“Yes, sir,” the Sergeant replied as he backed away to stand with his section.
“First rank, to the ladders. Show yourselves,” he ordered when several of the ten soldiers stayed low. “Spears, they need spears. Hand them spears. Wave the spears. We need to draw the northern units to us.”
The ten standing on the ladders dutifully hoisted spears and waved them in the air.
“Second rank. To the ladders,” shouted Maharbaal enthusiastically.
The Lieutenant was looking at the formation and didn’t see the first seven topple off the ladders with javelins imbedded in their chests. When he turned, the last three fell back but he was looking at the top of the wall.
“Why are there no men on the wall?” he shouted in anger. “Climb the ladders. Hand them spears. Wave the spears. We have a mission. Wave them higher!”
Seven fell back with javelins protruding from their chests. The last three tumbled off the ladders and lay crumpled with the first seventeen. Maharbaal’s mouth fell open at the dead and dying soldiers. The remaining soldiers in the Company assumed their Lieutenant was shocked at the loss.
“Third rank to the ladders,” Maharbaal screamed. “Over the wall. Make the invaders pay. Forth rank to the ladders. Over the wall.”
The Lieutenant also sent the fifth, sixth and seventh ranks over the wall. When the ten men of the eighth rank reached the top of the ladders, they noticed the street was empty. No units of invaders were running to defend the wall. But below, ranks of men with big shields chopped into the few living soldiers still standing.
“No! No! No!” one soldier on the ladder cried out. His words were picked up by the other members of his rank.
“Over the wall you cowards,” Maharbaal screamed while drawing his sword and swinging up at the closest ladder.
The blade sliced and blood spurted from the back of the man’s legs. He fell off the ladder.
As the wounded soldier crashed to the ground, Maharbaal raised his sword preparing to cut the man again. A soldier in the ninth rank snatched up a spear and swung the butt end. It slammed into the Lieutenant’s helmet and Maharbaal crumbled to the grass. Two men jumped from their ladders, ran to the Lieutenant and began kicking him. Soldiers from the ninth rank stepped up and joined them.
By the time a Sergeant and two of the tenth rank shoved the soldiers back and reached the Lieutenant, the nobleman was curled into a ball and crying. They picked up the officer and dragged him to the command post.
One Sergeant climbed the ladder and peeked over the wall. None of the soldiers who had gone over the wall lived. He climbed down slowly.
“Return to your camp positions,” he ordered the last three ranks of the Company.
The other Sergeant walked up to him. Neither spoke, but the NCO who had climbed the ladder shook his head, no.
“None?” asked the Sergeant of the tenth rank.
“None are alive and the invaders haven’t reacted,” the NCO reported. “Except for those standing and waiting for more of us to die on their blades.”
The Sergeant of the tenth rank walked to where Maharbaal’s sword rested on the grass. He picked it up and headed for the command post.
Doctors had the Lieutenant stretched out as they searched for broken bones. A rag covered his nose in an attempt to stop the bleeding and the nobleman moaned in pain.
Sub-commander Barca reached the command post just before the Sergeant of the tenth rank.
“What happened?” inquired the sub-commander looking from the injured officer to the approaching NCO.
Wordlessly, the Sergeant marched up and stopped so he stood over the injured nobleman. Lifting the officer’s sword to the center of his chest, he slammed the hilt into his chest plate. Then he slapped the blade into the palm of his left hand. A slight pull and blood dripped from the hand. Placing his knee in the center of the blade, he pulled until the steel gave and the sword folded in half.
The Sergeant of the tenth rank dropped the ruined swords beside Lieutenant Maharbaal. Then he turned and marched away. He hadn’t said a word but the meaning was clear.
***
It was bad enough that seventy soldiers were killed for no reason, thought the sub-commander. If the remaining thirty of the Company were the only ones angry and suspicious of their officers he could deal with them.
Barca walked over to a different Company area. His two bodyguards lagged behind but stayed close enough on his flanks to help if any soldiers assaulted him. It wasn’t just the thirty survivors of Maharbaal’s Charge, as it was being called. Every soldier in the southern area knew about the senseless sacrifice. And now, late in the afternoon, the news had spread among the soldiers in Messina. To protect officers from any disgruntled men, the Lieutenants had one bodyguard, the two sub-commanders rated two, and Admiral Hanno only allowed himself three.
The sub-commander approached a defensive position. While the Sergeant and soldiers stood when he entered their campsite, none seemed happy to be visited by their commanding officer. Before he could speak with the ten men, a messenger ran up.
“Sub-commander Barca. The Admiral request your presence,” the messenger stated.
“I’ll be back to listen to your complaints,” promised Barca.
Then with his guards trailing behind, he headed for the Citadel.
***
“I want them pushed into the harbor and drowned,” Admiral Hanno growled. “Tonight. By morning, I want Messina fully back in Empire control.”
“Another drive on the north side?” asked Gisco. “We would have breached their lines if the diversion had been adequate. But what can you expect from a Maharbaal’s Charge.”
Blood rushed to Barca’s face and he almost stood up to confront the other sub-commander. He settled for words.
“If I ever hear you use that term again, Gisco,” threatened Barca. “I’ll beat you to a bloody pulp.”
Gisco blustered and huffed but he didn’t address the fiery combat officer’s comment. It was the reason Barca commanded the troops over the wall facing the Syracusan advance force. And if they arrived, do battle with the Army of Syracuse and their king, Hiero the Second. Gisco was very happy in the town, inside the walls, performing administrative duties.
“I have enough issues, I don’t need dissent between my sub-commanders,” warned Hanno. “No, we will not attack the north side. It’s too close to their command post and too well defended. I want to hit them on the south. Wrap around and roll them up.”
“Syracusan command took notice of our losses this morning,” Barca advised. “If we do an all-out push, in the morning, we’ll find them waiting at our gates.”
“Wait till it’s dark and pull half your forces,” instructed Hanno. “Join with Gisco’s units from the town. I have scouts watching the street. They’ll report any shifts in the invader’s units. Let me show you the street on the map.”
***
Tribune Claudius stepped carefully down the dark stairs. Once on the street, he headed for a roaring fire and First Sergeant Brictius.
“Good evening, First Sergeant,” Claudius greeted him while pointing back with both thumbs. “Is this enough security to satisfy you.”
A tall, thick Sergeant and a short, beefy Corporal hovered behind the Tribune’s shoulders.
“Almost, sir,” Brictius replied. “The Sergeant is an expert at escape and evasion tactics. And the Corporal is the wrestling champion of his Legion. But I want one more element before you go wandering across a dark combat zone. Lance Corporal Sisera, front and center.”
“You’re the Legionary who organized Messina for our crossing,” Tribune Claudius ventured as Alerio walked into the light. “You did an excellent job. But First Sergeant, why Lance Corporal Sisera.”
“Our Lance Corporal is a master swordsman,” Brictius replied. “I don’t expect trouble. But if it finds you, I’m confident these three Legionaries will see you safely back to the command post.”
“This is an inspection tour, not a comba
t patrol,” The Tribune informed his First Sergeant. Brictius saluted but didn’t say anything. Claudius having received the top NCO’s meaning, ordered his bodyguards, “Let’s get moving.”
At each barricade on each street, the Tribune talked to the men. He asked about home towns, family members and promised better accommodations after Messina was captured. Alerio couldn’t decide if Tribune Gaius Claudius was a caring Legion commander or a master politician. After he thought about it, he realized, there wasn’t a difference.
The inspection team met Senior Centurion Valerian as the Tribune spoke with Legionaries at the wide road.
“You can see a light in the Citadel from here. It’s faint. Must be in a back room away from the watch portals,” Claudius informed the men.
“You can see the light, sir?” asked a Legionary. “I’ve been telling the squad about the light, sir. But no one believes me.”
“You and I, Legionary, are blessed by Theia,” pronounced the Tribune. “You keep watch here and I’ll watch over you and your squad from Temple hill.”
He left an excited young Legionary and an amazed squad as the inspection team moved further south. They had passed the first street and were headed for the second when Senior Centurion Valerian jogged up behind them.
“Tribune. The young Legionary with the good eyes. Were you serious about seeing the light?” Valerian asked.
“It’s a rare gift. And yes, I was quite serious about seeing the light,” replied Claudius. “Why do you ask?”
“The young man took you up on watching out for his squad. Since you left, he’s been off to the side of the fire’s light fixated on a point far up the dark road,” Valerian explained.
“He’s doing his job. Excellent,” Claudius commented. “Morale is why we’re doing this.”
“Yes, sir. But he reported seeing units of troops crossing the road. No one else saw anything,” Valerian informed the Tribune. “I wasn’t sure whether to take him seriously or not.”
“Senior Centurion Valerian. If one blessed by Theia mentions seeing something, it’s not a vision or a trick of the mind. It’s because he has witnessed reality,” Claudius explained. “In what direction were the units heading?”
“South, sir,” Valerian replied. “But we don’t know what streets they’ll come down.”
“Tribune. I suggest, you head back to Temple hill,” suggested the bodyguard Sergeant.
“Not yet,” Claudius insisted. “I don’t hear any Empire war cries. Let’s do one more street.”
As Alerio followed the tribune the guard Corporal leaned over and whispered, “I don’t think the Qart Hadasht use war cries.”
They were almost to the third street when a sentry challenged them, “Halt. State your name, rank and unit.”
Even in the dark they could see the leveled javelin and shield.
“Gaius Claudius. Tribune of the Legion expeditionary force to Messina,” replied Claudius. “Since when do you challenge behind the lines?”
“Since we caught two spies,” the Legionary replied as he raised the javelin tip into the night sky. “The Sergeant and Centurion are questioning them in the shed just behind me.”
Claudius rushed for the shed with Valerian right behind him. The bodyguards sprinted to keep the Tribune in their pocket of protection.
The entrance to the shed faced east and when Claudius opened it a little light spilled out.
“Light! Close the door,” the Centurion snapped. “What’s so important?”
“I could ask you that,” Claudius replied as he stepped in and closed the door.
“Tribune, I didn’t know,” the officer began to explain but Claudius cut him off.
“You caught spies. Are there more?” he demanded
“After we pulled these two off the walls, we checked,” the Centurion reported. “Just these two watching our squad at the intersection.”
“Kill them and wake your men,” Claudius ordered. “You have Qart Hadasht headed your way. I’ll send all the help I can. But your squads are my spearhead.”
The door opened and closed quickly. The Tribune called out.
“Senior Centurion Valerian. The third street is the target. Get as many Legionaries there as you can spare,” Claudius commanded. “Lance Corporal Sisera. Can you rally the Sons of Mars to back us up?”
“Yes, sir. Once you are safely back at your command post,” Alerio replied.
“Then let’s get moving,” Claudius said as he headed north.
Senior Centurion Valerian vanished in the dark as he sprinted away.
***
Sub-commander Gisco stood behind his one hundred and fifty soldiers. Down the street where the front of his Company and a half waited was a gap. A few paces away, another one hundred sixty soldiers stood in columns. Further down the street at the head of his soldiers’ Sub-commander Barca waited.
“Down the street are the invaders,” Barca said. “We are going to sweep them into the harbor. March silently until it’s time.”
“How do we know when it’s time?” asked a soldier.
“When you gut the first rank of dirt farmers,” he explained getting a laugh from the men at the head of the columns.
Barca smiled and waited for the exchange to be repeated back through the Companies. The farther back it went, the better he felt with each laugh. Then he had a bad thought. What if instead of gutting a dirt farmer, it got twisted to gutting a sub-commander?
He shook off the feeling and announced, “Forward!”
Turning with his bodyguards, he marched down the hill at the head of his men.
Soon the fire of the Empire’s barricade came into view. Then the fire of the invaders appeared a block ahead.
Stepping to the side and marching slower, he let his Companies begin flowing passed him.
Barca ordered, “Form ranks. Form ranks. Form ranks.”
By the fourth row, the soldiers were spreading into ranks by themselves. The lead rank passed the first fire. Barca kept up the pace, staying four ranks back and watching the fire in the intersection ahead. So far, there had been no cries of alarm. When the fire was a quick sprint ahead, Barca ran forward shouting.
“Charge! Charge!” he commanded and his soldiers responded.
The front rank lowered their spears, maintained spacing and alignment as they jogged towards the fire.
Than a voice called out in the dark from beyond the Legion barricade, “Brace! Brace! Brace!”
Act 6
Chapter – 34 Diplomacy
Barca couldn’t separate the ranks of the invaders from the shadows. Had he time to think on it, the entire intersection appeared darker than the surroundings. But he was entering the intersection with the third rank. Once his soldiers cleared the cross streets, he’d order a flanking maneuver and turn the attacking ranks northward. They would sweep in behind the invader’s lines and decimate the upstart…a sharp pain shot through his brain, his head snapped to the left, and he stumbled forward before falling into oblivion.
***
The leading ranks of the Qart Hadasht soldiers expected a quick smash, a turn and a hard, running fight to the edge of Messina. Instead, they slammed into ranks of Legion shields. As their bodies stopped as if colliding with a brick wall, the ranks behind shoved them onto the blades and javelins of the Legionaries.
By the fourth rank, the intersection was filling as soldiers attempted to flow around the logjam by moving off to the sides. The first charging to the left and right also died on Legion weapons.
The sixth rank didn’t reach the intersection. They tripped over the bodies of their comrades. Lieutenants began shouting conflicting orders. Some calling for a retreat and others reinforcing the charge command. The attack faltered and the street leading to the intersection filled with confused, milling Qart Hadasht soldiers.
***
Senior Centurion Valerian wanted desperately to order an advance. But his two hundred Legionaries were arranged in a semicircle around the intersection. If h
e ordered it, they would attack and trip over the wounded and dead soldiers. That wasn’t the problem. The issue was they’d end up converging and assaulting each other.
As a result, he waited as the shouting and cursing from up the street receded. Eventually, the sounds of Qart Hadasht soldiers faded and silence returned to the dark street.
“Stand down! Hold your positions,” he shouted. “Pass the injured to the rear!”
***
Tribune Claudius paced the dark hilltop. Even though runners reported the success of his Legionaries, he couldn’t rest. Not with Qart Hadasht units roaming the town and his lines thin. Even with the pirates backing up his men at the barricaded streets. Plus, he didn’t completely trust the Sons of Mars and their brigand attitude.
***
Shortly before daybreak, sub-commander Gisco climbed Citadel hill.
“They were waiting for us, Admiral,” Gisco reported to the silent shadow standing on the crest of the hill. “And sub-commander Barca is missing.”
“Missing?” inquired the big shadow.
“He was at the front, prepared to turn the ranks,” Gisco replied. “He never returned from the intersection.”
“And, where were you?” demanded Hanno.
“I was with my Companies to the rear of his,” Gisco responded.
“Don’t go into the Citadel. Head directly to the south wall defensive positions,” instructed Hanno. “If the Syracusans see we are weakened, we’ll be fighting on two fronts.”
“Of course, Admiral,” Gisco said as he turned and started down the hill.
***
The sun had barely appeared above the eastern mountains. In the morning light, Captain Milon Frigian strolled up the steps. At the top of Temple hill, he was challenged by the command post guards. After waiting for a while, they ushered him into the command tent.
“Good morning to you, Tribune Claudius,” Frigian said with a smile. “A very good morning as you broke the attack by the Qart Hadasht soldiers. With help from the Sons of Mars, of course.”
“Thank you for your help, Captain,” Claudius replied. “What can I do for you?”
Brutal Diplomacy Page 16