Clay Warrior Stories Boxset 2

by J. Clifton Slater

  The Tribune slammed his fist into his chest armor. It rang around the Senate chamber.

  “Yes, General Flaccus!” replied the Tribune.

  Then he marched out of the private gallery. However, he didn’t exit at the first door. As if on parade, he extended his march past each door so everyone could hear the slap and click of his hobnailed boots. At the last door, he left the chamber, but the echo of his boots lingered.

  “Senators and citizens of the Republic, I regret that these events preclude me from attending my Co-Consul’s holiday and festival,” Marcus Flaccus explained. “I will be heading north to enforce our laws and to protect the integrity of our Republic.”

  Over one hundred voices and, as many, pounding on the wood of their armrests sent an almost physical force swirling around the chamber. In the noise and chaos, Consul Flaccus bowed to his supporters and sat down.

  The man at the podium pounded for quiet and cried out for silence. After long sessions of pounding and pleading, the volume in the Senate chamber fell to a manageable level.

  “Let it be known throughout the Republic,” the man announced. “The Senate has declared this the year of Consul Appease Clodus Caudex and Consul Marcus Fulvius Flaccus. May the Gods watch over and assist them in their endeavors.”

  ***

  Senator Maximus stood and held out his arms for attention.

  “The Consuls will sacrifice to Jupiter this afternoon on the Capitol grounds. All citizens are welcome,” he announced. “We have committee business for the rest of the day. However, before we break up, there is someone I’d like to recognize.”

  He pointed at the private gallery. Lance Corporal Alerio Sisera proudly slammed his fist into his chest. Regrettably, he wore only cloth, so his salute lacked the thunder of the cavalryman’s salute.

  “Three days ago, Tribune Armenius Peregrinus and this single Legionary slipped out of our besieged Legion camp in Volsinii. They swam the freezing waters of the Tiber and evaded barbarian patrols. Although ill with fever, Tribune Armenius Peregrinus delivered the news of the stricken Legion to the Capital,” Maximus stated. “Before venturing forth on this dangerous mission, Tribune Peregrinus organized the Legion camp when the command staff was decimated in the fighting. To honor Armenius Peregrinus, I propose he receives an accommodation for bravery, fifty gold coins, and an appointment as Assistant Governor to our eastern province at Crotone. Can I get a yes vote on this resolution?”

  The full Senate shouted their agreement. How could they not for a hero of the Republic?

  Chapter -23 Reassignment

  Alerio stood and watched as the Senators clustered around secretaries obviously discussing elements of state business. The public galley emptied, and the visitors gathered around the exit doors. With no escape available, he stared at the Senate chamber and marveled at the political maneuvering he’d just witnessed. While the rewards were beyond his experience, he was smart enough to recognize a well-played game and the winners.

  One of the winners, who had not been a player, was Armenius Peregrinus. The old administrator took the young man by the elbow and guided him towards the edge of the private galley. Before they reached the Legionary stations at the entrance, Armenius’ father came stomping down the walkway.

  “You had the dispatches?” he screamed. “Do you know what political favors I could have earned? What business arrangements I could have done with those dispatches? And all the while, my idiot son had them.”

  Armenius shook his head as if to clear his vision. Then he threw off the hand gripping his elbow and straightened up.

  “When I was covered in blood from carrying wounded Legionaries and ten more were begging for my guidance, I wondered what my father would think,” Armenius explained. “When I sank beneath the cold water ready to give up, I thought, what would my father think. When the savages tied me to a tree and used me for target practice, I wondered what my father would think.”

  The young Tribune turned to Alerio.

  “Lance Corporal Sisera. We did complete the mission and relief is on the way to our men at Volsinii, am I correct?” he asked.

  “Yes, Tribune. At great personal risk to you and despite your injuries and illness,” Alerio assured the young man. “We completed the mission, sir.”

  Armenius stepped up and stood nose to nose with his father.

  “I am a Tribune of the Legion. A decorated hero of the Republic. And, I am the Assistant Governor for the eastern province,” explained the younger Peregrinus. “Do you know what I am not worried about?”

  “What?” questioned his father.

  “I am going home to say goodbye to my mother and organize transportation to Crotone,” announced Armenius Peregrinus. “The thing I am not worried about is what my father thinks.”

  With those words, Armenius Peregrinus brushed by his father and slung people out of his way as he reached and exited through the doorway.

  ***

  The elder Peregrinus and the old administrator were shocked. They looked confused until Peregrinus raised his eyes and locked them on the young Lance Corporal.

  “You. You had the dispatches,” he mumbled. “You’ve made an enemy. And I am not a man to be trifled with.”

  “You sir are a father who raised a brave son,” Alerio replied.

  “Don’t patronize me,” shot back Armenius’ father. “I am going to…”

  “Going to do what, Master Peregrinus?” Belen inquired.

  The Senator’s secretary stood with an older Legionary. A man who appeared to be far beyond retirement age. Tribune Velius, head of Intelligence for the Southern Legion, tilted his head in greeting.

  “Master Peregrinus, understand this, Lance Corporal Sisera is a patron of Senator Spurius Maximus,” explained Belen. “Any threats directed towards him will be considered as threats to the Senator. Now, I believe you have a son who will soon leave the Capital. I suggest you go and make peace with him.”

  Peregrinus and his administrator gave Belen and Velius a wide berth as they hurried for the exit.

  “Thank you, Master Belen,” Alerio said.

  “No need, Lance Corporal,” the secretary replied. “The Senator thought something like that would happen. Now, I must get back to Senate business.”

  Belen rushed away and Alerio caught Velius shaking his head and grinning at him.

  “Tribune Velius, is something funny?” asked Alerio.

  “No, not really,” the head spymaster for the Southern Legion admitted. “It’s just if you don’t come back alive, I’ll have to answer to Senior Centurion Patroclus and First Sergeant Gerontius. Plus, explain why to one of the Republic’s most powerful Senators.”

  “I thought I’d go north with Flaccus Legion. Afterwards, I’ll go and visit with my family,” Alerio ventured. Then he paused, thought about the Tribune’s statement, and inquired, “Come back from where?”

  “Sicilia, Lance Corporal Sisera,” Tribune Velius explained. “I need you in Syracuse.”

  Chapter -24 Historia Fae, Armorer to the Gods

  Alerio rapped on the exterior door of Historia Fae. When no one answered, he knocked again but harder. An iron plate slid open and an eye stared out from the small square.

  “What?” a deep voice demanded.

  “Master Kellerian, I am in need of your assistance,” Alerio stated.

  “You’re too pretty to need weapons or armor,” Tomas Kellerian challenged. “In that uniform, you should be at a nobleman’s villa sipping quality vino and chasing kitchen wenches.”

  “As handsome as I am, I should be,” replied Alerio lifting a scarred arm and rubbing the crescent shaped scar on the crown of his head. “Yet here I am speaking to a cyclops and asking for admittance to his den of iniquity.”

  “I’ve been called worse and the description of my work depends on if you’re standing behind or in front of the pointy end,” Tomas Kellerian, the Armorer to the God, shot back. “Hold on.”

  Iron bars grating on iron hooks reached Alerio�
�s ears. He waited on the street until the locking braces stopped screeching and the door opened. Rapidly, he crossed the first threshold and four steps later the second doorway.

  “I don’t know why you refuse to oil those rods,” ventured Alerio as Thomas noisily shoved the iron bars back into place.

  “Rust is the enemy of smoothly operating armor and the edge of a steel gladius,” replied the Armorer as he closed the interior door. “However, rust makes the iron squeal. It reminds anyone entering my establishment that the door is barred. Just in case they think about coming back later, uninvited.”

  “So, rust is a tool of your security?” inquired Alerio.

  “It is. Now, what can I help you with?” Thomas asked.

  “I’m going to Syracuse and carrying Legion gladii isn’t the best way to blend in with the citizens,” Alerio explained as he pulled his dual gladius rig out of his pack. “I need another pair of swords.”

  Tomas Kellerian reached out and took the harness and gladii from the Legionary. He examined the leather rig and full sheaths by gripping them in one hand and then in the other.

  “Too bulky to hide and too heavy to conceal, you’re right,” proclaimed the Armorer. “Come with me.”

  They walked through the showroom. Along the way, they passed rows of stands displaying gold plated and gold trimmed sets of ceremonial armor.

  “That set is for General Quintus Gurges when he returns from Volsinii,” Tomas said as they walked by a beautiful set of armor.

  “Unfortunately, General Gurges will not be coming to claim his armor,” Alerio stated. “He died in the battle along with a lot of good Legionaries.”

  Tomas Kellerian stopped short and Alerio almost collided with the Armorers broad back. Looking first at the armor, then at Alerio, he exclaimed, "That is disheartening news.”

  “Did you lose a large commission?” inquired Alerio as he turned to look at the intricate gold work on the polished armor.

  “No. My heart goes out to the dead and wounded Legionaries,” Tomas explained. “I collected half the commission in advance from Gurges before I started the project. Some other nobleman, after playing General, will buy it. Enough talk. Follow me.”

  ***

  They crossed through the large workroom where two craftsmen sat shaping armor sections. And by areas where less gaudy armor and gladii were stored. At the backdoor door, the Armorer pushed through and led them into the rear lot.

  Several outbuildings, a stable, a smoking forge, and a gazebo with leather hanging from the rafters occupied part of the walled compound. One corner had a sand pit with grinders. Two mounted whet stone wheels, one rough sandstone and the other smooth granite, sat beside a worktable. They had square holes in the center of the stones, and both were plugged with wooden blocks. Running through the blocks were iron bars holding the whet stones on frames. Handles attached to the bars allowed for manual turning of the stones. However, attached to the handles were rods connecting to peddles for steady foot powered motion.

  All the stations were manned by workers with massive scars or missing body parts.

  “Here we go,” announced Tomas as he reached into a shed and pulled a covering from a pile of rusty items.

  “Rust?” noted Alerio as the Armor moved a few items.

  “Surface rust,” Tomas explained as he selected four blades from the pile.

  Without another word, he carried them to the grinding area.

  ***

  The Armorer ran his fingers along the flat of the first blade. After holding it up and eyeing the length for straightness and taking a couple of practice swings, he set the blade on the workbench. The next blade he tossed to the side with no more inspection than the finger test. When he glanced down the length of the third blade, he shook his head and tossed it to the side. The fourth blade caused him to pause but, eventually, he placed it with the first.

  Alerio could see the blades were old gladii. The guard, grip, and pommel had been removed and the blades ground down. Whether from years of maintenance by Legionary metalworkers or from hard grinding to remove gouges and chips from the blades, they were barely recognizable as Legion gladius blades.

  “Those look rough,” Alerio commented.

  “I bought them from a supply Sergeant,” the Armorer explained. “Some of them I can grind down into knives or short swords. Others are useless because the temper is gone, or they have cracks. In both cases, the blade will snap under stress.”

  “And those two?” Alerio asked pointing towards the workbench.

  “Solid steel, mostly straight and thin enough to pass as reworked gladii to an expert,” Thomas assured him. “There are enough old blades around that they won’t mark you as a Legionary. But, your haircut will.”

  “My haircut?” asked Alerio as he ran a hand over his short-cropped hair.

  “Most freemen in Hellenistic[JS1] countries don’t have Legion haircuts,” Tomas observed as he picked up a handful of sand and began buffing the rust scales off the first blade.

  “I’m leaving on a mail boat tomorrow afternoon,” explained Alerio. “I don’t think my hair will grow much between now and then.”

  “Corporal. Can you leave the felting and get our customer a hat?” Tomas shouted to a man stirring a kettle with a paddle.

  “It’s at a critical heat. Can you get someone to keep it moving?” the man inquired while still stirring whatever was cooking in the pot. “Do you want a phrygian or a petasos?”

  “Lance Corporal Sisera go relieve Corporal Gilibertus at the pot,” Tomas ordered. Then to Gilibertus instructed, “Bring one of each. We’ll see which hat frames his baby face best.”

  As Alerio took the paddle, he glanced into the kettle. A mass of wet wool swirled around in murky water stinking of stale meat and urine. He wrinkled his nose, breathed through his mouth and continued to stir the mixture.

  He noticed the missing foot as Corporal Gilibertus walked stiffly away. On the end of the stump and wrapped around his ankle was a piece of fabric. Below the cloth, a block of wood held in place by strips of leather added enough height, so the legs were the same length. Despite the appendage, the man’s stride was stinted. He vanished into the main building and Alerio concentrated on twirling the ball of wool.

  ***

  Tomas called the Corporal over when he came back with two hats. After a few instructions, the Armorer took the hats and turned over the blades to Gilibertus.

  “What’s in this?” asked Alerio as Tomas crossed to the kettle. “And why are you not separating the wool? Bundled up like this, it’ll never untangle for the spinner.”

  “Tallow and lye. And we don’t want the sheep hairs to separate,” explained Tomas. “Beef fat and lye water thickens the wool and once it’s knotted up properly, Corporal Gilibertus will spread it on a bronze form. Another bronze piece will be placed over the mixture. Once the pieces are clamped together, the Corporal will mount it over a fire and keep the bronze rotating for a full day.”

  “To what end?” asked Alerio.

  “The phrygian, like this hat,” exclaimed Tomas holding up a cone shaped hat. “It’s made from a flat piece of felt. Rolled and trimmed with the top bent forward at a jaunty angle, it’s very popular with ship’s crews.”

  “The hairs in the cloth remind me of a beaver dam. Logs and sticks crisscrossing so tightly, they hold themselves in place,” observed Alerio.

  “That is the beauty of felt. Soft and durable and not labor intensive,” suggested Tomas. “And speaking of beavers. This is a petasos and it’s not wool felt, it’s felt made with beaver hair.”

  The hat was shaped with a wide brim around a low, rounded crown. The Armorer reached out and placed the phrygian on Alerio’s head. He stepped back and shook his head while studying the Legionary.

  “No, definitely not the phrygian,” Tomas said as he snatched the hat off and replaced it with the petasos. Then he reached out and cocked the hat to one side. Nodding his satisfaction, he announced, “Better.”

&n
bsp; A workman strolled across the lot. Tomas pulled him over and pointed with pride at the brimmed felt hat.

  “I was with the Eastern Legion and some of the rich folks from Greece wore those,” the workman said. “It looks good on him, Centurion.”

  Alerio knew Tomas Kellerian had retired from the Legion after twenty years of service before becoming an armorer. Looking around at Tomas’ staff, he realized all of them were scarred and wounded.

  “Your craftsmen are Legion veterans?” asked Alerio.

  “You think I’d buy slaves and teach them how to make swords and armor?” replied Thomas. “I spent half a life defending the Republic. I’ll not teach our enemies how to defeat us.”

  They were interrupted by a call from Corporal Gilibertus at a grinding wheel.

  “Swing the kettle away from the fire so it can cool,” he instructed. “Come here, I have an idea.”

  Alerio used the paddle to pivot the pot from over the fire. He and Tomas strolled back to the grinding area.

  “That petasos looks good on you, Lance Corporal,” Gilibertus said as he lifted his good foot from the peddle. Without the pumping of the foot peddle, the limestone grinding wheel slowed. “It’s one of my best. Took me a full day to pound out the bronze plates to get that shape. And I left the clamps in place to keep the felt under pressure for two days.”

  “You are a felt craftsman, I agree,” mumbled Tomas. “Now, what idea did you have?”

  “These gladii have the most wear at their tips and in the center of the blades,” the former Legion Corporal explained. “I saw several Qart Hadasht swords a few years ago. Sharpened point, edge on one side and a blade that tapers to a thin belly. These blades have enough heft that I can grind out that shape.”

  “That shape will work,” Tomas observed. “Make sure they’re matched and balanced. Our young Lance Corporal likes to use two swords at the same time.”

  Gilibertus shot Alerio a quizzical look before he reached out and spun the grinding wheel. Once it reached speed, he began pumping the peddle to maintain the grinding velocity.