Alerio released the shield and pulled his curved dagger. As the bodyguard kicked with his legs to fend off Alerio and to regain his feet, the Legionary lashed out with the blade. The slash left a deep, gaping wound on the inside of the bodyguard’s thigh. Despite the blood spurting from a severed femoral artery, the man crawled to his knees.
The shield held high against his chest and the sword raised to strike, the bodyguard poised fierce and ready to continue his martial duties. Except he was on his knees in the center of an expanding pool of his own blood. Alerio wanted to grant the warrior a last few heartbeats of dignity. But there was a mission to complete, and he didn’t know how Frigian and his rowers were doing with Admiral Hanno and the third bodyguard. Alerio kicked the shield. The light in the Empire soldier’s eyes faded with a view of overhead beams instead of the sight over his shield of one last enemy.
Alerio stepped in the blood and snatched the sword from the dead but still warm hand. Turning, he relaxed slightly. The other bodyguard was a heap on the tiles. Not bloody, but certainly out of the fight. Admiral Hanno stood crouched in a corner of the room with a knife in one hand and his sword in the other.
“Now just give up Admiral,” Frigian coached. “You’re out numbered, and we don’t want to harm you.”
“By morning, you’ll all be bags of broken bones up on the wood,” Hanno threatened. “Run while you can.”
Hanno equaled the size of any of the three oarsmen. Armed, he posed a danger to all four of the Sons. Without speaking, Alerio raced across the room. Coming from behind one of the big rowers, he surprised Hanno and bashed the sword from the Admiral’s hand.
The Sons stood shocked and their mouths fell open when Alerio stepped in front of Hanno. After kicking the Admiral’s sword out of reach, he tossed his own sword aside. Frigian and his oarsmen weren’t the only ones confused. Hanno glanced down at his empty right hand, at the knife in his left, and up at the unarmed Legionary. A sneer twisted his mouth and he jabbed at Alerio’s stomach.
Trapping the knife hand between his palms, Alerio guided the blade harmlessly off to the side. Hanno jerked it back and attempted to slash the Legionary’s face. But a wrist against the Admiral’s wrist increased the arc and the knife passed over Alerio’s head. Figuring the trouble with his attack had to do with the hand, Hanno brought his hands together to switch the knife to his right hand. As soon as the hands touched, Alerio clamped them together, shoved them to the side, stepped up, and head butted the Admiral. As Hanno staggered and a lump rose on his forehead, Alerio snatched the knife free and stepped back. Two of Frigian’s oarsmen rushed in and grabbed Hanno by the arms. The third vanished down the hallway.
“Truly amazing unarmed combat,” acknowledged Frigian.
Ignoring the compliment, Alerio demanded, “What happened? How did Hanno have the chance to draw his blades?”
“We clubbed the second bodyguard while he was admiring your vaulting abilities,” confessed Frigian. “Then my oarsmen and I forgot about the Admiral when you did the wrestling and gymnastic moves. Also, truly impressive.”
“You forgot about the Admiral?” Alerio asked in disbelief.
As with all auxiliary troops, the pirates had a tendency to wander off mission as their dedication wasn’t up to a Legionary’s standards. As a young lad, Alerio learned the lesson from a veteran Sergeant and Centurion when discussing the use of native scouts and ally cavalry.
“But it all worked out fine,” Frigian announced pointing at Hanno and Alerio. “No one hurt and the first part of our mission completed successfully.”
The oarsman came back into the great room with a length of hemp rope. Hanno protested as the rower began wrapping the Admiral’s legs together. Frigian reached into a pouch on his belt and pulled out a piece of colorful cotton cloth. He shoved it into Hanno’s mouth as the loops coiled upward binding Hanno’s arms to his side.
“When will Captain Creon and his rowers get here?” inquired Alerio.
“That’s right, we need to be gone before he gets here,” Frigian replied. “Can’t have him freeing the Admiral.”
Alerio noticed Hanno’s eyes snap open at the pronouncement. The game being played by the Sons of Mars became clear to the Legionary. The Sons would win with the Republic if they spirited Hanno back across Legion lines. Or, they would keep the Admiral and the Empire’s favor if Alerio failed and was captured. In either case, the Sons maintained leverage and trust with both sides.
“Take the Admiral,” Frigian ordered. “Everyone out the back door. Hurry.”
One of the rowers tossed Hanno over his shoulder and strutted down the hallway. The other two followed. Alerio hesitated.
“Captain Frigian. Aren’t you worried if I’m captured, you’ll be tried for murder as well as me?” inquired Alerio.
“Lance Corporal Sisera. You are the only one who has killed tonight,” responded the Sons’ Captain while pointing at the unconscious bodyguard. “The worst case for me is I row out of Messina for a year then when Hanno is replaced, my crew and I row back. Shall we go?”
***
The five kidnappers hustled through the courtyard of Villa Creon turned left on the street and moved deeper into the block. Behind them, they heard Ferox and his crew noisily approaching from the other direction.
Two blocks from the Villa, a rower opened a door to a storage building and they hurried through the doorway. After the door shut, a flint struck and a candle blazed to life. Then Alerio and two of the oarsmen gagged and almost vomited.
“A death house?” Alerio inquired. “We’re hiding out here in the stink with rotting corpses?”
“It would be worse if the Sons hadn’t rubbed the departed with sea salt,” Frigian offered. “Not as fine grained as eating salt, or enough to pack them for shipping, just enough to preserve the bodies.”
“This is preserved?” groaned Alerio. “On a battlefield, the wind blows some of the odor away. Within these walls, there is no upwind side to escape the smell.”
“But the aroma is in our favor,” promised Frigian. “Place the Admiral in the cart, face down. We don’t want him suffocating on a dead thigh or a sluffed off piece of back muscle.”
The rustic wagon had dual cart shafts, higher sideboards than a typical vendor cart, and a layer of straw on the bed of the cart. Hanno was placed on the straw and an oarsman forked another layer over the Admiral. Then four cloth wrapped bodies were tossed on top of the straw.
Frigian handed out rough woolen robes, old floppy felt Phrygians, and squares of cotton fabric.
“The cloth doesn’t block out the smell,” observed Alerio as he placed the fabric over his face and tied the ends behind his head.
“It’s not there to filter out the aroma. It’s there to hide our faces and thin enough so people can hear our chant,” explained Frigian. The Captain adjusted Alerio’s hat so only a little of his face was visible between the top of the mask and the Phrygian low on his forehead. “We will pay our respects to the departed with full voice and stately steps. Open the door and let us proceed.”
“Were the departed Sons, friends of yours?” inquired Alerio as he lifted one of the cart shafts. Another of the oarsmen took hold of the other shaft.
“Them?” asked Frigian indicating the bed of the cart by jerking a thumb over his shoulder. “I don’t know them. Three are Empire soldiers and one, I think, maybe a Republic Legionary, but I’m not sure. We would never treat our dead like this.”
***
The door opened and the procession filed into the street with the Captain in front and two oarsmen walking beside the cart. Alerio and the other rower followed Frigian as he turned northward on the street. Then Frigian and the oarsmen began to chant.
Let all who grieve, chant the Sons of Mars Elegy
An empty bench, an idle oar, our brother’s passed
he’ll row no more
Walk me through Messina dears
A final view of the town I fear
Of the beautiful harbo
r at sunrise
And the high Citadel at sunset
As I recall good days of cheer
Let all who grieve, chant the Sons of Mars Elegy
An empty bench, an idle oar, our brother’s passed
he’ll row no more
Beg my pardon of the Goddess sweet
Adiona’s light the mariner greets
She’ll guide my shipmates homeward
My journey, however, is but outbound
Never again her blaze to meet
Let all who grieve, chant the Sons of Mars Elegy
An empty bench, an idle oar, our brother’s passed
he’ll row no more
Launch my ship one final time
Let me taste the salty brine
Let me feel the power strokes
Sing to me the rowing notes
Row me out with lusty rhymes
Let all who grieve, chant the Sons of Mars Elegy
An empty bench, an idle oar, our brother’s passed
he’ll row no more
***
The five hooded and masked chanters and the reeking cart of corpses crossed the main road and moved loudly into the northern blocks. All the while they chanted the verses. Citizens and soldiers stepped back from the feeling and smell of death surrounding the procession.
On the second block past the wide road, a Lieutenant and his bodyguard waved for them to stop. Frigian ignored the Qart Hadasht officer’s challenge until they were beyond a lantern’s light.
“In the name of the Empire, I order you to halt,” he screamed trying to be heard over the chant.
Let all who grieve, chant the Sons of Mars Elegy
An empty bench, an idle oar, our brother’s passed
he’ll row no more
“Excuse me, Lieutenant, I can’t hear you over the elegy,” Frigian had to shout to be heard over the chanting.
“What is this and where are you going?” the officer demanded as his chest heaved and he gagged. The closer to the cart he moved the slower he walked, and his cheeks puffed out as he attempted to hold his breath.
Walk me through Messina dears
A final view of the town I fear
“We’re giving our dead a last tour of Messina,” Frigian yelled back even though they were only a couple of feet away from each other.
Of the beautiful harbor at sunrise
And the high Citadel at sunset
“We will search the wagon,” called back the Lieutenant. “Soldier, dig into the cart. See if the Sons of Mars are hauling weapons.”
As I recall good days of cheer
The soldier reluctantly approached the side of the cart. Up close, the sweet and poignant odor of rotting flesh overpowered his senses and he hesitated.
“Do it! Search the cart,” shouted his officer.
With fingers holding his nose and his eyes watering, the soldier stuck his other arm over the sideboards and shoved his hand into the straw.
Beg my pardon of the Goddess sweet
Adiona’s light the mariner greets
The oarsman on that side of the cart struck out slamming the soldiers head on the top of the sideboards. He staggered back and the oarsmen punched him in the groin below the armor. Then, the rower punched the soldier on the chin below the helmet.
She’ll guide my shipmates homeward
My journey, however, is but outbound
Alerio spun away from the cart shaft bringing the back of his elbow around. It crashed into the side of the Lieutenant’s helmet.
Never again her blaze to meet
The officer, dazed and stumbling, crossed his legs trying to move laterally. Alerio hooked a leg behind the officer’s ankles and pushed. The Lieutenant crashed onto the road.
Let all who grieve, chant the Sons of Mars Elegy
Alerio brought his elbow down and smashed it into the officer’s face.
An empty bench, an idle oar, our brother’s passed
he’ll row no more
“Put him in the cart,” Frigian ordered two of the oarsmen.
As they moved the wrapped bodies to make a hole, they continued to chant.
Launch my ship one final time
Let me taste the salty brine
Once the Lieutenant was buried under the bodies, the procession moved down the block.
Let me feel the power strokes
Sing to me the rowing notes
The cart reached the third street and tuned east towards the Empire lines.
Row me out with lusty rhymes
***
“What’s this?” demanded a Qart Hadasht Sergeant. His voice, seasoned from years of issuing commands in the heat of battle, carried over the chant.
Let all who grieve, chant the Sons of Mars Elegy
An empty bench, an idle oar, our brother’s passed
he’ll row no more
“Giving our dead a final stroll through town,” replied Frigian. “Then to the dock and a burial at sea.”
Walk me through Messina dears
A final view of the town I fear
After years of war, the Empire Sergeant had developed immunity to death, the cries of the wounded, the plight of his enemy, the stink of unwashed bodies, and the paralysis of fear. While those issues didn’t bother him, others he found revolting. His sensitives included eggs prepared in any fashion, sweet fruit with small seeds and the smell of rotting bodies.
Of the beautiful harbor at sunrise
And the high Citadel at sunset
“Move along,” the Sergeant ordered as he moved far out of the campfire light and spit on the street. Death hovered and rot emitted from the cart and he wanted it gone.
As I recall good days of cheer
The cart and robed chanters moved down the street. With the raised voices echoing off the compound walls, the Legionaries further down assembled and waited.
Let all who grieve, chant the Sons of Mars Elegy
An empty bench, an idle oar, our brother’s passed
he’ll row no more
***
“Halt!” ordered the Legion Corporal. “We will search your wagon.”
Frigian guided the cart northward on the street before stopping. Once around the corner and out of view from any sharp eyes at the Qart Hadasht barricade, Alerio brushed back the Phrygian and pulled down the cotton mask.
“I am Lance Corporal Alerio Sisera of the Southern Legion. And yes Corporal, you will check the cart,” Alerio stated. “As a matter of fact, you’ll unload the cart and send a runner for Senior Centurion Valerian.”
“And why would I do that?” demanded the Corporal.
“Because we have the Tribune’s bargaining tokens,” reported Alerio. “They’re in the cart.”
Chapter 36 - The Reality of Brutal Negotiations
Tribune Claudius’ first orders included bathing and finding clean tunics for the Admiral and the Lieutenant. Then, he sent the Lieutenant off with Legionaries and had Hanno escorted up the hill to the Legion command tent.
“Seeing as I couldn’t get you to speak with me during our meal,” Claudius said as a Sergeant bound the Admiral’s hands and ankles before settling the Qart Hadasht commander in a chair. “I thought this environment would be more favorable to a conversation.”
“You have me at a disadvantage,” Hanno replied holding up his hands. “I am unable to kill you with my hands tied.”
“Or I could kill you,” Claudius shot back resting his hand on his gladius. “But when my Legionaries were shipwrecked on your shoreline, you spared them. It’s one of the reasons you’re still alive.”
“What is the other reason?” inquired Hanno.
“I don’t want to start a war with the Qart Hadasht Empire,” responded Claudius. “By murdering one of their Admirals.”
Hanno burst out laughing.
“That Tribune Claudius is ironic,” Hanno said when he stopped. “When I spared your Legionaries and the Greek sailors, I did it because I didn’t want to be responsible for star
ting a war with the Republic.”
“And yet, here we are looking at war over Messina,” Claudius summed up. “In the final analysis, it won’t be you or me who decides on war. It’ll be our rulers.”
“What is to become of me?” questioned Hanno. “Will you ship me, by night, back to your Capital to display a captured Qart Hadasht Admiral for your people? Or complete the task and murder me?”
“I was hoping you would order your men to leave Messina and row away with them,” suggested Claudius. “That would take the decision out of my hands.”
“I am Hanno, an Admiral of the Qart Hadasht Empire,” he stated with pride. “Kill me, torture me, but I will never surrender Messina.”
“Right now, I believe we should breakfast,” the Tribune ventured as he watched the first rays of sunlight stream into the command tent. “Optio. Bring rations for the Admiral and me.”
Claudius paced and thought as they waited for the food. Hanno settled on glaring at the Tribune. When the Sergeant brought in two bowls of cooked oats sweetened with honey, a camp stool was placed in front of Hanno.
“If you don’t eat, you’ll be hungry and weak,” offered Claudius when he saw the Admiral turn his nose up at the bowl. Lifting a small ladle, the tribune took a mouthful. “Delicious. It’s a shame you’re missing out.”
“Suffering your presence is torture enough,” Hanno complained. “Ingesting your common soldier’s fare is insufferable.”
“Explain something to me, Admiral,” inquired Claudius as he took another mouthful. “Your officers. Are they all nobility from royal houses of Qart Hadasht?”
“There are no kings or queens in Qart Hadasht. Only aristocrats from the finest families are allowed to serve as officers of the navy and army,” bragged Hanno.
“What about your sub-commanders, Gisco and Barca?” Claudius asked. “How important are their families?”
“Both are directly related to the current Suffetes,” Hanno informed the Tribune. “In a few years, Barca would have become a great general of the Empire. Had you not killed him.”
Clay Warrior Stories Boxset 2 Page 41