Tribune's Oath (Clay Warrior Stories Book 17)

by J. Clifton Slater

  “To make landfall in daylight,” Marianus answered, “the fleet will launch before dawn.”

  ***

  Shortly before dawn, torches illuminated the steps of the senate building. City guardsmen from the Central Legion stood sentry as Senators and their retainers arrived.

  “Spurius, I understand Marcus Regulus is finally going to address us this morning,” Senator Lucius Longus mentioned to Spurius Maximus.

  To avoid the crowd waiting for admittance to the visitor’s gallery, the Senators and aides took the side steps up to the porch.

  “That’s the rumor,” Maximus responded. “But Marcus went through quite the ordeal as you know. I wouldn’t be surprised if he took a few more days before delivering his report.”

  Belen rushed ahead of the legislators and opened the door to the building.

  “I, for one, am curious about what the Empire wants. Maybe we can end this frivolous war with a few buckets of gold,” Senator Longus remarked. Then he gripped Spurius’ elbow, halted their progress, and spoke softly. “Spurius. I forgot about Alerio’s death. Please accept my apology for referring to the war as frivolous.”

  The two men stood silently a couple of feet from the open door. Finally, Senator Maximus spoke.

  “Think nothing of it,” he assured the other Senator. “You go ahead. I want to take in the morning air and clear my head.”

  “That’s totally understandable,” Longus allowed.

  After Longus and his aide went through the doorway, Maximus stepped forward and whispered in his secretary’s ear.

  “Find out what bill or accord Lucius Longus holds dear,” Maximus directed. “Then find a way for me to crush it.”

  “Yes, Senator,” Belen acknowledged.

  ***

  At dawn, the Senate began the session with a sacrifice of herbs, grain, and bees’ wax in the form of a candle.

  “God Aeneas, pious father of the Republic, hear us,” the chairman of the Senate prayed. “Guide the Senate in our quest to be worthy custodians of the Roman State and wise architects of its citizens’ prosperity.”

  A priest sprinkled herbs and grain on the altar. Then he lifted a burning brand from a clay fire box and touched it to the wick. When the candle blazed to life, the chairman banged his gavel.

  “In the absence of Consul Paullus and Consul Nobilior, who sail with our fleet to save the remainder of our Legions, I announce the beginning of this session,” the chairman pronounced. “Are there any objections?”

  None of the Senators staged a protest. With silence as his confirmation, the chairman opened the session by indicating a man slumped in his seat on the second tier.

  “The Senate recognizes Senator Regulus, a Proconsul, a General, a Consul, and an honored Citizen of the Republic,” he proclaimed. “Please come forward and address the Senate and the people of Rome, Marcus Regulus.”

  Marcus uncurled from his seat. But one hand lingered on the backrest as if unwilling to lose touch with the solid travertine of his Senator’s seat. After a pause, he lifted the hand and used the arm to brush back the hem of his robe, placing the appendage behind his back. Although a scholarly pose used by philosophers while expounding on universal truths, in the case of Marcus Regulus, it symbolized his putting the position of Roman Senator behind him.

  ***

  “Citizens of the Republic, I come before you to plead the case for peace with the Qart Hadasht Empire,” Marcus Regulus began once he reached the lectern. Several Senators shifted uncomfortably while others leaned forward in anticipation. Senator Maximus and his faction sat unmoving. Marcus continued. “During the Battle of Cape Ecnomus, the Republic’s Navy captured sixty-four Empire ships-of-war. Each had a Captain and a First Officer from the noblest households in Qart Hadasht. These sons of the Empire and fathers of future generations were sent to Rome as captives.”

  Several Senators verbally confirmed the statement. They had the prisoners laboring in business ventures, having discovered the Qart Hadasht men were excellent with numbers and supreme organizers. Marcus let the voices pass on the facts before clearing his throat.

  “They are the heartthrobs of their betrothed, the joy in their mother’s breasts, and the pride of their sires,” Marcus stated loudly enough to echo off the back wall of the Senate chamber. “The Empire misses its sons and will exchange peace for their return.”

  The reaction to the demand for the prisoners seemed reasonable to some. To the expansionist factions, peace wasn’t a satisfying outcome to the war at any cost. For the financially minded, the exchange didn’t compensate the Republic for the expense of the fleet or the Punic expedition.

  “What else do the devils want?” Senator Colonna shouted from the third tier. He jumped to his feet and waved a fist in the air. “My son was there as a Tribune of Cavalry. He served with honor in Longus Legion North and later he was assigned to General Regulus’ staff. At no time during the expedition did Tribune Ostentus Colonna witness any mercy by the Empire for our sons or our citizens.”

  “Does Senator Colonna wish the floor when Senator Regulus concludes?” the chairman asked.

  “No, I’m just saying, they’re asking for something they haven’t shown,” Colonna stated before sitting down.

  The chairman waited until a few side discussions subsided. Then he encouraged, “Please, Senator Regulus, continue.”

  Marcus Regulus had a sour expression on his face as he glared in Colonna’s direction. Those who noticed assumed Marcus was upset at the Senator voicing a position running contrary to the proposal. But Spurius Maximus wasn’t sure.

  “Belen, ask Hektor Nicanor to come over tonight,” Maximus instructed. “I want to know what he remembers about Tribune Ostentus Colonna’s service in Legion North.”

  “Yes, sir,” the secretary assured him.

  At the dais, Marcus ceased scowling and reclaimed his parliamentary face.

  “Besides the return of their sons, the Empire asked for peaceful coexistence at specific towns on the west coast of Sicilia,” Marcus explained. “They feel this is far enough removed from Republic territory to be of no threat to Rome’s heartland.”

  “What about the islands of Sardinia and Corsica?” a Senator exclaimed. “They’re both closer to our heartland than Sicilia.”

  His observation caused an outburst in the chamber. Scores of Senators attempted to talk over one another.

  “The proposal didn’t mention those islands,” Marcus said in a small voice as if apologizing for the omission.

  Most didn’t hear him.

  “They are staging areas for the invasion of Rome,” another Senator thundered. “With Qart Hadasht bases there, this entire presentation is a waste of time.”

  “Please, Senator, if you’ll allow me to finish,” Marcus begged. The Senate chamber fell silent, allowing Regulus to speak. “And the third term for peace is a payment of gold as compensation for the damages our expedition visited on the Punic Coast.”

  Two thirds of the chamber erupted in anger with most suggesting retribution for the insolence of the Empire. Those against the war nodded agreement but remain silent for fear of being attacked by the other Senators.

  During the tirade, Marcus Regulus stood stiffly at the podium waiting for the noise to die off. When it did, he began to speak but was interrupted.

  “Save your breath, Regulus,” Lucius Longus challenged. “I think we all know where you stand.”

  The chamber hushed and not even the eldest of Senators dared wheeze too loud. Longus had been Regulus’ co-consul. And while Regulus languished on the Punic Coast, Longus came home early. In the tense silence, Spurius Maximus stood, raised his arm, and asked, “Chairman, a point of order.”

  “The chair recognizes Senator Maximus.”

  “Thank you. I have commanded Legions in war,” Maximus stated in a soft voice. But as he spoke, the volume climbed until the visitors in the gallery leaned back from the force of his words. “Some of you have carried the mantle of General and have taken
Legions into combat. But none of us have been as far, or as removed from Rome and the Senate as Marcus Regulus. Nor did we served a day longer than was proscribed by the rules of the Republic. General Regulus has done both. Plus, when he asked for a replacement, we denied him. Not just a Consul General but we ignored the end of his term and bestowed the Proconsul title on him. For these transgressions, I, the father of the dead Battle Commander Alerio Sisera, demand silence until the honorable General Marcus Regulus has his say.”

  “Point of order,” the chairman called out. “All those in favor of ejecting anyone who disrupts Marcus Regulus vote now.”

  There was no need for a count. After the Senate’s treatment of Marcus, the Senators were too embarrassed to vote against the motion.

  “General Regulus, the floor is yours without interruption until you vacate the position,” the chairman promised.

  Marcus bowed in Senator Maximus’ direction as a thank you for ending further interruptions.

  “As I’ve stated, Qart Hadasht wants her sons back. They want the west coast of Sicilia,” Marcus repeated the terms. “And they want compensation for damages. None of these are too much of a cost to end a war that bleeds our Republic of citizens and our temples of coins.”

  Marcus stopped and looked around the Senate chamber. Those in favor of peace nodded at his conclusion. And while many disagreed, none dared voice a response.

  “The conditions of my release involved delivering these three terms to the Senate of the Republic,” Marcus admitted. “I have done so with honor. Now I say to my fellow Senators, reject the items. Each will embolden and enrich the Qart Hadasht Empire.”

  The sounds of low growls raced around the chamber as Senators fought the urge to call out. Whether in support of or against the proposal didn’t matter, for none could speak for fear of ejection.

  “When I surrendered, I stood with three thousand of the best men Rome had to offer,” Marcus boasted. “When I gave myself up, I believed we had an agreement. But alas, we had not. And before my eyes, the barbarians murdered almost an entire Legion of my men. But along with me, they took five hundred captives. The Senate can vote how it wants. As for me, at dawn, I sail for Qart Hadasht. There, I’ll beg for the release of the last of my command. Thank you for allowing me to speak. I yield the floor.”

  Marcus Regulus marched from the dais to the exit, pushed open the door, and left the Senate Chamber.

  Chapter 26 – Punta Secca Beach

  Almost four hundred warships and over two hundred transports sailed throughout the day and into the dark of a second day. On Occasio’s Plight, five passengers lounged around the foredeck. Two straddled water casks roped to the deck frame. The others sat on the edge of the forward platform.

  “If we’re in your way, let us know,” acting Centurion Naevus told the deck officer.

  “I’m perched here like a figurehead on an Egyptian trader,” the Third Principale replied. “I’m mounted in place and just as blind. Take as much room as you want.”

  Out front of the three-banker, lanterns blinked across a wide vista. Each marked the location of a transport bobbing in the waves. The black water was separated from the starry night by an invisible horizon. Far away and out of sight even in daylight, the Consuls’ flagships and the Republic’s warships traveled out front. Left to herd the merchant vessels from behind were half a squadron of triremes and another five quinqueremes.

  Tullius passed a wineskin to Alerio.

  “You did it, sir,” the Carpenter boasted. “All five hundred captives escaped. Congratulations.”

  “It wasn’t all me,” Alerio protested. “You four and the Goddess Athena made it possible.”

  “What does a Greek Goddess have to do with our escape?” Naevus inquired.

  “Among her other blessings,” Alerio informed the craftsmen, “Athena watches over heroic endeavors.”

  “Say no more, sir,” Remus stated. He took the wineskin, hoisted it above his head, and proclaimed. “To the Goddess Athena, because if there ever was a heroic endeavor, the last few weeks should be etched in stone for posterity.”

  “Or on clay tablets?” Albin teased the Master of Clay.

  “Centurions, saving lives is difficult work,” Alerio announced. “I’m going to roll up in this blanket and go to sleep.”

  “Good night, sir,” the group responded.

  Alerio located an empty spot on the top deck and lay down to the gentle flapping of the sails. Above, the stars twinkled. As he closed his eyes, he allowed a tiny bit of pride to swell his chest. Five hundred souls, as he promised, had left the Punic Coast and were on the way home. General Regulus’ departing freed him from the oath and now he was heading home. With those pleasant thoughts, Alerio Sisera touched the Helios pendant under his tunic before falling asleep.

  ***

  Flowing robes fluttered in the sky, but the Goddess was backlit by a blinding light. Alerio squinted trying to get a glimpse of her face. But the bright light and her hovering just out of reach prevented him from recognizing her.

  Despite the distance, he felt a familiar pressure on his back.

  “Nenia?” he asked while reaching out with both arms. “Is it my time?”

  “No, Alerio Sisera. Your time has yet to come,” her ethereal voice replied.

  “Then why are you here?” he questioned.

  She drifted closer until one hand caressed his cheek. Then the fingers traced down to his jawline before wrapping around his throat.

  While squeezing his windpipe, the Goddess of Death whispered, “I’m here for the others.”

  ***

  Alerio sat upright and threw the blanket off. Gingerly, he touched his neck to see if there were any tender spots. To his surprise, there was no pain. Then he swallowed and his throat felt dry and raw.

  A sudden thirst came over him and he climbed to his feet. The brisk flapping of the sails was absent as were the stars that dotted the sky. Staggering to the foredeck, he located the sailor on watch.

  “What’s with the weather?” he asked.

  “I think it’s the calm before a storm, sir,” the crewman replied.

  Alerio peered beyond the bow of Occasio’s Plight. Where the lanterns on the transports had bobbed up and down, now they floated steadily on a black plateau.

  “Do you have any water?” he asked the sailor. “I don’t care to dodge sleeping figures by walking to the steering deck.”

  “You’ll find a couple of casts tied to the deck supports, sir. We keep some water in them to plump up the barrel staves. But it’s fresh rainwater,” the man assured him. “The only problem, you’ll need to uncoil the rope to free the barrel.”

  “I’ve never minded working for my food,” Alerio told him.

  On his knees, Alerio began uncoiling rope from around the cast. Obviously, the sailors on the Plight used the empty barrels as places to store extra lines. A mark of good seamanship, but it made for a lot of work. Alerio’s thirst grew with each uncoiled length. Finally, the cast came loose from the support.

  Alerio sat in the middle of the folds of rope, located the bung plug, pulled it, and lifted the caste above his head. Oak flavored, water ran down his throat. After three healthy swallows, he plugged the barrel and set it on the ropes next to his leg.

  Then the wind howled. The sails snapped taut, the masts, both midship and fore, screeched in protest before snapping in half. Caught in the wind screaming across the deck, the barrel bounced to the rail, broke through, and fell.

  Alerio reached for the foredeck platform to steady himself. But a coil of rope tightened around his ankle and pulled him across the deck boards. Before he could react, Alerio Sisera followed the barrel over the side and into the sea.

  ***

  The wind, rather than gusting, rolled in as a physical mass. On land, a person encountering that type of wind would face the gale, hold their arms out from their sides, and feel as if they could lift off the ground. Unfortunately, the upper deck of Occasio’s Plight had far more
surface than a human body.

  When the wind slipped under the boards, the decking acted as a giant sail. All one hundred plus feet of the deck caught air. In a mess of twisting and separating joints, the upper deck lifted, rocked over, and rotated the hull forty-five degrees.

  A survivable happenstance for a sturdy trireme with a stout hypozomata. Except, the twisted hemp cable holding tension between the stern and bow sections of the keel had a frayed spot. When the deck separated, the sharp end of a cedar beam slammed into the broken fibers. The fibers split, unspooled, and the tension holding the three-banker together, vanished.

  As if a basket was over filled with grain, the hull flattened, and the side boards exploded off the ship. The husk of the warship named for the God of Luck and Favorable Moments, her crew, officers, and Alerio’s craftsmen settled below the surface. Then an enormous set of waves pounded Occasio’s Plight into the depths.

  Master Carpenter Tullius, Master of Clay Remus, Naevus the Foundation Mole, and Albin the Tool Maker had survived the battle of Tunis, escaped from Qart Hadasht, and fought their way off the Punic Coast. Fate, however, deemed that the four craftsmen would never reach home.

  ***

  Alerio’s first response was to untangle the rope and free his leg. Yet, when he reached down to his ankle, waves flipped him over in the dark soup. Dizzy from being tossed around, he focused on keeping his head up and catching breaths between troughs.

  In a swordfight or a shield wall, no matter the intensity, there existed moments to ease off, to breathe, and to sort out events. A tempest allowed for no such luxury. A wave washed over Alerio’s head, his mouth filled with saltwater, and the next lifted him. After spitting out the seawater, but too soon to catch a full breath, another crested over his head.

  If he only had a chance to rest and collect his scattered thoughts.

  The water cascading over his head drove him under. Then once again, he kicked with his legs, reaching for the surface and a taste of precious air. Rocked and rolled by the gale, Alerio lost track of the times he barely made it to the surface. One wave flowed into another as exhaustion stiffened his limbs. And his lungs sought deep breaths while only receiving grasps of air between wet punches. In a few more rolls and dips, he would inhale enough seawater to end the struggle.