seeing him here, it couldn’t have been him at the harbor.”

  Bostar started to back away, but Marcus Regulus held up a hand to stop him and to hold the crowd of witnesses in place.

  “I am confused, sir,” Regulus commented. “I beat your fleet and sank your best ships. Then I made prisoners of the sons from your noblest houses and shipped them off to Rome as slaves. But when I offered to present your demands to the Senate for their release, you ignored me and their plight. And when I recommended that I deliver your terms to end this war, you turned a deaf ear. And now, instead of taking advantage of my position, you accuse my aide of nefarious activities? Sir, I am confused. Just where are your priorities?”

  The novelty of having a captured Republic General and his dressed-up aide ended with the speech. In the morning, the Special Branch met to draw up their formal demands for the Senate of the Republic.

  ***

  Just after sunrise, Alerio decided to use the information about dismissing the mercenary soldiers and charging the Spartan with murder. Or rather, Bagarok decided for him. With six bully boys in tow, the overseer charged onto the courtyard. He went directly for the stockpile of meats.

  “What’s this?” he bellowed. “It’s food too good for the likes of Latians. Impound it all.”

  The six thugs punched and beat Legionaries as they crossed the courtyard. Then they filled their arms with the stored meats and followed Bagarok to the wall.

  Before he vanished through the exit, the Iberian manager announced, “Every day, I will hold an inspection for contraband food. And every time I find any, I will confiscate the meat.”

  He and his six bodyguards left. Once they were gone, the Noricum guard at the exit, who had enjoyed feasting with the Legionaries, shrugged and made a rude gesture in the overseer’s direction. He wasn’t the only one frustrated by the event.

  Alerio brushed off a piece of flat rock and sat. He waited there for the building site’s Spartan to arrive. Not sure how timely his information was, Alerio hoped it would get his Legionaries some relief from the beatings and stop the theft of their provisions by the overseer.

  Act 6

  Chapter 16 – Freed from an Oath

  “Spartan, a word if you please,” Alerio called to the Hoplite.

  As the Spartan marched towards him, Alerio stood, brushed off his rear, and straightened his tunic. It wouldn’t be right begging for help with his butt covered in rock dust.

  “That’s a relief,” the Hoplite stated when he was an arm’s length from the Latian. His hand fell away from the hilt of the kopis. “I didn’t want to kill you.”

  “Why would you do that?” Alerio questioned.

  “That dagger you have hidden in the small of your back,” the Spartan pointed out. “When you reached back, you might have pulled it.”

  “I don’t usually go around killing people that I need help from,” Alerio told him.

  “And why would I help you?” the Hoplite inquired.

  Alerio was relieved when the Spartan didn’t question him about the Golden Valley dagger. It would be awkward asking for assistance by starting with a lie.

  “I’ve come across some information,” Alerio told him. “A finance committee is going to remove funding for the Iberian and Noricum mercenaries.”

  “We’ve been expecting it now that the threat is neutralized,” the Hoplite remarked. Seeing the pained expression on Alerio’s face, he added. “In Sparta, we say it’s the business of war. And bus
iness is good. You lost.”

  “It still hurts,” Alerio admitted. “But here is the information I hope to trade. After the mercenaries leave, a special branch will issue an arrest warrant for your Commander.”

  “That as well was expected,” the Hoplite commented. “Come with me.”

  “Where are we going?”

  The Spartan didn’t reply. He marched away and Alerio had to run to catch up. Outside the courtyard, they mounted horses and trotted away from the building site.

  ***

  When the Legionaries arrived in Qart Hadasht, the streets were dark, the men exhausted from fighting, angry at the murder of their comrades, and confused about surviving. Almost drowning in the flood of feelings, they failed to note streets, turns, and landmarks. Putting one foot in front of the other, they passed through the defensive walls, and tramped up and across several streets before entering the courtyard.

  Alerio had seen the defensive walls from the top of the dilapidated building. Distance in roof tops was different from the experience of riding on streets. Narrower in person and encroached upon by the limbs of trees and canopies from both sides, the roads had shade but little width.

  “In Rome, we have directional boulevards,” Alerio observed. “The thoroughfares allow our Legionaries to move quickly to any location at our defensive wall.”

  “In Sparta, we have no walls to protect our city,” the Hoplite bragged. “Our soldiers are the walls.”

  “It appears Qart Hadasht is the worst of both,” Alerio ventured when he noted the absence of Empire soldiers. “They have walls surrounding a labyrinth of impassable and unguarded streets.”

  “It would be difficult to move a force through this,” the Hoplite stated. “Either for an invasion, or for a pursuit of escaping prisoners.”

  To Alerio’s delight, they turned on several streets taking a circuitous route. In fact, on two occasions, he saw the entrance to the construction site’s courtyard between houses. By the time they left the area, he had a good idea of the streets surrounding the work site.

  “We have a plan to contain your breakout,” the Spartan informed Alerio.

  They took a road heading east. Between gaps, Alerio saw the blue water of Punic Bay. Then they angled south and headed downhill towards the defensive wall.

  “There’s a company of Noricum soldiers housed around here,” the Hoplite informed Alerio. He drew back on the reins, stopped his horse, and pointed farther ahead. “You can make out their headquarters from here. It’s the building backed up to the city’s final defensive wall.”

  Alerio didn’t talk. He was too busy mapping the location in his mind. It was obvious why the Spartans had soldiers stationed there. A long ladder could easily span from the roof of the structure to the top of the defensive wall. Then a chill ran down Alerio’s spine. There were only two reasons to show him this escape route. The Spartans were going to let him get away. Or, they planned to execute him, rendering the knowledge useless.

  The door to a long, low building opened, and a Noricum NCO walked out. Seeing the Spartan, he saluted.

  “Captain,” he questioned. “Can I help you?”

  “How goes the transfer?”

  “We need more wagons,” the Sergeant complained. He pointed at the building. “With only two carts, it’ll take us two weeks or more to move all the Republic’s battle gear.”

  “Two wagons are all that were assigned,” the Hoplite asserted. “If the Empire isn’t worried about how long, then neither should you.”

  “Yes, sir,” the Noricum acknowledged with a salute.

  The Spartan cocked his head and peered at Alerio for a few beats before kneeing his horse forward. Alerio shivered from the emotionless gaze.

  ***

  Across the city, Alerio followed the Hoplite through the gates of a compound. In a practice yard, three squads of scarlet cloaked men drilled by smashing their shields together. Following the collision, the Spartans marched at each other. Chunks of earth flew with each step, yet their foot movements generated no forward progress. Neither side moved from the site of the impact.

  “That’s how men from Sparta relax,” the Hoplite told Alerio. He slid from the saddle and handed the reins to a servant. “Come.”

  Once Alerio and the Hoplite entered the main building, a Rank-Leader on the practice field instructed, “That’s enough.”

  The Spartans stepped back, shook dirt from their legs and boots, and broke formation.

  “Is the show always necessary?” a Hoplite inquired.

  “We don’t have walls around Sparta,” the phalanx NCO replied. “Our Hoplites are the walls. Plus, the ferocious reputation of the Spartan soldier keeps enemies away from our city.”

  “Besides, you needed the work. You were sloppy in the push,” another Hoplite accused the first. “You fail in combat, and I’ll gut you myself.”

  The show might maintain the mystique to outsiders. But the training and skills learned from a young age assured that the Spartans were able to back it up with their shields, spears, and kopides.

  ***

  General Xanthippus uncrossed his arms and allowed them to drift down to his sides. Then as if a statue, he watched Alerio, and the Hoplite come into his office.

  “Sir, may I present Alerio Lophos Carvilius, of the Republic Legion,” the Hoplite introduced Alerio. “He has news.”

  “Take off your hat,” the General ordered. When Alerio hesitated, the Spartan warned. “I can have a couple of my phalanx remove it. But they usually take a layer of skin. I suggest you do it yourself.”

  Trapped in a compound full of Spartans and about to reveal his identity, Alerio prayed.

  “Goddess Nenia, make it quick,” he begged while removing the petasos.

  “And now, your real name?” the Spartan General inquired.

  “I am Colonel Alerio Carvilius Sisera, Battle Commander of Legion North,” he announced while expanding his chest.

  “Hermes bless me,” the Hoplite uttered.

  At the mention of the Greek Messenger of the Gods and their Trickster, Xanthippus laughed.

  “Lost the bet, did you?” the General inquired.

  “Yes, sir, I had him as a combat officer in command of an eighty-man infantry unit,” the Hoplite replied. “Of course, I never saw the scar on his scalp.”

  “It’s just as nasty as reported,” Xanthippus observed. He sat and pointed to the chair across from him. “Now that that’s settled, Colonel Sisera. What news do you bear?”

  Dropping into the chair, Alerio debated whether to tell the General what he knew or to bargain for his life. After looking into the cold eyes of the Spartan Commander, he decided the direct approach was best.

  “A finance committee is pulling funds and dismissing the Iberians and the Noricums,” he explained. “Once they’re gone, something called a special branch will charge you with murder. But you might be executed for the punishment if you turn me over to them in exchange for your freedom.”

  “Not a finance committee, Colonel, but The Finance Committee,” Xanthippus corrected. “I wondered why they were meeting behind closed doors this morning. But I have no plans to turn you over to the Empire. You see, Sisera, they don’t really want me. They want the gold I extracted from them for defeating the Legions. And while they would enjoy torturing you, you aren’t worth that much gold.”

  “Then why am I here?” Alerio asked.

  “To settle the bet about your rank,” the General stated. “And seeing as you’re here, let me tell you something. The Special Branch is meeting to put together a list of demands. I can only surmise that General Regulus will be sent to Rome to deliver them.”

  Once Marcus Regulus sailed for home, Alerio would be free. Although not the exact parameters of the oath, the event would stand as a resolution to the promise sworn by Senior Tribune Sisera to Consul Regulus. Of course, Alerio’s death would also free him from the oath.

  “Are you unwell?” Xanthippus questioned. “You suddenly went pale.”<
br />
  “It’s a relief, sir,” Alerio responded. “With my General safe, I can die in peace with just one regret.”

  “Hold that thought,” Xanthippus instructed. “Hoplite. Go see if anyone wants to wager on what the Latian’s regret is?”

  At a hand sign, a servant brought in a pitcher of wine and a glass plus a glass half filled with water. The man poured wine into both vessels. Reputation hinted at it, but now Alerio had conformation that Spartans avoided strong drink.

  “We are a long way from home and in enemy territory,” the Spartan Commander told Alerio. “One diversion is betting on the strange things we see and other mysteries.”

  “Like me?” Alerio asked.

  “Yes, just like you.”

  ***

  The courtyard and the repaired and practically new building came into view. Alerio dismounted and handed the reins to a Noricum soldier.

  “Orders, Captain?” an NCO asked the Hoplite. The Spartan waved the Sergeant over, bent, and whispered to him.

  Alerio braced his legs preparing to be attacked. Xanthippus knew he was the Battle Commander for Legion North. And although it would deprive the Empire of entertainment, Alerio expected the Spartan to murder him all during the meeting and on the ride back to the courtyard.

  “It was a good day, Master Lophos,” the Hoplite commented. “Don’t ruin it by resisting a return to your prison.”

  ***

  With long strides, Alerio marched through the entrance and into the construction site. He was greeted by a slim Legionary with burn marks on his arms.

  “We have something to show you,” Albin, the Master Tool Maker, invited Alerio. “Come see.”

  The metal worker walked behind the kilns to an area with an open forge. In the center of a cleared space rested a boulder of clay. The bands around it and a line bisecting the structure identified it as a mold.

  “Bronze casting?” Alerio questioned.

  “Of Helios,” the Tool Maker confirmed.

  Four helpers untied the mold and Albin pried around the center until the top loosened. Then two helpers shoved poles under the top section and lifted it off the mold.