Unjust Sacrifice

by Slater, J. Clifton

Gabriella DeMarco breezed into the room from a backdoor. Her eyes taking in her brother working on the brace, the bow of his head in respect from Rutri Gurganus, and the example of military might leaning in the doorway at the entrance. Her eyes shifted from Centurion Sisera and focused on her brother.

  “Good, you’re here,” Nicholas exclaimed when he saw his sister. “The shape is pushing against the mass. It could be sliding.”

  “Sorry, ma’am,” Rutri apologized. “He’s been saying mass this and mass that since I showed him the broken strap.”

  “Unfortunately for most, my brother talks in concepts. It makes it difficult for normal people to follow,” Gabriella remarked. She picked up a piece of parchment and a chunk of charcoal. Then while tracing shapes inquired. “A pattern of pushing against a mass by an object?”

  Nicholas finished rethreading the new strap on the brace and stood. He glanced at the drawing, pointed to several areas, and indicated corrections. Then, he smeared a line of charcoal, cutting one shape in half.

  “Reduced, the object transcends from push to slide,” he stated before checking the knee by tugging on the brace.

  Gabriella gazed at Alerio’s equipment and at Rutri Gurganus’ armor and helmet. Then her eyes locked on Alerio’s shield.

  “My brother imagines currents and pressures unthought of by common people,” she advised. Crossing the room, the woman made lifting motions with her hands. “If you please, Centurion Sisera.”

  Alerio held up the shield and held it out as if offering the goddess, a basket of fruit.

  Gabriella consulted the drawing. With a practiced eye, she carefully marked a line on the shield with the charcoal.

  “Cut it here and the shorter shield will sail across the air,” she described.

  “We can’t be cutting Legion infantry shields almost in half,” Rutri announced. “Can we, sir?”

  Alerio held the barrier parallel with the floor. Then he spun in circles, allowing his arm to feel the pressure from the cushion of air. He experimented by angling the shield and judging the resistance.

  “We are cutting yours and mine,” Alerio responded to the NCO. “If it works, our ravens will have adjusted equipment.”

  A voice from outside called, “Gabriella. Gabriella DeMarco, are you around?”

  “In here,” Gabriella replied.

  Doctor Allocco stepped over the threshold and was almost hit by Alerio and the floating shield.

  “A demonstration of fending off barbarians, Centurion Sisera?” the physician inquired.

  “No Doctor. I was just trying out a new shape,” Alerio said trying to defend his actions. He held the shield out as if that would explain everything.

  “Looks the same to me,” Doctor Allocco commented. Then, to Gabriella she asked. “Can I use your grain grinder? I have taken in so much raw grain as payment, my storage wagon is almost full. If I can get enough finely ground, I can sell the flour at a profit.”

  Rutri Gurganus grunted when Nicholas cinched down the strap. Then the young man walked to a workbench and picked up a piece of leather. He cut it into a circle and began slicing lines along the outside edge.

  “Let me finish up with the Legionaries and I’ll get the stone and mortar grinder,” Gabriella offered.

  “Take your time,” the Doctor said.

  Rutri hopped down, lifted and stretched his leg to test the brace.

  “Better and more solid with the new strap,” he declared. “What do I owe you, ma’am?”

  Before Gabriella could reply, Nicholas stepped away from the workbench. Held between the tip of his thumb and a finger was a wheel of leather. Except rather than a smooth rim, the circular shape had blades extending around the perimeter.

  The young man stared at the circle with such intensity that everyone in the room followed his eyes to the wheel. Then he blew gently on the blades. It rotated with each breath.

  “A children’s toy,” Alerio ventured, trying to be complimentary.

  “A grain grinder,” Nicholas corrected.

  Gabriella snatched up the parchment, flipped it over, and traced the wheel and blades. Then, following her brother’s directions, drew a beam from the center of the hub upward to a right angle. On the end of the cross beam, she drew a smaller wheel.

  “What is that?” Doctor Allocco questioned.

  “It appears to be a mill,” Alerio remarked. “But where do you hook the mule?”

  “It’s powered by water,” Nicholas informed him. He blew on the blades and the wheel spun. “Not mule muscle or air, but the current of a stream.”

  “I can see the miniature and understand the drawing?” Frances Allocco announced. “But can you scale it up to a working model?”

  “If we had the coins from people willing to invest,” Gabriella assured the doctor.

  “With just the raw grain I have taken as payment, I can keep a mill busy for a week,” Frances Allocco figured. “The value would triple if the grains were properly milled. Based on that, I’m willing to invest.”

  “I don’t have much,” Alerio admitted. “but I’ll invest.”

  Gabriella looked at Nicholas with questions in her eyes.

  “We’ll need good granite for the grinding surfaces,” he answered her unspoken inquiry. “Everything else is lumber and manpower. And yes, we can scale it up.”

  He balanced the small leather wheel on the tip of a finger and blew on the blades. It spun easily.

  ***

  Alerio and Rutri borrowed tools, made cuts, and carried their mutilated shields back to the beach.

  “Optio, give me your fastest and longest jumping raven,” Alerio ordered the NCOs. “And two of your most flatfooted, wobbly kneed ducks.”

  Soon a fit but slight built Legionary stood back from the fifteen-foot gap. He bent his legs, inhaled deeply, then sprinted forward. At the edge of the boards, he launched himself, flew across the gap, landed then stumbled on the set of boards on the opposite side.

  “Impressive,” Alerio commented. Then he had the shorter shields strapped on the slower and less agile men. “When you jump, hold your arm and shield flat to the ground.”

  After being equipped, the men raced for the edge of the boards. One ignored the instructions and pumped his arms as if trying to crawl across the gap. It did him no good. The Legionary crashed into the edges of the boards. He hung for a moment before slipping off and falling into the deep trench. Fortunately, thanks to the boots of running Legionaries, the soil was beaten to a fluffy texture that cushioned his landing.

  The other Legionary for the first time made it across the gap.

  “What did you do?” Optio Gurganus asked.

  “I actually leaned on the shield a little,” the Private described. “I imagined it like sliding down a snowy slope back home.”

  “Line them up,” Alerio ordered. “Everyone tries the shorter shields and the wider crossing.”

  For the rest of the day, ravens flew across the gap and landed on the far boards. Or, the ducks collided with edges of the boards before falling into the trench.

  “Decani,” Alerio called to the squad leaders. “If you have a man who can’t fly, I want his weight cut. Run him, beat him, starve him, I don’t care. Get the weight off the fat bodies.”

  Alerio started to walk away when Gurganus trotted up.

  “What are we going to do, Centurion Sisera?” Rutri asked, holding up his partial shield.

  “We are cutting them,” Alerio replied. “Every last one of the Marines’ shields, Optio Gurganus.”

  “Yes, sir,” the NCO remarked.

  Chapter 13 – Exceeding Authority

  Alerio sat in the barrack’s kitchen with a bowl of stew and half a loaf of bread. In a naval base where Centurions controlled ships and Centuries, he expected to be among a crowd of fellow officers. But, General Gnaeus Scipio had taken fifty-five officers when he sailed to Sicilia, leaving only a few for command of supplies, defenses, and the transfer depot.

  The Legionary Marines or the fle
et hadn’t been sent any officers from General Duilius’ Legions. That left NCOs in charge of the Marines and oarsmen. It would change when the Legions arrived. For now, it made for a lonely dinner for Alerio.

  But there wasn’t a shortage of staff officers.

  “Centurion Sisera?” a young Tribune asked.

  The table was empty other then Alerio. For a moment, he almost didn’t acknowledge the nobleman. But there was no one to hide behind.

  “I’m Sisera, sir,” he confirmed between bites.

  “Senior Tribune Lubricum wants you in his office,” the Tribune informed Alerio.

  “Do I have time to finish eating?” Alerio inquired.

  “It is getting late, Centurion,” the staff officer specified. “I wouldn’t keep the Senior Tribune waiting.”

  Alerio started to say something about the extraneous use of titles and that he was aware of the position held by the man who summoned him. Instead, the veteran Centurion added to the title banter.

  “If the Senior Tribune is waiting,” Alerio announced. “We should get moving. Show me the way, Tribune, to Senior Tribune Lubricum’s office.”

  No doubt the young staff officer was from an important family. He was, after all, assigned to the Senior Tribune in charge of the fleet. For a moment, Alerio thought the young nobleman would accuse him of disrespect. He might have except, when Centurion Sisera stood, the campaign ribbons and expert badges showed. The young staff officer decided to forget the verbiage when dealing with a veteran.

  “I’ll lead the way, Centurion,” the Tribune offered.

  ***

  Egidius Lubricum’s office sat next door to Zelare Sudoris’ suite. While the Fleet Praetor’s was empty, the Senior Tribune’s bustled with activity.

  “The Senior Tribune Lubricum will see you shortly,” an aide informed Alerio.

  Disappointed that he hadn’t finished dinner, Alerio selected a chair away from the doorway. Despite the distance, he could hear a man he assumed was Lubricum.

  “I don’t care what you need to do,” the Senior Tribune roared. “when the warships arrive, we’ll need crews. Find me the additional men.”

  “Yes, Tribune,” a man replied.

  Shortly after, a civilian dashed from the office with the look of a freed animal on his face. Behind him, a Senior Centurion appeared in the doorframe.

  “Sisera?” he called.

  Alerio glanced at the other chairs and the men in civilian tunics occupying the seats. He was the only one dressed in Centurion armor. For a moment, he almost asked if he should wear a sign with his name on it to make identifying the only Legion officer in the outer officer easier. Deciding his attitude was from being hungry, he kept to a simply acknowledgement.

  “Here, Senior Centurion,” Alerio announced.

  “I’m Nutatus Typus,” the senior line officer replied. “Come in.”

  ***

  Egidius Lubricum’s office was large enough that two secretaries and their desks easily fit along one wall.

  “Sisera, I’ll get right to the point,” the Senior Tribune stated. “I am short Centurions. You are wasting time training the Legionaries. When the Legions arrive, they will be absorbed or discharged. I need you on a desk. Specifically, in supply to oversee the deliveries.”

  “Sir, with all due respect, I am not assigned to the fleet,” Alerio informed the Tribune. “General Duilius sent me here to train the Marines.”

  “Marines? What a stupid title. They are Legionaries,” Senior Centurion Typus offered. “And they have been through Legion training and have qualified. Although none of the marching Centuries wanted them. You can’t make an ox a racehorse.”

  “But you can make it the best ox it can be,” Alerio stated. Too late, he realized spouting home spun wisdom to a senior officer was a bad idea.

  “What did you say to the Senior Centurion?” Lubricum shouted.

  “Sir. I was sent by General Duilius to build up the Legionaries assigned to the fleet,” Alerio repeated.

  “And I was given the authority to prepare the fleet by senior Consul Gnaeus Scipio,” Tribune Lubricum informed Alerio. “I will not argue with a Centurion. In the morning report to the supply depot. Or you will face punishment.”

  “Yes, sir,” Alerio said, folding to the man’s authority.

  “Dismissed, Centurion Sisera,” Senior Centurion Nutatus Typus ordered. “And be at the supply depot by dawn.”

  ***

  Alerio strolled down the aisles of supplies. Ropes, sail cloth, and buckets of pitch were stacked and waiting for warships.

  “Good morning, Decanus,” he greeted the Lance Corporal assigned to the office. “When do we get the wagons?”

  “About midday, sir,” the Lance Corporal answered.

  “Excellent,” Alerio stated while heading for the exit. “Let me know when they arrive.”

  Outside the large supply tent, Centurion Sisera took in a deep breath and exhaled. Then he rounded the tent to find eighty Legionary Marines stretching and loosening up.

  “Today we are running sword and shield drills,” he announced.

  As expected, the men lifted their shields and held the gladii at hip level. They waited for the command to turn and face off with each other. The command didn’t come.

  “We don’t have the luxury of locking shields with our enemies,” Alerio pointed out. “A pushing match is deadly for the ravens. The longer we’re in combat, the more likely, we will lose.”

  The men of the Century glanced around at each other. None knew where the weapons’ instructor was going with the lecture.

  “I am going to give you specific instructions when dealing with the Qart Hadasht mercenaries,” Alerio directed. “Get them off their feet, make them dead, and move on. Or make them dead, drop the body, and move on. If you hesitate on the deck of an enemy ship, their rowers might decide to join in the fight. I’ll put a Legionary against any soldier. But not against three hundred oarsmen. Remember, no reinforcements are coming to help you at first. What are the instructions?”

  “Get them off their feet, make them dead, and move on,” the voices shouted back. “Or make them dead, drop the body, and move on.”

  “Give me three volunteers,” Alerio demanded. He glanced between the tents and noted several slow-moving wagons. “I’ll show you the moves. You practice them until I get back. Attack me.”

  As they had been trained, the trio of Legionaries linked the shortened shields. Then they shuffled forward with their gladii blades held beside their hips ready to stab upward.

  “We don’t have a second maniple or reinforcements,” Alerio described as he ran at the Legionaries. “All we have is what we bring to the fight.”

  The trio raised their shields, preparing to catch his weight as they would a charging barbarian. But the body never flew. Instead, Weapons’ Instructor Sisera dropped to his knees and slid. His short shield slammed into the center man’s legs.

  The Legionary tipped forward and Alerio jackknifed his knees and kicked the man on the right in his hip. With two Legionaries thrown off the attack line, the third Marine stabbed at the instructor. His blade was stopped by Alerio’s gladius.

  “Get them off their feet, kill them, and move one,” Centurion Sisera yelled as he spun his blade around the other gladius. The Marine’s blade flew from his hand and Alerio leaped to his feet. A bash with his shoulder sent the final Legionary to the ground. “What is the object?”

  “Get them off their feet, kill them, and move on,” the rest of the Century called back.

  “Let’s start easy,” Alerio suggested while helping one of the men off the ground. No sooner did the Legionary gain his footing then the weapons’ instructor punched the man’s shield and snaked a leg forward. With his legs locked up by the Centurion’s leg, the man fell back and landed hard. “Get them off their feet, kill them, and move on.”

  “Optio, supervise them. Decani, work your squads on the bash and trip,” Alerio ordered. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”


  The wagons had reached the supply depot. Alerio jogged between the tents on his way to count the delivered equipment.

  ***

  With the final wagon accounted for, the supply Legionaries began unloading. Alerio signed off on the bill and turned to find the Senior Centurion standing beside the tent.

  “I wasn’t sure you would follow orders, Sisera,” Nutatus Typus remarked. “I thought I’d have to chase you down at the training area you built.”

  “Glad to do my part, Senior Centurion,” Alerio acknowledged. He waved the papers from the delivery. “All counted and marked off.”

  Excellent,” the Centurion offered.

  Then a roar came from behind the supply tents. Typus walked between tents and Alerio jogged around the far end. They arrived in the back at the same time.

  Four Legionaries were beating and kicking a fifth man.

  “What’s going on here, Decanus?” the Senior Centurion demanded of the squad leader.

  The four attackers stepped back. On the ground lay a large muscular Legionary curled up and heaving in painful breaths.

  “We had a disagreement,” Lance Corporal Renunculi replied.

  “About what?” Typus inquired.

  “Private Hircus has a mouth problem, Senior Centurion,” Renunculi said as if it explained everything.

  “A mouth problem?”

  “Yes, sir. He can’t keep food out of it or keep it shut,” the Decanus stated. He looked at Alerio. “Am I wrong weapons’ instructor?”

  “No, Decanus,” Alerio assured him. “You know the orders. Keep him in line or I will. And get the fat off him.”

  Typus examined the muscular man searching for fat on his body. All he saw was full, hard muscles. The Senior Centurion strolled over to Alerio.

  “Walk with me,” he urged. They started back to the front of the supply tents. “I hope you know what you’re doing weapons’ instructor.”

  “We won’t know for a while,” Alerio admitted. “Not until we face the Empire and their ships-of-war.”

  “You really think a bunch of lean Marines can make a difference?”

  “Yes, Senior Centurion,” Alerio remarked. “I fought the Qart Hadasht mercenaries on the ground. The Legion won every time. But our land-based tactics take too long to develop for shipboard fighting. We need an edge.”