“The gold and silver aren’t for people like you and me,” explained Tomas as he drew his fist away revealing a dent in the gold trim. “It isn’t even for combat. This work, that pays me so much, is so the wearer can strut around looking splendid for his wealthy peers.”
“So, it’s art,” ventured Alerio.
“As much as the paintings, sculptures, frescos, and statues in the grandest Villas,” Thomas confirmed. “Why do you ask?”
“General Spurius Maximus is sending me to Greek Sicyon to buy art,” Alerio responded by lifting the saddlebags and shaking them. The heavy load of coins rattled.
He expected the armorer to burst out laughing. Instead, Tomas marched to the back of his shop, waving Alerio to follow.
“Are you taking the Via Appia?”
“Yes. The General doesn’t trust shipping through the Messina Strait.”
“Once you’re beyond Maleventum, the road is only partially paved. It wouldn’t matter to a single horseman,” Tomas described as he unwrapped oiled cloths, inspected the contents, and rewrapped the objects. “The only large town up in the mountains is Abellinum. Despite the decades’ old treaty, the Osci in those mountains are tribal. Here it is.”
From the last cloth, the armorer lifted a bone-handled hunting knife. Candlelight glinted off the blade as if it had just come from the grinder’s wheel.
“It gets cold in those mountains,” Tomas mumbled as if thinking back to another era. “When we marched against the Samnites, it was winter, like now. On a map, it’s fifty-four miles through the mountains to Venusia. Between the changes in elevation, the snow and cold rain, and the Osci warriors, it felt like ages to cross to our winter quarters. The Via Appia didn’t extend beyond Maleventum then.”
Tomas walked to a stack of sheaths, found one with enough girth to fit the sharp steel, and tenderly seated the blade. He handed the hunting knife to Alerio.
“We marched out with three Centuries. The morning was chilly and we made it over the foothills before a storm blew in and snow began to fall,” Tomas related. “Our senior Centurion decided the weather would drive the Osci to cover and ordered us to continue the march. He had beautiful armor, an extravagant helmet with gold inlays, and no military sense. On the third day, the Samnites attacked out of the blowing snow.”
Again, the armorer motioned for Alerio to follow. Behind the display of helmets, he shoved aside a drape to reveal a backroom.
“Our supply wagons bogged down in a valley. With every Legionary fighting, we couldn’t spare men to push them uphill. We unloaded the supplies and each man carried a share,” Tomas explained. “That’s when the main body of the Osci hit us. Our injured fell, turned the snow red, and to my shame, were left to die. The remnants of the detachment fought our way to a rocky mount. From the defensive position, we battled the savages until dark. As night fell, they pulled back into the woods and set up camps. Our wounded froze in the snow as the sun dropped behind the mountains. My only satisfaction that day. The last thing I saw in the dying rays of the sun was a horsehair brush and a helmet with gold inlays sticking out of the snow.”
From a cabinet, Tomas unfolded a heavy fur cloak. He held the garment in both hands as if it was a holy item.
“I was the junior Centurion and shouldn’t have been able to take command. But I was young, strong, and the officer least affected by the cold,” Tomas recalled. “I ordered a breakout. While the tribesmen gathered wood for their fires, prepared meals, unrolled their blankets, and scratched their buttocks, we formed in columns of twos. Like an angry two headed viper, we hit their line, punched a hole, and slithered off into the night.”
He pressed the fur cloak into Alerio’s arms.
“As good as the Osci were in their native terrain, Legion training carried us out of their valley. They followed us but I rotated squads to our rear and after they tasted enough gladius steel, the tribesmen scurried home to their hovels and their women,” Tomas declared. “But most of our supplies were scattered in our wake. Two days later, it wasn’t the Samnite killing my men, it was hunger and the cold.”
He stroked the rich fur with one hand and smiled.
“While walking our line to check on the Legionaries, I stepped off the trail and fell into a cave. Tumbling through the dark, I landed against a mound of fur,” Tomas said.
“You fell into a bear’s den?” asked Alerio.
“I couldn’t free my gladius in the tight quarters, so I pulled my hunting knife and stabbed blindly as the bear began moving.”
“You killed a bear in its den?”
“It sounds more heroic than it actually was,” Tomas assured him. “Fortuna was watching over me and the Goddess Diana guided my blade. It entered the back of the bear's neck and severed the beast’s spine. It took four Legionaries to haul the dead brown bear out of the cave. The fat and the meat fed the survivors and the story gave the men heart. We limped out of the mountains and reached Venusia without losing another man.”
“This is the hunting knife and the fur from the bear,” guessed Alerio.
“They are and I want both of them back when you return from Sicyon,” instructed Tomas. “It gets cold in the mountains.”
“The General’s seers expect good weather for my trip,” announced Alerio holding out the corners of his red cloak.
“When an old man has created businesses that regularly bring him profits, and allows him to loan coins and collect interest, he does two things,” Tomas explained. “He buys and shows off his art collection to compete with other rich men’s art.”
The armorer ran the fingers from both hands through the fur. He didn’t say more so Alerio inquired, “What’s the second thing?”
“He pays seers to tell him what he wants to hear,” suggested Tomas. “It gets cold in the mountains.”
“I’ll have Master Harricus send my shield, armor, and gladii to you for storage,” Alerio informed the armorer. “Can I have my bag, bedroll, and swords?”
“Come,” directed the armorer.
In another storage room, Tomas stacked the civilian gear on top of the fur then held up a leather harness.
“What’s that?”
“It’s the dual sword rig you requested.”
“You haven’t even had a day to manufacture one.”
“I made it when we created the swords for your Syracuse trip,” Tomas stated. “It only needed a little embellishment to get ready.”
They walked to a large table where Alerio dropped the armload and began packing everything into bundles.
“What embellishment?” Alerio questioned as he held up the sword rig.
“Look at the back of the sheaths.”
Branded into the leather were two words. Memento Mori.
“Remember that you too will die,” Tomas read from the sheaths. “Just don’t make it this trip, Death Caller.”
Chapter 3 – Swamps and Hills
The Legionary at the posthouse watched as a migrating tribesman came out of the dark. He’d seen a few of them, mostly closer to the mountains, but hadn’t seen any near the Capital. Glancing around to see if the wanderer was alone, the Private’s eyes searched the fields on either side of the road. In the distance, the Via Appia vanished in the early morning darkness until braziers marked its path into the city.
Laden down with all his worldly possessions, the man, buried under bundles and wrapped in a great fur cloak, approached the guard post.
“There’s an inn and a stable down the road,” the Legionary informed the man. “This is a military installation. There’s nothing here for you.”
“Corporal Sisera. I’m traveling under orders from Senator Spurius Maximus.”
“It looks like you’re traveling under a Legion supply wagon,” the Private offered. “See the duty Sergeant. He’ll verify your orders and get you set up.”
At the military Villa, Alerio dumped the bundles and the large cloak. He kept the saddle bags but had to shift them to a more comfortable position before stepping
into the building.
“Optio. I’m in need of transportation,” Alerio announced. As he crossed the room, he rummaged through one of the packs to locate the authorization letter. “I require a horse and a mule.”
The duty NCO eyed the conical shaped felt cap with the brim shading the man’s eyes. Then he shifted to the rough woolen long-sleeved shirt and pants and the big hunting knife on the man’s hip.
“There’s an inn down the road.”
“So, I’ve heard,” Alerio said as he handed over the parchment with the Senator’s seal.
“We are the Prime Posthouse, the last or the first posthouse, depending on the way you’re heading,” the Sergeant informed Alerio as he took the letter. He continued talking without reading it. “Every Legion hero and midlevel Tribune thinks we’re here for their convenience. Unless you’re a Legion courier or a General, I can’t do anything for you.”
“I’m none of those,” Alerio stated. “But it’s early. I didn’t get much sleep and I had to lug my gear all the way from the inn. I didn’t realize they moved the Legion post to make room for the expansion of the Capital.”
“That’s not my problem,” observed the Sergeant.
“Nor is it mine, Optio. I’m going to nap on the bench while you either read the letter or send a messenger to Villa Maximus to confirm my orders,” suggested Alerio as he walked to a bench, sat, stretched out his legs, and pulled the petasos down over his eyes. “Hopefully, the letter will at least give me the authority to requisition breakfast. I’d like to save my travel rations.”
The Sergeant glanced at the letter. Unlike scholarly men, he was a combat veteran and understood where to locate the important part of any message. He ignored the flowery language at the top and dropped his eyes to the title, signature, and seal at the bottom.
“Master Ortygis. Wake up, you have a customer,” the NCO called down a hallway. When he didn’t get a reply, the Sergeant bellowed. “Ortygis!”
“Yes, yes. What did you say?” responded a voice from the other end of the corridor.
“A fast horse and a sturdy mule,” the Sergeant ordered. Then he looked at Alerio. “Tesserarius. Take your gear around back and the stable master will set you up.”
“Somnus was just speaking to me,” Alerio complained as he pushed the brim of the petasos back.
“You can reconvene your conversation with the God of Sleep while you’re on the road,” stated the NCO. “Now Corporal, quit warming my bench and get out of my office. I’ll have a swarm of couriers coming in before daylight and you’ll be in their way.”
Before dawn, Alerio was three miles from the posthouse. He had already been passed by three mounted messengers and two courier chariots driving their ponies in the direction of the Capital. It was too early for civilian traffic on the Via Appia but not for dispatches from the Legions in the south and east of the Republic.
***
Late in the day, the grade grew steep and markers on the side of the road showed Alerio that he was approaching the next posthouse. Feeling good and having covered the twenty miles quickly, he dismounted and walked the horse and mule.
A walled compound sat on the crest of the Alban Hills. From the heights, the converted fort commanded a view of the surrounding area and the coastline some fourteen miles away. Alerio left the Via Appia and took the road leading up to the entrance.
“Who do I see about getting a change of mounts and a fresh pack mule?” he asked the guard.
“Based on the way you came, I expect you’ll want to see the housing Sergeant about accommodations,” the Legionary responded.
Alerio glanced up at the sun still high over the horizon and informed the Legionary, “I think I’ll push on until nightfall.”
The Private laughed and waved over his squad leader.
“Lance Corporal. This traveler insists he wants to move on. Can you show him to the stable?”
“Heading southward, are you?” the NCO asked. Without waiting for a reply, he instructed. “Follow me.”
They crossed a courtyard, not bothering to stop at the post’s office. Assuming that the Legion brands on the horse and mule identified the animals and, subsequently, Alerio as being under orders, he didn’t think anything about the direct route.
“Stable Master, this very important traveler must push on to the south tonight,” the squad leader announced.
“Then, I will pick two of my best,” the Master responded. “We’ll get you back on the Via Appia as soon as possible.”
Alerio had seen plays and the vocal inflections of the two men resembled those of thespians. Why they were projecting, he couldn’t figure out. So far, his short visit to the posthouse and the few interactions had been confusing.
Quicker than expected, the bundles and bags were transferred to fresh animals. Alerio guided the horse and mule back to the gate.
“Have a nice night, sir,” the Private said as Alerio passed through and started down the road. There was a smirk on the Legionary’s face and he seemed amused with something.
Halfway to the Via Appia, two men leading a horse came into view. Brown bundles hung over a horse’s back and as the men came completely out of the woods, Alerio identified the load as the bodies of two deer. A successful hunt, he thought. They were above him rounding the curvature of the hill.
“Lance Corporal Sisera?” one of the men shouted.
It took Alerio by surprise and he assumed he misunderstood. He continued forward.
“Lance Corporal Alerio Sisera. If you don’t stop and speak with us,” the other threatened. “I’m going to light a couple of wagon spokes and frighten your horse.”
Alerio recognized both voices. Turning, he called up to the men.
“Private Cimon and Lance Corporal Drustanus,” Alerio greeted them.
They were Legionaries he had served with in Gurges Legion during the Etruscan Rebellion.
“Where are you going this late in the afternoon?” Cimon inquired.
The men walked downhill to Alerio and both had smiles on their faces.
“I’m on a mission for the Senate,” Alerio lied. It was easier than explaining the critical need to buy art from the Greeks. “There’s daylight left and I didn’t want to waste it.”
“Can’t wait to get back to the Capital, I suppose?” guessed Drustanus.
“We’ve fresh venison,” Cimon pointed out by patting one of the carcasses. “And we can offer wine and stories while they roast.”
“It’s tempting, but I’m rushed,” Alerio begged off. “I understand it’s at least four days to Capua.”
Both Legionaries turned their heads and stared at each other. Then their heads rotated and they looked at Alerio and questioned, “You’re headed south?”
“That’s where the Via Appia runs,” a puzzled Alerio stated.
Cimon strutted to Alerio and took the reins from his hand. With a jerk of his head, the Legionary indicated for Drustanus to follow. They left Alerio standing empty-handed.
“If you insist,” Alerio relented as he jogged to catch up with the men, his horse, and the mule.
At the gate, the guard shrugged and held out his arms as if he’d been caught pulling a prank.
“I didn’t know you were friends of Cimon and Drustanus,” the Private admitted.
“What’s going on?” inquired Alerio.
“Have you ever been in a latrine after extra rations of beans, salted fish, and onions have been distributed?” Cimon asked.
“An aroma only Sterculius could appreciate,” ventured Alerio.
“South of here is the Pontine Marshes,” Drustanus informed him. “Nineteen miles of stink that would make the God of Manure retch.”
“That’s a day’s travel. If I left now, I would’ve been forced to stop and spend the night in the marshes.”
“A most unpleasant experience, I can assure you,” Cimon advised. “Better to drink, eat venison, and visit with friends. Wouldn’t you agree, Lance Corporal Sisera?”
“It’
s Corporal Sisera. And I do agree,” Alerio remarked. “I guess I’ll need to locate the housing Sergeant.”
“No Tesserarius,” Drustanus informed him. “You’ll be bedding down with my squad tonight.”
***
Alerio was back on the road before sunup. The Via Appia made a graceful eastward bend around the Alban hills before returning to a southern direction. As straight as an arrow’s flight and level as the surface of a lake, the road ran towards the Pontine Marshes.
Even in the cool air of the morning, the swamp’s unique aroma assaulted Alerio’s nose. Rotting vegetation and dead fish mixed with salty flatulence wafted over the road. Alerio had pulled latrine duty. While the smell was bad, after working for a period near the Legion waste, his nose became accustomed to it. In the waves of various stinks, the marshes presented different combinations so his sense of smell never adjusted. Each zone was a new assault.
The road and bridges allowed for passage elevated from the slimy muck and tangled marsh grasses. It was a tribute to the Republic’s engineers and the strong backs of the Legionaries who filled in the swamp, placed the sub-base, and laid the surface. Unfortunately, the engineers couldn’t do anything about the stench.
It was no surprise Alerio didn’t meet another rider until he was almost halfway through the marshes. The two couriers, like Alerio, had spent the night at a posthouse before venturing into the aromatic portion of the Via Appia.
“How much further?” Alerio shouted to the riders.
They slowed their mounts to a walk.
“Long enough that you’ll want to wash your wools and air out everything else,” one replied.
“Or you’ll be carrying the perfume of the Pontine with you for two days,” the other messenger added.
“Thanks for the advice,” Alerio replied to the riders’ backs.
They hadn’t stopped. No one wanted to loiter in the swamp.
Throughout the day, messengers passed him traveling in both directions. His horse could have made the trip faster but the mule refused to be rushed. It was late in the day when the level road began to rise steadily until the air cleared. Three miles later, Alerio guided the animals into the next posthouse.
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