Bloody Water
Clay Warrior Stories
J. Clifton Slater
Books by J. Clifton Slater
Clay Warrior Stories
Clay Legionary
Spilled Blood
Bloody Water
Galactic Council Realm
On Station
On Duty
On Guard
On Point (Spring 2018)
This is a work of fiction. While some characters are historical figures, the majority are fictional. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
Bloody Water takes place in 265 B.C. when Rome was a Republic and before the Imperial Roman Empire conquered the world. While I have attempted to stay true to the era, I am not an historian. If you are a true aficionado of the times, I apologize in advance.
I’d like to thank my editor Hollis Jones for her work in correcting my rambling sentences and overly flowery prose. Also, I am grateful to Denise Scherschel for her help in structuring the editorial flow of the book. Her amazing illustrated book Zippy McZoomerman Gears Up is a must read for children with disabilities.
Now… Forget your car, your television, your computer and smart phone - it’s time to journey back to when making clay bricks and steel were the height of technology.
J. Clifton Slater
E-Mail: [email protected]
Twitter: @GalacticCRealm
FB: facebook.com/Galactic Council Realm
Qart Hadasht means New City in Phoenician. Today it’s known as Carthage. In 265 BC, Qart Hadasht was a vast trading and military empire. The empire stretched across the northern coast of Africa with settlements around the Mediterranean including the western side of Sicilia. As with all empires, Qart Hadasht sought expansion and influence wherever possible.
Sicilia, or Sicily, at its closest point, was a bowshot across the Straits of Messina from Roman Republic soil. With the empire’s encroachment, the Roman Senate was forced to debate the threat on their southern coastline. In addition to Qart Hadasht seeking more of Sicilia, the Republic was challenged by mercenaries occupying the city of Messina, and the restless king of the City State of Syracuse.
In the ancient world, tension between foreign states created anxiety for their neighbors. Athens, Macedonia, Egypt, Sparta, Qart Hadasht, and the rogues of Illyria struggled for power, dominance, wealth, and survival. International politics is not new. It’s as old as mankind and just a convoluted.
Bloody Water
Act 1
Chapter 1 – Warship Rowing
Over the past few days, transferees had drifted in to the region controlled by the Southern Legion. They promptly reported for new orders at headquarters as there wasn’t a lot to do in the port town of Rhegium. Due to the unrest in the area and the unique nature of their territory, the Legion put each through additional training. After a total of six transferees arrived, the Legion’s First Sergeant formed them in to a training unit.
Ordered to report for the first day of instructions, the newest unit of men waited in the dark for their instructor. Lance Corporal Alerio Sisera stood with the transferees in the cool predawn mist waiting to start the training.
“Good morning, Legionaries,” a deep, raspy voice greeted the small crew from the shadows. He spoked from just beyond the lantern light that encircled the trainees. “My name is Sergeant Martius. Some in the Southern Legion call me Chief of Boats. Some have less savory terms to describe me. For you, right now, I am your rowing instructor.”
A few Legionaries groaned.
“I take it from your enthusiastic responses that some of you have boating experience,” Martius continued from the shadows. He was still an invisible, disembodied specter from the dark while the training unit stood between four bright lanterns. “But I’m not asking about fishing boats, merchant ships, nor rowing your lass around on a pond; I’m asking for attack rowing experience. Those of you trained in warship rowing raise your right hand.”
None of the Legionaries responded.
“Strip off your armor, gladius, and helmets. Place your gear on the ground behind you,” the rowing instructor ordered. “On the beach is a sixteen-oar river patrol boat. Shove it into the water, get in, and row to the south.”
Lance Corporal Sisera pulled off his helmet, unstrapped his gladius belt, the protective skirt, the shoulder pieces, and the back and front chest sections. After carefully stacking the equipment, he walked out of the light toward the dark beach.
The six-man training unit stumbled around until one Legionary shouted, “Boat. Over here.”
They converged on the voice and grabbed the gunwale. Except all six were standing on the same side of the boat. It took a while to sort out. But finally, they had three men to a side. Once evenly distributed, they heaved and shoved the vessel off the beach.
The water was cold. By the time the boat was fully floated, the Legionaries were waist deep and shivering. Quickly, they climbed into the boat.
“Paddles? Where are the paddles?” one man in the training unit asked.
“I can’t find any,” another replied.
The six Legionaries felt around but none could locate an oar. Meanwhile, the river patrol boat had caught the current in the Messina Strait and started to drift north.
“Where are you taking my patrol boat?” Martius growled from the beach. “Bring my boat back. Right now, people.”
Alerio realized the only way to return the boat to the Sergeant was to swim it back.
“In the water,” he ordered. “Unless you want to beach it and carry the boat back to the Sergeant.”
Alerio was the first. Reluctantly, the other five slid over the sides and joined him in the cold water. After spinning the boat around, the first thing they noticed was the current pushing against the hull. As they kicked, the boat simply held position.
Martius’ voice carried over the sounds of thrashing legs and churning water, “The vessel you are propelling is a river patrol boat. It is forty feet long and eight feet wide with oarlocks for sixteen rowers. It’s a single-bank meaning she’ll have eight oarsmen on each side.”
The rowing instructor’s raspy tone cut through the aquatic noises. Due to a person’s natural tendency to move toward a source of authority in times of stress, they angled the boat in the direction of the beach. As the bottom of the strait inclined upward, the swimmers on the beach side found footing on the rocks and sand. Soon they had the river patrol boat moving slowly southward.
Chapter 2 – Oars, not Paddles
Between pulling from the beach side and the kicking on the other, the patrol boat was returned to the initial site of its launch.
“Attack rowers know their equipment, their boat, and their position. In the Legion we store our oars, not paddles, on shore,” explained Martius. A lantern flashed into life and below it appeared a rack of oars sticking up above the glow. “Grab an oar, form a line, and hold the oar over your head.”
Once the six Legionaries were lined up, the rowing instructor walked behind them. He slowly moved from one to the next grabbing the center of each man’s oar before he pulling it back to test the man’s strength.
“First and third men, take the forward rowing stations,” he ordered. “Second and sixth, the aft rowing stations. Fourth and fifth man take the center rowing stations.”
Alerio was fourth in the line. He followed directions and carried his oar back to the patrol boat. As the training unit converged on the vessel, the first rays of sunlight began to peek over the mountains from the east.
“This is your machina locus, your engine. Always place your strongest rowers mid-ship,” Sergeant Martius advis
ed as he pointed to the center rowing stations. Still a shadow, the instructor rapped on a u-shaped cutout in the boat’s railing and a feature on the oar, “This is your oarlock. You’ll find a leather sleeve on the oar. Place the sleeve in the oarlock with the collar inside the gunwale. The collar prevents your oar from going for a swim without you.”
Alerio listened as the instructor pointed and named boat parts. He also watched as the soft morning light revealed the frame of Sergeant Martius. Where previously he had been a gravelly voiced ghost cloaked in the shadows of the night, in daylight, he was revealed to be a scarred beast.
Chapter 3 – Barbarian Ax
The instructions continued on the beached river patrol boat. The six Legionaries followed directions and commands until their arms were exhausted from holding and rotating the oars. After each drill, they held the oar blades suspended off the sand and gravel of the beach.
“Port and starboard fall in,” commanded the Sergeant for the hundredth time. “Stroke, stroke, power ten in two.”
The left side rowers and those on the right side jumped into the patrol boat and pulled twice slowly. Then they began ten fast repetitions as directed.
“Port side, check it down,” he ordered.
The left side held their blades steady while the starboard side continued rowing. In theory, they had turned the boat to the right.
“Let her run,” Martius stated and the blades were lifted. “Ship oars and fall out.”
The blades swung high overhead before the training unit rested them beside the hull and stepped out of the boat.
“Meal time,” the instructor said as he limped away from the patrol boat. Over his shoulder, he announced, “Afterwards, we’ll launch and see if you’ve learned anything.”
Alerio rested his oar on the sand beside the boat and marched up the beach with the others. Bread, meat, cheese and wineskins filled with watered wine lay on a table just off the beach. While the rest of the training unit gathered together, Alerio carried his breakfast to where the instructor sat.
“Sergeant Martius. Do you mind if I join you?” he asked.
Like the other men in the training unit, Alerio was naked except for his wool undershorts. Martius surveyed the fresh scar on the young Legionary’s side, the ragged lines on his arms, the parallel scars on his shoulder, and the odd crescent shaped wound on his head.
“Yes, if you can explain those,” Martius said while pointing to the multiple blade marks.
“Lance Corporal Alerio Sisera, formally of the Raiders in the eastern Legion,” Alerio reported as he sat. He explained while motioning to each scar, “Four rebels, a rebel Captain, a sword competition gone wrong, and a disagreement with a gang in the Capital. And, you?”
He was pointing to Martius’ mangled right leg. Short scars crisscrossed the Sergeant’s arms, chest, and his thigh. While prominent, the scars on his body paled in comparison to the mangled right leg. A wide scar ran down the front of the Sergeant’s lower leg. It ended part way across the top of his foot.
“Barbarian ax on the western frontier,” Martius stated without emotion. Then he inhaled deeply, closed his eyes, and began to recall, “I was just a Private. The Right-Side pivot for my squad, but still, only a simple infantryman. We formed our double lines when the tribes came out of the woods. Two Centuries of Legionaries, about one hundred and ninety shields, against six hundred barbarians.”
“Those are ugly odds,” added Alerio.
“We had them held but the General pulled our cavalry,” Martius explained. “Seems the barbarian horsemen had targeted the headquarters’ Century and they needed the cavalry more than us.”
The Sergeant reached down and punched his thigh twice as if to accent a point.
“There was still over a hundred of us able to fight, so we formed a fighting square. With the wounded and our mules in the center, we broke wave after wave of barbarian attacks,” he said with pride. “The lads were in it and the ranks held. Held until another troop of mounted tribesmen joined the fray.”
“They charged our northwest corner while the horde smashed at our lines,” he explained. “The Centurion pulled my squad off the back line and sent us to reinforce the corner. I remember the Legionaries doubling up behind the men at the corner. I remember them falling back as three tribesmen sacrificed their ponies on Legion gladii. I remember a burning pain in my thigh. I don’t remember the ax that split my leg.”
“I woke up in a field hospital. The medics had set the bone and stitched the flesh, but the foot was fused, and had little feeling,” explained the Sergeant. “I took a medical discharge and limped back to my village. After a winter of pity and handouts from my neighbors, I packed my belongings and left.”
“To most of the Legions, the Southern Legion has a bad reputation. We’re not infantry, except for the patrols in the high hills along the rivers,” Martius stated. “Mostly, we’re on boats or in small garrisons along the coast. Legionaries don’t respect fighting from boats, or walking guard posts with seagulls. So, they look down on us. Well, I needed a place that was desperate for experience. I arrived and was turned down by the senior Centurion. But, I persisted. For a year, I rowed on any merchant vessel that would have a crippled oarsman. I studied the art of the oar. Then I read about warship attacks, and discussed the tactics with every old Captain I could find. You’d be amazed how many served in the Greek, Illyrian, Syracuse, or even the Qart Hadasht navies.”
“Almost a year to the day, I limped into the Centurion’s office and presented him with a plan to improve his rowers and the maintenance of his patrol boats,” declared Martius. “He made me a reserve Corporal and watched me for six months. At the end of my probation, he called me into his office. I thought he was going to relieve me. Instead, he offered me the Chief of Boats position with the rank of Sergeant. And now, every Legionary joining the Southern Legion has to go through me to qualify.”
Chapter 4 – Blisters
“Hold water,” Martius shouted from the aft of the boat.
The training unit leaned over their oars and gasped lungs full of air. They had rowed south along the shore of the Messina Strait. Then made a wide turn placing the river patrol boat in the center channel stream and rowed south. Both directions were against the current. Now they rested with the oars in the water.
“Dip this in the saltwater and wrap it around your blisters,” the Sergeant instructed.
A bundle of wool cloth pieces was passed along the lines of rowers. Each took a piece and soon five of the Legionaries had dipped the cloth over the side and wound it around their raw left hand. All the rowers except one.
“Sisera. The cloth is for your blisters,” Martius said. “Not for your head.”
“No blisters Sergeant. But, the damp cloth is refreshing,” Alerio replied. The cloth drooped over his ears and dripped saltwater onto his shoulders. He had to peek out from under it to see the instructor.
“All Legionaries have tough skin on their right hand from gladius practice,” offered Martius. “Rowing always draws blood from the left until it toughens up. What makes you special?”
“Gladius instructor, Sergeant. I practice with both hands,” explained Alerio.
“Port and Starboard, ready oars,” Martius said ignoring the hearsay of a Legionary admitting to using his left hand to wield a gladius. “Stroke, stroke, stroke.”
The river patrol boat moved slowly toward the beach. With six rowers, instead of the normal crew of sixteen, the vessel was woefully underpowered. Despite the shortage of oars in the water and the exhaustion of the six, the boat held steady as it cut across the current that tried to push the hull northward.
“Back it down,” Martius ordered when the bow of the boat was two yards from the shore.
The oarsmen reversed their strokes and the boat slowed until it nudged gently against the beach.
“Fall out,” directed Martius.
The six Legionaries climbed over the sides of the gunwale and splashed into the water.
The instructor sat in the rear as the oarsmen heaved and shoved the boat out of the water and fully onto the beach. Once it was high enough, Martius rolled over the side and pushed on the rail so he could stand.
“Stack your oars in the rack and grab something to eat,” he said while pointing up the beach to a table laden with bread, meat, and fruit.
Seemed the Southern Legion was generous with the rations, Alerio though. Then he realized that he was really hungry. While running, jumping, blade practice, and even wrestling worked up an appetite, rowing left him starved. He placed the oar in the rack and joined the ravenous training unit at the meal table.
Lectures on boat handling filled the afternoon. A few of the Legionaries snoozed and others barely paid attention. Alerio listened to every word.
Late in the afternoon a boat appeared far down the shoreline. At first, the boat was a dot on the water. As it drew closer the training unit noted it angled left then right as if the oarsmen were out of sync. It eventually came close enough to be recognizable as a full-sized patrol boat.
When the bow drifted to starboard, the current caught the fore section and began turning the boat away from the shore. Sergeant Martius, who had been watching the boat struggle as he talked, pointed down the beach.
“Something’s wrong,” he said. Indicating one member of the training unit, Martius ordered, “You, go fetch a medic. The rest of you double time down there and secure that boat.”
Alerio jumped to his feet and raced toward the stricken vessel.
Chapter 5 – Attack Aftershock
Alerio was the second Legionary to splash into the surf and begin swimming toward the drifting boat. By the time he jumped in the water the current had grabbed the hull of the distressed boat and propelled it further from the beach. As the patrol boat drifted further away it was caught by the edge of the central channel’s flow. The conflicting currents began to spin vessel.
Bloody Water (Clay Warrior Stories Book 3) Page 1