Lost in thought, Alerio missed the call.
“Sisera...Perhaps, he is preoccupied by Morpheus,” Praetor Sudoris suggested. The comment brought laughter and chuckles from both sides of the room. “Is the God of Dreams bringing you visions of a pretty young lady?”
If not deadly, being distracted was embarrassing.
“Sir. Junior Centurion Sisera, reporting as ordered,” Alerio said while bracing then saluting.
“Welcome back, Centurion,” Praetor Sudoris teased.
“Praetor, I protest the presence of this junior officer,” Lubricum stated. “He has proven to be a passable administrator, but his training methods are abhorrent and amateur at best.”
“They are?” Sudoris questioned. “How so?”
“He destroyed the maniple formation, tossed out the proper drills for the gladius, turned infantrymen into brawlers, and altered battle gear,” the First Tribune of the Fleet listed. “His unprofessional behavior, if not criminal, goes against Legion’s best practices.”
“That, First Tribune Lubricum, is a load of accusations,” Sudoris responded. The Praetor dipped his head and peered at Alerio as if ready to add to the charges. “Centurion Sisera. What would you say if I told you Consul Scipio has been captured by the forces of the Empire?”
Lubricum blustered but Sudoris held up a hand to silence the Senior Tribune.
“I would offer a prayer and sacrifice to Nenia requesting the Goddess relieve the pain of the severely wounded,” Alerio proposed. He felt bad about the wounded and dead. “How many were killed, sir?”
“Why do you ask that, Centurion?” Sudoris responded with a question of his own.
“Praetor, I have been fighting Qart Hadasht mercenaries since before the Legions arrived at Messina,” Alerio explained. “We don’t lose to Empire forces. If General Scipio was captured, it would have been a bloody battle with devastating losses.”
“Suppose I told you not a single Legionary was killed or wounded nor were any oarsmen injured in the action?” Sudoris inquired.
“That would be a failure of command, no offense meant, sir,” Alerio asserted. Then, he repeated. “Because, Legionaries don’t lose to Empire forces.”
“And why not?” the Fleet Praetor demanded.
“Our training and tactics combined with Legion pride,” Alerio claimed. “The maniple formation allows us to shift to face a threat regardless of the direction of attack. And while Legionaries don’t start fights, we will hold our ground until the last bloody Legionary. No sir, if they captured our General without a fight, it was the fault of command.”
“I will not bear another insult to Gnaeus Scipio’s good name,” Egidius Lubricum declared. “Especially, not from a common man with no family name.”
Zelare Sudoris allowed a smile to cross his face. As a new man and not a nobleman, it was as if the Senior Tribune had accidently slandered the General Gaius Duilius. Then, the thought that Egidius Lubricum might not have spoken unintentionally occurred to Sudoris.
“We seem to have a standoff,” the Praetor declared.
The statement confused everyone in the room. It didn’t seem to have any bearing on the current discussion of insults and defending a captured noble.
“You, Lubricum, proclaim to understand command,” Praetor Sudoris said not using any title or honorific when addressing the Senior Tribune. “While you, Junior Centurion Sisera, have definite ideas on specialized training. I propose a test.”
“With his mob, a Century would walk over the Marines without breaking a sweat,” Senior Tribune Lubricum declared.
“That may be true in an infantry environment,” Sudoris admitted. “But General Scipio didn’t deploy his land forces. His demise occurred while in command of two squadrons of warships. Thus, the test will be onboard quinqueremes at sea.”
“If you are suggesting I defend a warship against an undisciplined barbarian attack,” Lubricum said with a chuckle. “I accept the challenge.”
“Centurion Sisera,” Sudoris solicited. “Your Legionary Marines? Are they up to the task?”
“Sir, I have one request,” Alerio offered.
“Here we go,” Lubricum accused. “The condemned bargaining for an advantage.”
“No sir,” Alerio clarified. “When it’s over, I’d like a bull sacrificed for my triumphant Legionaries.”
“That can be arranged for the winners,” Zelare Sudoris confirmed. “What else do you need?”
“A week to train,” Alerio requested. “Your Legionary Marines haven’t had access to a ship at sea, Praetor. We need the time for live drills.”
“Senior Tribune, are you amenable to the terms?” Sudoris asked.
“He can take as long as he wants,” Lubricum commented. “It will still end in humiliation.”
“Centurion Sisera. You are dismissed to prepare your Centuries,” Sudoris instructed. “However, until the Senate issues a decree, you may not reveal the sad situation concerning Consul Scipio.”
“Yes, sir,” Alerio confirmed before leaving the conference room. “I understand. And thank you for the opportunity, sir.”
The Senior Centurion met Alerio outside the room. Together, they marched down the corridor.
“You know Lubricum is going to load his ship with the most experienced oarsmen, best ballista crews, and fiercest infantrymen,” Typus warned.
“I know, Senior Centurion,” Alerio admitted. “It’s why I need an edge.”
“What edge?” Typus inquired.
“To be honest,” Alerio replied. “I haven’t the slightest idea.”
Chapter 19 – Edge of Chaos
The eight-foot gap was ruining the Legionary Marines. From the deck of the quinquereme across the gap to the deck of the second warship proved to be their undoing. Lucky Marines fell the thirteen feet directly to the hard sand. Less fortunate ones slammed painfully into the side of the other warship before bouncing off and, then falling to the beach.
“If we can’t board the Adiona for Us,” Alerio complained. “They will cut our grappling hooks and row away. All the training in the world won’t mean anything if our Legionaries are standing on the deck watching Senior Tribune Lubricum sail away.”
“One of our Decani has an idea,” Rutri Gurganus informed the Centurion. “We build a high platform. From the top, our guys can jump down and across.”
“Get some boxes and give it a try,” Alerio urged. “Anything is better than watching a hundred Legionaries fall then limp around favoring strained backs and ankles.”
Empty shipping boxes were passed up. Stacks, resembling stairs, were constructed next to the edge of the deck. Running up the wide treads, taking two steps before launching themselves into the air, worked for some. For others, the height only added to their pain when they collided with the other quinquereme and, shortly thereafter, the hard sand.
While the boarders were physically beat up, the men on the grappling hooks suffered wounds to their pride. For every man attempting to jump the gap, a hook got tossed across. The idea being to team them up. Except few of the jumpers made it across to defend the hook and line. As a result, a man on the opposite warship cut the unguarded line.
“Optio. How many have made it across?” Alerio questioned a short time later.
“About twenty-five, Centurion,” Rutri reported.
“How many hooks were secured?” Alerio questioned.
“None, sir,” Rutri informed him. “The boarders crashed to the deck and were surrounded before they could react.”
“All of this on land,” Alerio whined. “How bad will our odds be at sea?”
“There’s a fortune to be had for the man who bets the right number,” Rutri told him.
“Great, not only does the Fleet staff and the infantry think we will fail,” Alerio mused. “Our own men are convinced the mission is impossible.”
“It might be, sir,” Rutri admitted.
“How much is a bull?” Alerio asked.
“A what, sir?” the NCO inqu
ired.
“There has got to be an angle or an edge,” Alerio offered while ignoring the question. “Keep them working on it, Optio. Something might come up.”
Alerio climbed over the side, set his feet and hands, then dropped to the sand. Once on the beach, he marched towards the embankment. He hoped a change in view would help him think.
***
The sea rolled with low swells, the sun hung halfway to the horizon, sea birds dipped and came up with fish, and Marines fell into the gap between the parked quinqueremes. A wider and farther away look at the training did nothing to help Alerio’s frame of mind.
“You seem down,” Nicholas DeMarco offered. “I’ve never seen your shoulders slumped or your chin cupped in your hands.”
The young man stepped up beside Alerio then sat on the bank.
“I don’t often find myself depending on others to a job,” Alerio remarked. “Usually, I’m leading the detail.”
“Bodies destitute of brains are as statues in the marketplace,” Nicholas stated as if answering a question.
“Bodies what?” Alerio inquired.
“Euripides, a Greek dramatist,” Nicholas replied. “He wrote that about two hundred and thirty years ago.”
“What does that mean to me and my situation?” Alerio questioned. Then he remembered Gabriella often had to translate for her brother. Without the woman here, Alerio dismissed the quote and tossed out. “Destitute of brains, that’s me.”
“In a manner of speaking,” Nicholas commented. “The opinions of men are toys for boys.”
“Euripides, the dramatist?’” Alerio guessed.
“Heraclitus, a Greek philosopher,” Nicholas corrected. “from about two hundred and eighty-eight years ago.”
“You certainly know old stuff,” Alerio remarked. The more he spoke with the young man, the more confused he was getting. “What does all that mean to me?”
“Ancient wisdom, Centurion Sisera,” Nicholas advised. “Like your two ships. Stuck on land, they are mindless. But, when afloat, they take on life like attributes. Almost as if they had brains.”
“Like statues in the marketplace,” Alerio surmised. “You are saying my solution has to do with moving vessels?”
“Toys,” Nicholas uttered. He searched the area and found three pieces of wood. Two were a foot long and flat on one side. The third was more stick than plank. “The opinions of men.”
Alerio watched as Nicholas placed the stick on the ground and set the two planks of wood at the ends. Then he moved the planks but kept them attached by the stick. As they shifted, the stick forced the wooden blocks to come together. When the planks were side by side, Nicholas peered up at Alerio.
“Conversely, the toys of boys are the opinion of men,” Alerio announced. “And a developing battlefield presents opportunity. Nicholas DeMarco, you are a philosopher and an engineer.”
“Centurion Sisera, I have no idea what you are talking about,” Nicholas confessed. “I was simply passing time with the planks.”
Alerio jogged down the hill and when he reached the beach, he broke into a sprint. It was crazy, but it gave his Marines a fighting chance. Now all he had to do was sell the idea to the warship’s senior Centurion.
***
None of the spectators, many of which were reporting back to Senior Tribune Lubricum on the Marines’ training, could figure out what Centurion Sisera had in mind. Rather than leap the wide gap, the Marines ran along thin beams. Back and forth between quinqueremes as fast as they could run. Many fell and crashed to the beach. There was nothing new about those casualties. The curiosity rested with the nimble and fast beam runners.
“I believe we are finding our boarding party,” Alerio announced.
“I have never heard of anything like this,” Optio Rutri Gurganus admitted. “Will it work, sir?”
“Blow the cobwebs off your coin purse, Optio,” Alerio assured him. “Bet coin on our success and spread the word. This is going to be almost as ugly for the Senior Tribune.”
“Almost as ugly, Centurion?” the NCO questioned.
“This is a drill,” Alerio explained. “When we take down Empire ship-of-war, it will be really ugly for them. Now, pay attention and help me select the ravens.”
Chapter 20 – First the Bull
Praetor Zelare Sudoris stood on a platform high above a bull and two oxen. On his flanks were eighty goats. He elevated his arms to the sky and the eight thousand men from the twenty warships hushed and bent forward to hear his words. The animals paid no attention to the Fleet Commander.
“Mars, God of War,” the Praetor bellowed to the sky. Then he shifted and peered directly out to sea. “Neptune, God of the Ocean. Tomorrow your children take to the waves in combat. Although mock, the egos, pride, sweat, and intent are as real as any bloodletting. In the morning, we venture out in boats, practicing the skills of war while dancing on the surface of the sea. We ask that these sacrifices be taken to your breast. Just as you embrace the men of your Fleet and the men of your Legion. In the name of the Gods, Priests, cut them.”
At the final words, mostly naked Epulones drew ceremonial knives across the bull and oxen’s throats. Their pretty knives barely sliced the hairs of the large animals. After the prescribed manner of sacrifice, the Priests moved onto the goats. And while the Epulones sacrificed the smaller animals and basked in the warm blood, apprentices with axes butchered the bull and oxen.
Once all the spirits were freed and offered to Mars and Neptune, the blood covered ceremonial Priests ran into the clustered Legionaries, sailors, and oarsmen. Some men simply reached out and took a smear on their fingertips. Others pressed coins into the Epulones’ palms for hugs which left bloody imprints across their bodies. When the Priests were almost clean, they ran back to the blood pools, dropped face first into the liquid, then jumped up, and jogged back into the crowd. It was their job to spread the sacred fluid to all who wanted to participate.
One group reached down and touched the blood pools as they filed by. Once away from the frenzy, they huddled up.
“Hopefully, the Gods will be pleased,” Zelare Sudoris offered while streaking his forehead with a red smear. “I will be interested to find out who is paying for the bull.”
“It won’t be me,” Senior Tribune Lubricum declared. Gawking across the circle of officers, he sneered at Alerio. “That honor will go to Junior Centurion Sisera.”
“If the Gods will it, sir,” Alerio replied.
While he professed humility by claiming to be at the mercy of fate, the young Centurion felt differently inside.
“All the officers participating in the war games tomorrow are dining together tonight,” Sudoris offered. “Will you join us?”
“Sir, I realize it’s bad form to turn down an invitation from a Fleet Praetor,” Alerio admitted. “But there are final preparations that require my supervision.”
“You go ahead,” Lubricum directed. “Although I can’t imagine what a loser needs to do before a humiliating defeat.”
“Sir, I beg your pardon,” Alerio requested while saluting the Praetor.
“Run along,” Sudoris instructed. “And may Fortūna row with you tomorrow.”
“Thank you, sir. Luck is always welcome,” Alerio responded. “But later tonight, the Marines are sacrificing to Mercury.”
As Alerio walked away, the Senior Tribune commented, “What does the God of Speed have to do with a sea battle? It’s not as if Sisera’s Marines can run on the water.”
***
Deimos’ Claw rested in a slot at the center of the beached warships.
“Centurion Savium, are we ready?” Alerio called to the warship named after the God of Terror. He grabbed a rope and scaled the ship’s hull.
“Just waiting on you, Sisera,” the ship’s senior officer replied. “First Principale. Get us launched.”
The crews from other warships watched in wonder. No vessel rowed out near dark. Yet oarsmen from the Claw jumped down and, at the directions of
the Third Principale, put their shoulders against the wood and shoved the quinquereme into the waves.
“How far down are we going?” Flictus Savium inquired.
“You’ll see the fires on the beach,” Sisera replied.
“Second Principale, set a medium stroke,” the ship’s Centurion ordered.
The ram dipped as the aft section slid down the beach. Then the warship bobbed into the surf and leveled.
“Run out your oars,” the rowing officer bellowed. “Stroke, stroke, stroke,”
On the steering platform, the rear oars shifted at the direction of the First Principale. The Deimos’ Claw glided south along Ostia beach and soon the naval base was far behind the warship.
Ahead, just as Alerio had described, campfires forming an arch highlighted the landing site.
“Back us down,” Flictus Savium commanded while indicating the spot on the beach.
“Second Principale, turn to starboard,” the First Principale described. “Line up to beach.”
“Starboard rowers, hold water,” Second Principale ordered. Oarsmen on the right side dipped their oars and held them still. On the left side, the oars continued to stroke. Once the bow faced toward the sea, he called. “Port side hold water. Steady. Standby for backstroke. Backstroke, backstroke, backstroke.”
The quinquereme eased backward. Bent over the rear of the vessel, the First Principale watched the closing distance. Just before the keel touched the shore, he shouted. “Ship oars. Third Principale, get them wet and get us dry.”
From the bow, the deck officer announced, “beaching crew, over the side.”
One hundred and twenty oarsmen scrambled from their rowing stations. Along with the Third Principale, they hung over the sides before dropping into the waist high water.
“Push, push,” the landing officer yelled when the rowers had gathered around the bow of the hull. “Put your backs into it.”
Under power from the muscles of the oarsmen, the warship scraped sand and traveled up the beach. As his ship moved out of the water, the ship’s Centurion glanced at the fires and the Legionary Marines positioned between the flames.
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