Unjust Sacrifice

by Slater, J. Clifton

  ***

  “Port side oars draw them in,” a new voice commanded. “Attention Adiona for Us. Draw in your port side oars.”

  In a moment, Praetor Zelare Sudoris’ flagship glided up to the left side of the Adiona for Us. It tied off and Sudoris jumped the three-foot gap. He marched to Egidius Lubricum.

  “What’s the score, Senior Tribune?” he inquired.

  “As you can see Praetor,” Lubricum boasted. “I hold my warship and have Sisera’s rubble on their knees.”

  “Centurion Sisera,” Sudoris called while looking around for the Centurion.

  Before Alerio could reply, the Navy Doctor appeared on the steps to the rower’s walk.

  “Zelare. They butchered over ten of the oarsmen,” the physician reported. “This was war and not a game.”

  After making the announcement, the doctor vanished below deck, returning to his patients.

  “I propose charges against Sisera,” Lubricum exclaimed. “In his failed quest for victory, he injured and killed Republic citizens.”

  “Have you noticed the Marines haven’t moved?” Sudoris observed. “And why are those men lined up on the deck of the Deimos’ Claw?”

  “I don’t know, and I don’t care,” Lubricum pronounced. “I want Sisera on the punishment post until he is as crippled as my rowing crew.”

  A second whistle split the air, and everyone glanced around trying to locate the source.

  “Load, aim, prepare to launch your bolts,” a man ordered.

  It sounded as if the speaker was standing at the rear of the Legionaries’ formation.

  “What are you saying?” Lubricum demanded. “Who said that?”

  Alerio Sisera, at the rear of the Legionary formation, turned and drew the helmet off his head. After handing the shield to another infantrymen, the weapons’ instructor threaded his way between the squad of archers. He stepped up on the steering deck and saluted.

  “Fleet Praetor Sudoris,” Alerio declared. “The Adiona for Us is yours, sir.”

  Lubricum shivered and his face reddened with anger.

  “What trash are you talking?” he stammered. “You have clearly lost. You are insane, clearly touched by the Goddess Manea.”

  “Averruncus would be more the God you should worship, Senior Tribune,” Alerio remarked. “He has, after all, averted calamity.”

  “This is more than a difference of opinion,” Praetor Sudoris informed them. “I see one result of the war game. And it’s ugly for you, Junior Centurion Sisera.”

  “Yes, sir,” Alerio acknowledged.

  “Can you show me an alternative?”

  “Absolutely, Praetor,” Alerio stated. “Archers. Bolt throwers, show your targets.”

  On the deck of Deimos’ Claw, the line of men snatched bows and arrows from the deck. In a heartbeat, fifty oarsmen held shafts level and aimed at the Senior Tribune.

  There was a unique bumping sound when the hair and sinew string of a ballista cranked the last notch. The dull thud came from the bow of the Claw where the loaded bolt thrower pivoted to target the Senior Tribune. Accompanying that ballista, the one on the fore deck of the Adiona for Us tightened its string and thumped. It lowered until the bolt clearly targeted the center of the Legionaries ranks.

  At the rear of the infantry formation, four men turned and saluted the commanding officer.

  “Archers. Ballistae. Marines in the ranks,” Alerio described by pointing at each feature. Then he smiled and nodded at Praetor Sudoris. “And of course, the reinforcements.”

  “What reinforcements?” Lubricum questioned.

  Alerio indicated the Praetor’s flagship.

  “We have immobilized the Senior Tribune’s warship in the middle of a battle,” Alerio described. “Having a second Republic vessel deliver infantry to help the Marines was expected.”

  “This entire thing is preposterous,” Lubricum stated. “I do not recognize the defeat.”

  “Look around you Senior Tribune,” Fleet Praetor Sudoris suggested. “It seems you owe me for the cost of a sacrificial bull.”

  “An unjust sacrifice, if there ever was,” the Tribune complained.

  “Marines. Unpin the Adiona for Us,” Alerio announced. “We are returning to Ostia beach, victorious.”

  Amid cheers from his Marines, Centurion Sisera strolled to the boarding ramp.

  “How do we get this spike out?” he questioned.

  The Marines presented blank faces but no ideas. Finally, Optio Rutri Gurganus collected spears and placed the shafts under the beam.

  “Lift it,” the Marine NCO ordered.

  Act 6

  Chapter 23 – Dog

  The day after the war games, Fleet Praetor Sudoris called Alerio to his office.

  “Sisera, I’m changing your orders,” the Praetor informed him.

  “Yes, sir,” Alerio confirmed. “I can see the problem with having me in a command position with the fleet after the accident. When do I leave for Sicilia?”

  Zelare Sudoris smashed his lips together in a sign of either amusement or annoyance. He allowed Alerio’s question to hang between them for several long heartbeats.

  “That is interesting. But I hadn’t even considered transferring you to an infantry Century,” Sudoris admitted. “What you are going to do is teach the recruit rowers to work together as a crew. We have more warships arriving and the fleet needs men familiar with the basics before they row offshore.”

  “That makes sense, sir,” Alerio granted. “It’ll speed up cohesion of the ships’ crews.”

  “Additionally, I want the oarsmen to understand shield work,” Sudoris explained. “and how to hold a defensive line. We will not, cannot have a repeat of Lipari.”

  “I understand, Praetor,” Alerio acknowledged.

  “One more thing, Centurion Sisera,” Zelare Sudoris warned. “Keep it professional. I have enough on my deck without defending your methods to the staff officers.”

  Although not named, there was little doubt the Praetor was referring to Senior Tribune Lubricum.

  “Yes, sir,” Alerio promised. “Professional at every step.”

  “Good. The Legion is sending over a team of instructors for you,” Sudoris advised. “And, like the rowers, use them hard but don’t abuse them. Dismissed.”

  ***

  Inside a big tent, seven infantry officers sat a table. Six picked nervously at a fruit platter and bread. The cause of the Junior Centurions’ unease sat at the head of the table. Finally, one found his courage.

  “How did you manage to sneak onto the Senior Tribune’s ship?” Centurion Hysopum asked.

  “Our first round of grappling hooks were lures,” Alerio replied. “When they sent teams to cut the lines, we sent oarsmen and surrounded their Legionaries. In the confusion of beating back the oarsmen, five of us managed to slip into the ranks of their infantry.”

  “That was bold,” Junior Centurion Ovanter remarked. “Weren’t you afraid of being discovered?”

  “My armor wasn’t completely secured,” Alerio admitted. “in case I got thrown overboard and needed to take it off in a hurry.”

  Two servants entered the officers’ mess. They placed platters of meat and vegetables in the center of the table and left.

  “What’s the schedule for tomorrow,” Hysopum inquired.

  “We start with your training session,” Alerio responded while taking pieces of meat.

  “There is a finite number of experienced oarsmen and every new warship depletes the quality,” Centurion Ovanter pointed out. “The fleet cannot maintain the practice of sending a few qualified rowers to help the crews for the new ships. We need to be working at training oarsmen, and not feeding your ego, Death Caller.”

  Alerio rested the knife and a partially eaten piece of meat on the edge of his platter.

  “Does anyone else feel the need to throw my nickname in my face?” he asked.

  “It’s what they call you in Sicilia, isn’t it?” Ovanter challenged. “And fitting
ly so, based on the oarsmen who died during the war games.”

  “That was an accident of technology,” Alerio explained. “No one knew the device would draw the ships together so quickly.”

  “Still, your Goddess Nenia managed to descend on the games,” Ovanter accused.

  Noticing Centurion Sisera making fists with his hands, Hysopum tried to guide the conversation away from the exchange.

  “There are sixty quinqueremes on the beach,” he announced. “And eighteen thousand would be oarsmen. Most have never held a weapon let alone an oar.”

  “I am aware of the need for training them,” Alerio stated. He stood and peered into the faces around the table. All glanced away from his glare except for Ovanter. The Junior Centurion jutted his chin out in an arrogant manner and stared back. Alerio added. “Before you can guide a herd of that size, you need to know what your fellow cattlemen are doing.”

  “We aren’t cattlemen,” Ovanter blurted out.

  “I’ll see you at daybreak,” Alerio responded.

  He marched to the exit, left the tent, and exhaled in frustration.

  The issue was not that he let a young nobleman get under his skin. There were veterans as well as the Marines at Ostia who knew Alerio’s past, the moniker, and that his personal deity was the Goddess of Death. The information would be public in a matter of days. What upset Alerio? He had not finished the meal and he was hungry.

  Far in the distance, the torches of the naval base glowed in the night. Two miles of sand and camped oarsmen separated the instructors’ tents from fleet headquarters. Glancing in the other direction, he saw another two miles of campfires behind the aft sections of more Republic warships.

  Realizing the nearest food was in the town, Centurion Sisera kicked sand while walking to the embankment. If he had held his temper, he could be finishing the meal in the Centurion’s tent. As it was, he had to brave the crowds in the once sleepy shanty town.

  ***

  It took dodging, elbow throwing, and jostling to navigate the busy streets. Over the weeks, as new warships arrived and men recruited as rowers came to Ostia, the town expanded. New streets branched off the original main road, some leading to residential areas and others fronting commercial businesses. Further north, new construction marked the rise of a large Castrum. The Legion military installation would dwarf the old navy base.

  Alerio could visualize a growing city. From a small Navy and shore installation designed to defend the mouth of the Tiber and thus Rome itself, to a metropolis was possible. He shoved between a pair of big armed oarsmen and caught a glimpse of the grain mill. Two wagons with sacks of raw grain waited to exchange their loads and purses for milled grain. Hopefully, the town’s growth included him making a lot of gold from the sale of flour.

  “Centurion Sisera,” Frances Allocco called from the door of her hospital. “Are you hungry?”

  “Is that a medical diagnosis, Doctor Allocco?” Alerio inquired. He stepped out of the flow of humanity and through a gate in a low wall. “If so you have identified my ailment.”

  “Like the new entrance?” the physician inquired.

  A wall wrapping around the front of her building created a small courtyard. It tapered off where a new wing was under construction.

  “You’re growing,” Alerio commented.

  “I’m adding to my practice with capital from the mill,” she explained. “A bigger clinic allows me to treat more patients.”

  She ushered him into the building and guided him down a hallway. At the rear, they exited a backdoor and entered a tent.

  “The construction has disrupted my living area,” Frances Allocco advised. “So, I’m using tents. Although, it seems the entire town is living under tents. And thank you. How did you do it?”

  “I am the fleet’s senior weapons’ instructor. Getting Fleet Praetor Sudoris to lift the restriction on your hospital wasn’t a problem,” Alero bragged. “A reminder to the Praetor that he would soon have over thirty thousand oarsmen, sailors and Marines at Ostia did the trick. He saw the wisdom of having access to another physician. But I should thank you for accepting the new patients.”

  A servant brought out bread, cheese, olive oil and olives, and a pot of stew.

  “Try the bread,” Doctor Allocco suggested. “I had them grind the wheat a few extra times. It is like biting into a cloud. And good for digestion.”

  Alerio dipped a piece of bread in olive oil and took a bite. He nodded at the soft chewable bread and the flavor.

  “It’s like edible silk,” Alerio teased. “Don’t you ever stop being a physician?”

  “Not with thirty thousand potential patients,” the doctor replied in a serious tone. Then she asked. “Why do oarsmen need a weapons’ instructor?”

  “Rowers on our warships are citizens of the Republic. Unlike Qart Hadasht oarsmen who are mercenaries or slaves,” Alerio described. “If one of our ships is boarded, the oarsmen are expected to get into the fight. The Greeks also use their oarsmen to supplement the Hoplites. My job is to give new oarsmen some martial training as well as the basics of combat rowing.”

  He took a ladle of stew and to his delight found it contained large chunks of meat.

  “Training thousands of men sounds like a lot of work,” Frances Allocco remarked.

  “The real task is getting my team of instructors to teach the same thing,” Alerio informed her. “Rowing and fighting are straight forward. Managing fatuus egos is not.”

  “You have simpletons on your staff?” Frances Allocco questioned taking his comment literally.

  “No. No. But some of them are trying. Especially one,” Alerio admitted. “He wants to be confrontational for no obvious reason.”

  “A physician’s treatment of an illness starts with observation,” Allocco informed him. “A healthy mind in a healthy body helps reveal the malady. However, many times, I’ll treat one disease only to find it was masking another ailment.”

  “What do you do then?” Alerio asked.

  “I bleed the patient,” Doctor Allocco replied.

  “Not unlike a weapons’ instructor,” Alerio observed.

  “I don’t think it yields the same results,” Frances Allocco rebuked.

  “Really?” Alerio joked. “Why do you bleed the patient?”

  “It helps balance the humors,” Doctor Allocco responded. “And it gives the patient a feeling of euphoria.”

  “See, it’s not too different from what I do,” Alerio projected. “Bloodletting makes the instructor feel good and balances the attitude of the student.”

  “Or the attitude of a junior instructor, Centurion Sisera?” Allocco guessed.

  “It may be the only way to unmask the real reason for his insolence,” Alerio ventured. He held up his empty bowl. “May I have more stew?”

  ***

  In the quiet before dawn, while the rest of the Ostia beach slept, a drummer began pounding out a mid-tempo. Had it been slow, the Centurions from the training detail could have ignored it. Even a quick rhythm could be countered by a blanket wrapped around the head. But the insidious thumping, closely matching a quickening heartbeat, was infectious. The hearts of the six instructors harmonized with the drumbeat, pumped blood to their heads, and jerked them from their sleep.

  “Good morning students,” Alerio greeted the first to emerge from their tents. “Please join me on the beam.”

  Sometime during the night, carpenters had mounted two-foot wide planks on stands chin high from the ground. Six overlapping infantry shields rested on the ten-foot-long wooden platform. Centurion Sisera had a seventh scutum on his left arm.

  “Come up, there’s plenty of room for everyone,” Alerio informed them.

  It was a lie. Seven men holding two-foot wide shields on a ten-foot platform left little room for men or maneuvering.

  “How are we supposed to get up there?” one asked.

  “Unfortunately, you are all infantry,” Alerio pointed out. “If you cannot climb, the crews will not res
pect you. If they do not respect you, you cannot teach them. Find a way to get up.”

  Four jumped and caught their weight with their arms. Pushing up, they got high enough to get a knee on the planks and climbed to their feet. Once the four were on the platform, they collected shields.

  The drummer maintained the steady beat.

  “What about you two?” Alerio questioned. “Your scutums and places are waiting.”

  “This is merda,” Centurion Ovanter cursed. “I’m here to teach sword work to civilians. Not to stand on a pedestal erected in honor of Death Caller.”

  “You are correct,” Alerio admitted. He kicked a free shield off the board in the junior officer’s direction. “Let’s see if you are qualified.”

  Sensing trouble for anyone on the ground, the fifth Centurion jumped, got his chest on the platform, and scrambled up.

  Ovanter picked the shield from the ground and fashioned it to his arm.

  “I should warn you, Death Caller,” he exclaimed while drawing his gladius. “I was the tournament champion for Vitulus Legion West during last year’s campaign.”

  The five junior officers on the platform inhaled sharply. The title was news to them as well as to Alerio.

  “You were in Sicilia,” Alerio remarked while drawing his sword. Then he allowed the blade to resettle in the sheath. “Vitulus Legion West? Vitulus Legion West? That’s right, you held the western side during the siege of Agrigento. How many Qart Hadasht elephant charges did you counter?”

  “Those were on the coast,” Ovanter said defensively. “What did you do there?”

  “While the other Legions were fighting, your Legion had time for tournaments,” Alerio alleged. “I was in Agrigento doing reconnaissance. And later in the Valley of the Temples. And later still, I went to the Temple of Asclepius after being injured leading an ambushed detachment out of danger. But that’s history.”

  “I am not playing your game,” Ovanter asserted.

  In the torch light, Alerio sensed the Goddess Discordia in the junior officer’s eyes. Some men needed to prove themselves, others strived for glory, and a few pulled at any harness and bucked all authority as if possessed by an angry mule. Disharmony and insolence surrounded them like stink on an unwashed barbarian.