Baoth trotted back to the first of the wagons.
“Give me another ten squads geared up,” he instructed.
“Expecting trouble, Colonel?” a Lieutenant inquired.
“No. But we’re close to territory friendly to the Republic,” Baoth replied. “I don’t want to take chances.”
Around four of the wagons, men gathered to draw helmets, chest armor, spears, and shields. As with any military allocation, the one hundred and fifty men clustered around the wagons’ gates. While waiting for their gears, the crowd of infantrymen blocked the four wagons, leaving only two transports free for the rapid distribution of war equipment.
Compared to the lazy distribution of shields, the ten heavy infantrymen from the vanguard trotted towards the city militiamen.
***
Alerio slipped the two short Legion swords from their sheaths. After flashing them in crossing patterns to loosen his shoulders, he lowered both arms to his sides.
“Those Gauls have a lot of confidence,” he commented.
“They are heavy infantry and we are light,” a Catanian remarked. “And they outnumber us two to one.”
“Have you always been good with numbers?” Alerio inquired.
Flustered by the spear points rushing at him and the conversational nature of the inquiry, the Catanian froze.
“I asked you a question,” Alerio growled. “I expect an answer.”
“Sir. Not particularly,” the infantryman blurted out.
“Then let’s focus on killing a few and not the odds,” Alerio instructed. Elevating his weapons to guard positions, he encouraged. “Warriors of Catania, I love winter campaigns.”
***
A spear shot out targeting Alerio’s hip. Expecting two things, the Gallic infantryman shuffled forward. The first thing expected was for his lightly armored victim to back up. He also expected his squad to easily advance over the bodies of the militiamen.
The line of Gauls stalled when spearheads flashed in front of their faces. Hand selected by Centurion Sisera the Catania light infantrymen had been drilled hard. Their shafts parried, thrusted, and slashed as if the spears were long swords. It might have been two to one odds but the shafts of the ones seemed to be everywhere.
A growling, off pitch sound came from the center of the Catania line. At first the light infantrymen were confused before realizing Centurion Sisera was singing.
I love winter campaigns
The cold lends quality to my pain
Alerio used his blades to counter one shaft and block another. In two steps, he placed his boot on the hand of the Gaul who attempted to stab him.
Wet leaves for a bed
my attitude as soggy as my head
From the spear shaft, Alerio jumped to the Gaul’s shoulder. Not expecting the swiftness of the militiaman or to be climbed like a short tree, the Gallic infantryman took a step back to fend off the attack.
Ground turned to mush
Until it’s stirred into slush
The heavy infantryman raised an arm to protect his neck but was too late. Alerio’s blade sliced along the flesh and into the artery.
Then I march like a brute
Squashing under hobnailed boots
The soldier fell to his knees, his assailant forgotten as the Gaul pressed as hand to the neck wound. Alerio leaped off the dropping shoulders and landed behind the rank of Gallic infantrymen.
Yes, I Love winter campaigns
Its never-ending novelties and strains
The gap caused by the missing man snapped the Gaul’s continuity and stopped the advance. For a moment, the Catanians pushed the heavily armored Gauls backward. Seeing the problem, the Gallic NCO inhaled and gathered his voice.
But Alerio sang.
I love winter campaigns
The whiff of snow hurts my brain
The order to close ranks died in the Gallic NCO’s throat.
Brown and frozen
Why wasn’t I unchosen
Alerio yanked his gladii from the NCO’s neck and gut. While the Gallic NCO fell, Alerio spun to face his light infantrymen. He sang while gesturing his four light infantrymen with the blades.
Chilled men on the move
Not to despair but I disapprove
The four Catanians, in unison, swiped their spears to the right. But the bashing of the Gallic shafts to the side, left the two on the end free to strike.
The land lays dormant
A rain slick is my adornment
Before the heavy infantrymen could take advantage of the openings, Alerio rushed the pair. The Legion weapons’ instructor kicked, sending one into the other.
Yes, I love Winter Campaigns
Dead foliage with sleet and rain
They stumbled while Alerio hacked and stabbed. Pushing forward, he didn’t give either an opportunity to land a strike.
I love Winter Campaigns
The weather a mind and brain drain
Alerio hopped back and waved both gladii overhead. At the sign, the Catanians took a step back and swiped left. The odds had dropped to six against five.
When marching is dumber
Far from the promise of summer
Alerio pivoted and raked a gladius across the back of an infantryman’s legs. The odds dropped to five to five.
Realizing the four in front were better than average and another of the militiamen was behind their ranks, the Gallic heavy infantrymen closed their shields and backed away from the fight.
Please don’t make me run
In the sad light of the twilight sun
While the four Auxiliary light infantrymen backed up watching for thrown spears, Alerio raced through their line heading for ten oddly shaped mounds of dirt.
Here there are no victors
Cold nights are the misery predicter
He sang while throwing off the light infantry helmet and unstrapping the armor.
Yes, I Love winter campaigns
And the chance to be profane
***
Colonel Baoth scanned the hillsides and the rear of his columns. Something felt wrong. But it wasn’t until the cries of alarm came from the men at the front that it solidified into alarm.
“Arm up. Form a perimeter,” the Colonel ordered while wheeling his horse.
On the crest of the hills, light infantrymen marched into view and began forming attack lines. Baoth wasn’t worried, his Gauls had faced worse.
“Get your gear and clear away from the wagons,” he instructed.
What did worry him was the slow response time for arming his heavy infantry. It seemed each wagon had a mob clumped at the rear tail gate. Then a chill ran down the Colonel’s spine. From the hills on both sides, separate groups of Greek Hoplites marched over the crowns. Even with broken strides, the Greeks in the four groups moved as a single body. At the bottom of the slopes, the Hoplites matched strides, locked shields, dipped spears, and formed into four phalanxes.
“Get your gear and fall back,” Baoth shouted. “We’ll defend at the creek.”
Chapter 4 – Debt Erased
Alerio sprinted between two oval shaped mounds, dug in his heels, and spun to face the Catanians and the Gauls. On either side of him, red capes threw off thin layers of dirt and Legion heavy infantrymen pushed from the ground. Two Privates rushed to Alerio. One handed him the rooster combed helmet then they helped Sisera strap on his officer’s armor.
“Orders, Centurion?” Decanus Sambuci inquired while tying a red cape around Sisera’s shoulders.
Where the Gallic company had faced five light infantrymen, now the path was blocked by a squad of Legionaries and a Legion Centurion. All eleven capes flapped in the breeze.
“Let’s get into this fight,” Alerio commented. “We can’t let the Syracusans have all the glory.”
***
The sight of Legionaries coming from the direction of the town and the phalanxes about to split his column into four pieces, hit Baoth hard. Cianciana was a trap. There was
no reward or payment. All of Admiral Hannibal Gisco’s words were the lies of a deceiver.
“Fall back to the creek,” the Gallic Colonel cried.
At the rear of his columns, four units of infantry angled in to seal off the retreat. He didn’t recognize them, but they moved in good order. And unlike his infantrymen, they were armored and had their weapons.
Baoth dismounted, collected a handful of his Gauls, and began to form a defensive circle. It was going to be a long afternoon.
***
Alerio was pleased when the Echetla infantry began closing the rear door. He now had units surrounding the Gauls. Even though his command was technically outnumbered, the auxiliary forces were grouped into strong points. Between surprise and placement, he had no doubt of success.
Then the phalanxes reached the columns and chewed their way through the Gauls. As crudely as slicing a loaf of bread with a wood saw, the columns were cut into individual segments. Each isolated group fought light infantrymen, while the Hoplites reversed their formations preparing for another pass.
Optio Miravi, standing on the crest of the left hill, lifted two flags and watched for Centurion Sisera’s response. It came in the form of both gladii lifted above the Legion officer’s head. The flags snapped and the final units jogged over the hills.
Where the phalanxes hadn’t touched, the Centuripe and the Messina infantrymen sealed the sides and the fate of the Gauls. Over the next half a day, Admiral Hannibal Gisco’s debt to the Gauls was permanently erased.
***
In the dark between campfires, the moans and cries of the wounded seemed more personal. While in the firelight, the faces of companions helped ease the after-battle tension.
Five riders approached the gate. They reigned up their mounts at the order of the sentry.
“Halt. Come out of the dark and be recognized,” the Echetla guard challenged.
Behind him, a squad of his contemporaries waited. If the riders wanted trouble, they would find it.
“Tribune Georgius,” a rider introduced himself. “I have missives for Centurion Sisera.”
“Let them through,” the Echetlan NCO ordered.
***
Alerio was surprised at the quick response. After the battle, while his allied units carried dead and wounded back to their marching camp, he had sent a message to Tribune Caecilius about the victory. Now, just a short time later, the Junior Tribune appeared. Centurion Sisera wasn’t sure what to make of the situation.
He met the junior Tribune and the cavalry escort outside his quarters. Without any preamble, he guided Georgius into the tent.
“Come to get a report on the fighting?” Alerio questioned.
The young nobleman handed Alerio a scroll.
“Tribune Gaius Caecilius sent me as soon as he received your message,” Georgius reported. “Legion line officers rarely receive personal letters from Senators. Especially when the missive is signed a presumptive Consul.”
“A Consul?” Alerio questioned while unrolling the scroll.
“Are you acquainted with Gaius Duilius?” the Junior Tribune inquired.
“Not really, Tribune,” Alerio admitted as he read. “The Senator was a signatory to my Centurion warrant but that’s the only time I’m met him.”
“A powerful man and one worth knowing,” Georgius assured Alerio. “I’ll take charge here. You are leaving for the Capital in the morning.”
Alerio glanced down at the scroll and read.
Centurion Alerio Sisera,
I trust this letter finds you well. Through a number of circumstances, the fleet finds itself in need of combat instructors. I feel that you are uniquely suited for the position. Proceed to Rome and the Legion recruitment camp with all possible haste.
Stay Healthy,
Senator Gaius Duilius
“The Senate voted on the Ides of March,” Georgius pointed out. “That was five days ago. The Senator is now a sitting Consul.”
“And that’s the reason for my rushed travel orders?” Alerio questioned.
“Gaius Duilius is only the tenth of the Plebeian class to hold the position,” the young nobleman advised. “Undoubtedly, he will be our General in the Sicilia campaign this year. So, yes, Centurion, anything the Consul wants, we had better deliver.”
“Including a Legion line officer?” Alerio guessed.
“Including you, Centurion Sisera,” Georgius assured him.
Act 2
Chapter 5 – Patrician Pride
Senators Gnaeus Cornelius Scipio, a Patrician, and Gaius Duilius, a Plebeian, were elected on the Ides of March. Once the celebrations and parties ended, Consul Cornelius Scipio took the seventeen warships of the fleet and rowed for Messina. Remaining in the Capital, Consul Gaius Duilius put the machinery in motion to raise four Legions for the Sicilia campaign.
Alerio Sisera had no knowledge of the events and didn’t care about the class of the Consuls. The decisions, politics, and campaign preparations were far above his station. For the moment, he had a wineskin of average red, a seat on the foredeck of a transport, and no responsibilities.
“Good morning, Centurion,” an older Legionary greeted him.
The scarred veteran limped across the cargo boards, reached Alerio, and sat slowly while favoring his right knee.
“How bad is it, Optio?” Alerio questioned.
The two Legionaries had met briefly when they boarded the transport in Messina harbor. Then they got occupied stowing their belongings and hadn’t talked before the merchant vessel rowed away from the pier. Lacking the rowing or sailing power to brave the strait’s southbound flow, the vessel waited for the current to reverse. With the transport bobbing at the mouth of the harbor, the Legionaries had time to socialize.
“Bad enough that the medics are discharging me from the marching Legions,” the NCO replied.
“I imagine, Optio Gurganus, a man with your experience won’t have a problem landing a position as a rich man’s bodyguard,” Alerio offered. “Or a post at a Legion garrison.”
“Centurion, at seventeen I strapped on a shield and hefted the gladius in defense of the Republic,” Rutri Gurganus informed Alerio. “I’m not ready to be a nursemaid or a paper shuffler for a fat Centurion at a country way station.”
Alerio handed over the wineskin to the NCO.
“I can’t argue with that sentiment,” he told the Optio.
From the steering deck, the transport’s Captain shouted, “Hold on. Waves are coming.”
The Legionaries peered over the bow. Cutting across the Massina Strait, three quinqueremes, each dipping one hundred and eighty oars raced for the harbor.
“Left side walk us over,” the transports Captain directed his oarsman.
In two long strokes, the merchant ship eased closer to the protective arm of the inlet and out of the entrance. The three warships slid across the strong currents of the strait and entered the smooth waters of Messina harbor. From powerful forward rowing actions, the oarsmen backstroked to dissipate the momentum and kept their warships from running into a pier or running their rams into the beach.
Alerio and Rutri Gurganus craned their necks and gazed at the upper deck of the middle quinquereme. It wasn’t any different than the two on either side. Except in lieu of a pair of ballistae, Marines, and a handful of sailors, the deck was crowded with Tribunes and well-appointed Legionaries. Only a First Century would be that clean and uniformed. And only a General or Battle Commander would have an enlarged Century as bodyguards and a gaggle of staff officers.
“I believe, Centurion Sisera,” Rutri Gurganus pointed out. He saluted with the wineskin. “That is one of the new Consul. Sad to say, I will not be fighting under him.”
“That must be General Gnaeus Scipio,” Alerio declared.
“Are you acquainted?” the NCO inquired.
“No, Optio. But I have met Consul Gaius Duilius,” Alerio replied. “It’s a process of elimination.”
“I wonder why he is in such a rush?”
Optio Gurganus commented. “The Legions won’t arrive for weeks.”
Then the waves caused by the three warships rocked the transport forcing Alerio and Rutri to hold on to the rail.
***
On board Fulgora’s Strike, General Gnaeus Scipio snapped at the ship’s Centurion.
“If you run my ship into the pier,” Scipio warned. “You’ll wish the Goddess of Lightening had hit you, instead of me.”
“Yes, General,” the ship’s senior officer acknowledged. Then to his first officer, he directed. “First Principale, bring us about and back us onto the beach.”
Because he needed to check but mostly to get away from the Consul, the ship’s Centurion walked his deck, inspecting the oarsmen and sailors. He was on the foredeck when the ship ground onto the sand.
The Third Principale shouted, “Over the side. Get her high, get her dry.”
At the command, one hundred and fifty of the oarsmen poured from the lower deck, leaped over the sides, and splashed into the water. They gathered around the hull of the quinquereme. The ship’s Centurion felt the ship lift as if on a high wave. But it wasn’t a wave. It was the muscles of half his oarsman physically moving the ship-of-war up onto the beach.
“We are dry,” the Third Principale called out.
“We are dry,” First Principale repeated. Then he added. “Ship oars.”
From below deck, the Second Principale passed on the instructions to the rowers, “Ship oars.”
As the oars were drawn into the hull, a group of sailors lowered a ramp over the side. Without looking back or acknowledging the ship’s deck officer or the crew, Consul Gnaeus Scipio followed a squad from his First Century off the warship and down to the sand. The ship’s senior officer wondered if the Tribunes and Legionaries were going to push each other off the ramp. Moving quickly, the Consul, with his entourage stretched out behind him, reached the pier, and vanished between two warehouses.
The Third Principale stood in ankle deep water examining the hull. Using his hands to probe caulking and his eyes to look for warped or loose boards, he moved around the vessel. Once the officer splashed around the ram and was out of sight, a man strolling along the beach approached one of the rowers.
Unjust Sacrifice Page 3