Clay Legionary (Clay Warrior Stories Book 1)

by J. Clifton Slater

“Right face,” yelled another Sergeant.

  Now the group who had originally faced to the right turned again. Some of the rest, who hadn’t moved the first time turned to face right. And still some remained facing the instructors. The training Century ended up facing in three different directions.

  “Corporal. How many of these will make it?” another Sergeant asked.

  “None Sergeant. We might as well take them to the harbor and drown the lot,” Thornernus replied loudly.

  “I agree. Any of you, who can understand me, raise your right hand,” the Sergeant ordered.

  Amazingly enough, all the Recruits raised a hand. Unfortunately, some raised their left hand.

  “Everyone turn towards the sound of my voice,” another Sergeant ordered. “Good. Now follow me.”

  He began to walk away and the Recruits like an accordion stretched out as the mob followed him.

  They rushed to keep up with the Sergeant as he guided the Recruits out of the main gate and around the Transfer Post. He was setting a good pace so only the best conditioned Recruits stayed near him. The rest were strung out. These Recruits received help from the other instructors.

  “Do you enjoy being last?”

  “How about we find you a pony so you can keep up?”

  “Do they have flying carpets where you come from? Because, I swear you don’t know how to use your legs?”

  As they neared the harbor, Corporal Thornernus jogged up and replaced the lead Sergeant. He continued onto an old wooden pier and the herd followed. At the end he stopped. The training Century staggered up and filled the pier as he watched.

  “Century, Attention,” shouted Thornernus. “Left Face.”

  Sergeants walked up and down the line adjusting each Recruit and turning many in the proper direction. Below them, waves slapped the pilings of the pier and the water appeared frothy and deep.

  The Corporal looked over the fastest of the Recruits. They were standing in front of him near the end of the pier. Fresh blood leaked through the head bandage of one Recruit.

  “Who are you eyeballing Recruit Sisera?” Thornernus shouted into Alerio’s face. “I am not your girlfriend. I will not suffer silent insolence. I want to see you run fat boy. To the training camp and back. Move it, now.”

  “Yes Corporal,” Alerio replied.

  He snapped a left face move and ran down the line of puzzled Recruits. Mostly puzzled was Sergeant Horus. The big lad had managed all the instructions and certainly wasn’t slacking off during the march to the pier.

  “Sergeants. Are any of these goats worth saving?” the Corporal asked.

  All the Sergeants sadly shook their heads indicating no.

  “Then we drown them and go get another bunch,” Thornernus announced. “Everybody, in the water.”

  Those who were strong swimmers jumped off the pier. Others, not sure of their abilities were pushed by the Sergeants. As the waves crashed over them, the training Century struggled until first one then another got a foot down and realized the water was only waste deep.

  “Swimmers. Work your way around the pier,” shouted Corporal Thornernus. “Non swimmers walk to the beach.”

  As the Century divided, the Sergeants stripped and jumped into the water. They began teaching basic strokes to the non-swimmers or improving the motions of the swimmers. Water would become a weekly discipline as every Legionary was required to pass a swimming test in order to graduate.

  By the time Sisera got back, the Century was standing on the pier dripping sea water. He ran up and joined the end of the line.

  “Century, left face,” a Sergeant commanded.

  After a little shoving by the other instructors, they were all facing in the proper direction.

  “Step off with your left foot and stomp with your right,” another Sergeant shouted.” Ready! Left, Stomp, Left, Stomp.”

  The stomps rippled alone the line as the training Century attempted to march as a unit. During the movement, Sergeant Horus drifted back to where the Corporal was herding the slackers.

  “Corporal. A moment of your time?” Horus asked.

  The two NCOs slowed and let some distance grow between them and the rear of the recruit formation.

  “The big lad. Why did you send him off?” Horus inquired.

  “Recruit Sisera tangled with some Rebels the other night,” Thornernus explained. “He probably saved a few Legionaries’ lives and for sure a lot of supplies. I figured the salt water would have been bad for a scalp and a shoulder wound. Funny thing though?”

  “What’s that?” asked Horus.

  “I believe he would have been one of the first to dive in,” Thornernus said. Then he noticed the rear of the formation was completely out of step. “Left, stomp, left, stomp.”

  Suddenly, Sergeant Horus wasn’t bored any longer.

  Chapter 33 - Gladius Drills

  They spent the rest of the first day fitting armor and showing the recruits how to dress for combat. After a quick meal, they ran them through calisthenics. The exercises ended at sundown and the recruits were instructed to clean up their equipment, their bodies and get some sleep.

  Before the sun’s rays touched the Eastern horizon and while the stars shone brightly in the night sky, a voice called out.

  “Training Century. Fall in,” the voice didn’t yell. It was spoken in a conversational tone without inflection.

  No one appeared from the Recruit’s tents. The six Sergeants, the Corporal and a Lance Corporal entered the tents. Kicking, yelling, tossing of items across the tent, soon had all the Recruits standing in the cold predawn.

  “It’s my throat,” a Sergeant said so softly the Recruits had to lean in to hear him. “I can’t yell so, when I call, I expect everyone to repeat my words. I appreciate the help.”

  The Recruits relaxed. All the yelling was simply a misunderstanding.

  “Get on your faces,” the soft spoken Sergeant whispered.

  A few repeated, “Get on your faces.”

  “Get on your faces,” insisted the Sergeant.

  This time, every Recruit yelled and dove to the sandy ground as they repeated. “Get on your faces.”

  “On your feet,” whispered the Sergeant.

  ”On your feet,” the Recruits shouted as they jump to their feet.

  “On your faces,” the Sergeant ordered.

  A half hour later, the Recruits were sweaty, hoarse from yelling, and covered in sand. The Sergeant walked off silently and another Sergeant came from behind the instructors’ tent.

  “What are you people doing?” he asked as the sun brightened the horizon. “You are filthy. Bad enough you’re dirty, you’re not in the uniform of the day.”

  The recruits glanced around at each other. A universal what is the uniform of the day passed through their minds.

  The silhouette of Corporal Thornernus came strutting out from between the supply tents. As the sun cast the first weak light of the day, he patted his stomach and stood picking his teeth with a straw.

  “Breakfast was excellent this morning, Sergeant,” Thornernus announced. “Are the men ready?”

  “Corporal. Would you be seen in the mess hall with these goats?” asked the Sergeant.

  “What?” asked the shocked Corporal. “Not a uniform of the day in the entire Century?”

  “What are we going to do?” asked the Sergeant.

  “Give me a second to figure this out,” Thornernus begged. After a few heartbeats he announced, “Alright people, the uniform of the day is chest armor, and your left boot. Go, you’re wasting time.”

  The Recruits ran back into their tents and lit lanterns. Ten minutes later, they were back on the practice field. Some had on both boots, some had shirts under their armor and a few were completely dressed for battle.

  “Sergeant. Your opinion?” Thornernus asked.

  “Corporal. I don’t see any uniformity to their dress,” stated the Sergeant. “Let’s try this again.”

  An hour later, after changing uni
forms of the day six times, the training Century was dressed in tunics and their boots.

  “Corporal. I believe they are dressed in the uniform of the day,” announced the Sergeant. “You are free to march them to the mess hall.”

  “Sergeant. The mess hall closed at the end of the watch,” confessed Corporal Thornernus.

  “That can’t be right,” challenged the Sergeant.

  The two NCOs began bickering and, as they argued, they wandered away until they were swallowed by the supply tents. Every Recruit looked to the man next to him looking for an answer. The answer arrived in the form of Sergeant Horus.

  “Collect your training Gladii and form up at the poles,” he ordered.

  It wasn’t his gruff voice that drove the Recruits into action. It was the deep scars covering the man’s arms and legs. And the look in his eyes. As if Sergeant Horus could kill you with his bare hands and not break a sweat.

  A short while later, the training Century was formed up around the Sergeant. They all held wooden training swords.

  “This is a gladius,” the Sergeant said holding up a wooden sword. “It’s heavier than its metal cousin. But it is a gladius.” He pointed the practice sword at a heavyset Recruit, “You attack me.”

  The Recruit took some urging but eventually, he swung at Horus. In two moves the Recruit was on his back with the point of the wooden sword at his throat. Horus picked out five more Recruits and demonstrated how dangerous the wooden weapon was before stepping back.

  “This is a gladius,” he repeated. “I can kill you with it as easily as I can with its metal cousin.”

  The squad of Legionaries who helped the instructors, appeared. Two of them at each practice pole soon had the Recruits running the first drill against the air. Sergeant Horus walked from group to group until he saw one recruit practicing left handed. It was the big farm boy.

  “You. Come here,” he growled.

  Alerio jogged over holding the sword in his left hand.

  “You can’t defend a shield with your left hand,” Horus explained. “It’ll throw off the entire unit. What’s your name?”

  “Recruit Sisera, Sergeant. I understand,” Alerio replied. “I was favoring my right arm but if you insist, I’ll use my right.”

  “Do it,” ordered Horus. He watched as the boy switched hands. He was as fluid in the drills with his right as he’d been with his left hand.

  After all the Recruits had proven rudimentary skills, he directed them to begin striking the poles. A line of Recruits was queued up at each pole. On his signal, the Recruits near the poles began the first drill.

  He didn’t have to look to see who was doing it correctly. He listened to the tone of the wood striking the poles, the rhythm of the strokes, and the speed of the assault. None of the recruits had it right.

  They went through almost an entire rotation before a pattern emerged. Some Recruit at one of the poles had the blade singing a battle song. As the practice gladius beat out an almost perfect tempo, Horus turned. Recruit Sisera’s wooden blade was dancing and smashing the pole. But, the Sergeant became alarmed.

  Blood was pouring down the Recruit’s right arm, streaks of red appeared on his wrapped head and blood drops dribbled onto his ear. Yet, the boy wouldn’t let up until Horus called for a change. Recruit Sisera staggered away from the pole and shook off one of the training squad members.

  “You. Come here,” Horus called to the Recruit.

  “Yes Sergeant?” Alerio responded.

  “Get to the medical tent,” the Sergeant ordered. “That’s an order.”

  “Yes, sir,” Alerio replied. “But really, I’m fine.”

  Horus squinted at the farm boy. One of the Sergeant’s eyes quivered and the veins in his neck plumped up. Alerio recognized the danger signs. He spun on his heels and headed for the medical tent.

  Chapter 34 - A Little Jog

  The morning passed with the training Century rotating through sessions on the striking posts. Most of the Recruits could barely lift their training gladii or their right arms after hours of welding the heavy swords. They were ordered to stow the gladii in the tents and report back to the practice field. To a man, they were hungry and tired, and it was only mid-morning.

  “Good morning Recruits,” another of the Sergeant said. “I trust you all had a good night’s sleep. I did, but I need a little exercise. Let’s go for a jog. Shall we?”

  As if by magic, Corporal Thornernus, and the other Sergeants appeared. They adjusted the lines so the Recruits were in even rows. Next they positioned themselves at the sides and behind the Recruits.

  “Attention! Right Face,” called the Sergeant. “Forward march. Left, stomp, left stomp.”

  The training Century stepped off heading for the main gate. Before the first row reached the exit to the Post, Recruit Sisera jogged up and fell in to the rear. His head was wrapped in a fresh bandage and the sleeve over his right shoulder displayed the bulge of another wrap.

  Sergeant Horus observed the farm boy.

  “Quick time march,” shouted the Sergeant. The Recruits went from marching to a slow jog.

  They didn’t mind the run until mile five. At that distance, a few fell back holding their sides and gasping for breath. As the column moved forward, more Recruits slowed and drifted back. Recruit Sisera on the last row offered encouragement and physically pulled two men along with him. Regardless of Alerio’s help, the trail behind the unit was soon littered with walking and limping Recruits.

  The non-hackers weren’t alone. Sergeants talked to them offering assistance at a high volume and directly into their ears.

  “Does it hurt you to run? The enemy runs all day. Are you weaker than our enemies?”

  “Do you want to die? If you can’t run away, the enemy will kill you first?”

  “It only hurts until you die.”

  Some responded to the motivation and jogged to catch up. Others were lost in their misery and couldn’t respond.

  At mile six, the column made a U-turn and headed back to the Transfer Post. In the weeks to come, the distance would increase until every recruit could run twenty miles in under five hours. Those failing to meet the time and distance, wouldn’t graduate.

  As the column reach the main gate, the Sergeant called, “Unit, march. Left foot. Stomp. Hold up your heads, you are Recruit Legionaries. Be proud.”

  Stragglers stretched out behind the column as if it had a long tail. Because Alerio had pulled two recruits along, he was separated from the main column by a few steps. As the unit began to march, he kept running and pulling to close the distance. Before he could reach the last row, a Sergeant stepped in front of him.

  “The order was to march,” the Sergeant growled. “Half rations for those not keeping up.”

  Further back, where those truly suffering staggered in, another Sergeant shouted, “Quarter rations for the non-hackers.”

  They were halted at the mess hall. As announced, the first group got a full meal. Recruit Sisera and his companions received half a meal. The remaining Recruits had only a quarter of a meal. In the Legion, performance was rewarded.

  Chapter 35 - Hand Launched Missiles

  The rest of the day was spent having the Recruits dress in their armor. Straps were tightened and pieces adjusted for fit. Sergeant Horus walked among them striking them with the flat of a wooden gladius.

  “Tighten the shoulder strap,” he’d say as a Recruit jerked back from the strike.

  It was the first time any of them had seen him smile. Bruised and bone weary, the Recruits were ordered to clean their gear, their bodies, and get some sleep.

  “Recruit Training Century, on the road for chow,” the Sergeant said softly.

  It was still dark and the exhausted Recruits were sound asleep. Yet a few heard and repeated the order. Soon, the Recruits were dressed and piling out of their tents. They marched as a unit to the mess hall for a quick meal then back to the practice field.

  They were greeted by the training squad
and lines of measured off rows.

  “Javelins and shields,” ordered the Sergeant.

  Once the recruits had their equipment, they were lined up at marked off areas. The areas started about a shoulder’s width wide and angled out until they were ten yards wide and forty yards deep. A bale of straw lay every ten yards down the center of each range.

  With the heavy wooden shield and a javelin, the recruits took turns launching the missiles. Most had an issue balancing the shield while throwing the javelin. A few understood the benefit of counterbalancing the shield and using the momentum to aid their throw. Recruit Sisera was one of them. Sergeant Horus took notice.

  After accessing their abilities, some recruits were pulled out for extra javelin training. Others were lined up and instructed to touch the edges of their shields together. They were split in half and turned to face each other. For the rest of the morning, the recruits jabbed at the other’s shields with the javelin.

  “You can only throw a javelin once and kill one enemy,” a Sergeant explained. “Or you can stab over your shield a hundred time and kill a hundred of the enemy.”

  For the rest of the day, the recruits were rotated between the shield wall and the range. At the end of the day, the entire training Century was queued up at the range.

  “Recruits. You have four targets on the range,” Corporal Thornernus announced while pointing at the straw bales. “Hit the fourth bale and you get full rations. Miss it and you’ll receive three quarters rations. Hit the third target and you’ll also receive three quarters rations. Miss three and you earn half rations. You have three javelins to earn your food.”

  Recruit Sisera was fifth in line. Along the range, fifteen of the recruits had managed to reach the fourth target. Five had hit it twice while the other ten had only hit it with one of their three javelins. Alerio stepped up and rocked his shield up while dropping his right arm back. He rocked transferring the power of the dropping shield through his shoulders and into his right arm. The javelin launched high into the air and ached over. It’s point drove into the back edge of the fourth target.

  “Full ration,” announced a Sergeant. “Two more throws.”