Unjust Sacrifice

by Slater, J. Clifton

  “We weight the ends until they match the slower ones,” Hysopum surmised. “Why so many rocks?”

  “Because eventually, we will add hanging loads to every oar,” Alerio replied. “The crews will grow stronger and more in tune.”

  For the rest of the day, Centurion Sisera had men collecting rocks and laying them on either side of the rowing stations. He directed and explained the idea at four other training areas. And while his Junior Centurions saw the wisdom of the rocks, at each he had to explain to the recruit rowers and the deck officers the theory behind the weighted oars. It took most of the day, but finally he headed for the last rowing station.

  At the fifth, Alerio started to speak with the station’s Centurion but hesitated before approaching the unruly instructor.

  “Centurion Ovanter, we need rocks to hang from the ends of the oars,” Alerio began.

  Ovanter turned his back to the senior instructor.

  “I am attempting to have an adult conversation with you, Junior Centurion,” Alerio told him. When the junior instructor failed to acknowledge him, Centurion Sisera walked to the oarsmen with the shields. “I need one hundred men to gather rocks and ropes and carry them to the rowing station.”

  For the remainder of the day, Alerio judged the oarsmen and loaded the fastest with rope baskets of swaying rocks. While he worked, Ovanter made a fist with his right hand, gnawed on his lip, and stared out to sea.

  “Absolutely useless,” Alerio thought as he slipped another basket over an oar. “I should take him out to deep water and drown the miserable dog.”

  He would have a talk with the other instructors that evening about replacing Centurion Ovanter.

  ***

  It might have been the weights or the swinging load of rocks, but the oarsmen began to row precisely. At all the rowing stations, collisions became rarer and crews started to flow. Rowing officers barked orders and the oars reversed or held water on one side while the other side rowed frantically.

  “Good call on the rocks,” a Second Principale thanked Alerio while his oarsmen shuffled out of the rowing station.

  “It wasn’t me,” Alerio replied. “I got the idea from a student of philosophy.”

  “And here I thought they were only good for asking brainy questions without answers,” the deck officer said before following his rowers off the platform.

  Alerio thought of Nicolas and discounted the comment. The leather worker might be on a different level of thinking, but his ideas worked.

  The day was filled with crews climbing onto the rowing benches, shifting to the shields, and other crews and deck officers entering. For crews not at a training area, they worked on building the new Legion facility.

  No one knew why Centurion Sisera smiled when the shadows grew long. They didn’t know his heart was anticipating a dinner the next evening with the woman who had captured his heart. One more day and he would profess his feelings to Gabriella DeMarco.

  Centurion Sisera carried the anticipation of the feast to bed that night. His dreams flowed and were full of poetry. Had he been awake, he would have serenaded the other instructors with his fine, manly voice.

  ***

  Alerio Sisera stretched under the blanket and for a moment considered singing to show his excitement. Instead, he paused thinking he heard his name. Weak light filtered through the tent flaps showing it was early, and he was late getting up.

  “Centurion Sisera,” the voice of one of the instructors shouted.

  “I’m awake,” Alerio called back.

  The flap flew back, and the Junior Centurion stuck his head inside.

  “Ovanter is missing, Centurion,” the young officer announced.

  “Did he desert?” Alerio inquired.

  “I don’t believe so,” the instructor replied. “All his stuff is still in his tent.”

  “Maybe he went to the Senior Centurion to complain about me,” Alerio suggested.

  Voices talking excitedly came from out in the instructor’s area.

  “What now?” Alerio asked as he strapped on his armored skirt and then the gladius belt.

  “It’s a fisherman,” the junior officer reported.

  Alerio pushed through the flaps and was met by a wrinkled old man of the sea. Years of casting a net from an unscreened boat had darkened and creased his skin.

  “He took my boat,” the fisherman complained. His hands shot up to shoulder height and he snapped open the fingers on both hands to express his feelings. “Right from the beach, he stole my boat.”

  “Who took your boat?” Alerio asked calmly. He hoped his demeanor would transfer to the excited fisherman. This was going to be a great day that ended in a glorious feast. He did not want it to start with an argument and allegations. “When did he, whoever he is, take your boat?”

  “The crew on a warship recognized him as an instructor,” the old man explained. “When I arrived on the beach my boat was gone. One of your instructors stole it.”

  “Maybe he just borrowed it,” Alerio offered. Then when Hysopum walked up, he inquired. “Who among the instructors is missing?”

  “Ovanter, Centurion,” the junior instructor reported.

  “Of course, it was,” Alerio acknowledged. “Come on old man. Let’s go see if my officer has returned with your boat.”

  “I missed half a day of fishing,” the fisherman grumbled. “A fine morning and half a day.”

  With near eighty warships on the beach, feeding the twenty-four thousand oarsmen and eleven hundred sailors, Marines, and crewmen had become an industry in and of itself. Sheep, pigs, goats, and cattle were pinned or pastured and waiting for slaughter. The fishermen at Ostia were an important part of the food supply. Alerio did not want trouble with them.

  “I’m sure we can work out a fair compensation,” Alerio remarked while they hiked to the fishing camp.

  When the warships began arriving, the fishermen’s huts, drying racks and boats were located far down the beach. Now, with quinqueremes and a handful of triremes filling the beach, the fishing village sat in the middle of the fleet.

  ***

  A long hike from the instructor’s camp, Alerio, Hysopum, and the fisherman reached the shoreline and a small number of overturned boats.

  “What are these?” Alerio asked. He hoped one belonged to the old man.

  “Most need repairs,” the fisherman responded. “None are my boat. It was stolen.”

  “I believe we have covered that point,” Alerio told the fisherman.

  Out on the waves, a boat paddled hard for shore. The reason for the paddling, another fishing boat being was being towed behind it.

  “That’s my boat,” the old man announced. He used both arms to indicate the approaching vessels.

  The three stood silent waiting for the old man’s vessel to reach shallow water. When it was close, they waded out.

  “Where is the man who took the boat?” Alerio asked the other fisherman.

  “Don’t know,” he stated. “I saw the empty boat and towed it to shore.”

  “Hoping I was dead and gone,” the old man accused the fisherman. “Well I am not dead. Just out of a day’s fishing.”

  “Centurion, there’s blood in the boat,” Hysopum observed.

  “That’s new,” the old fisherman stated. “Wait, where is my anchor?”

  “You had an iron anchor?” Alerio asked.

  “No. It was a long rope with a stone on the end,” the old man described. “And it’s gone.”

  Alerio’s stomach flipped. His plan for a perfect day had vanished along with Centurion Ovanter. Now, he would probably spend most of the day explaining about a drowned Legion officer to Senior Centurion Typus.

  “Hysopum. Split your morning between two rowing stations,” Alerio instructed. “I’ve got to go to fleet headquarters and report this.”

  “Better you than me, Centurion,” the junior instructor confirmed. He started to walk away but stopped. “We did our best to reach him. It wasn’t enough.”
>
  “A man who goes swimming with a rock is dancing with Morta,” Alerio reassured the junior officer. “And when he dances with the Goddess who walks between awareness and death, he is far beyond anyone’s help.”

  ***

  The large facility designed for a garrison once had room for single offices and wide breezy corridors. Unfortunately, the headquarters building at Ostia now hosted to a partial Legion and a growing fleet. All the command staff for both the land and sea forces were crowded into the structure.

  Gone were the empty passageways, replaced by desks spaced evenly against one wall. A narrow path ran by the workstations leading to offices where the overcrowding made it was impossible to hold a private conversation or to walk in any direction without bumping into a staff officer’s chair.

  The hallways were hazardous as assistants raced from one part of the building to another, delivering messages. Alerio learned it when a young nobleman charged out of an office without looking.

  “Whoa there, sir,” Alerio remarked while hoisting the young Tribune into the air. Lifting him after the collision seemed better than knocking the man to the tile floor.

  “Put me down,” the Tribune huffed. “How dare you assault me.”

  Gently Alerio lowered him to the floor.

  “A word of advice, Tribune,” Alerio whispered. “If you run into a man and he saves you embarrassment, you might want to thank him. Or at least make a sacrifice to the Goddess Minerva.”

  “I will not be lectured at by an out of uniform infantry officer,” the Tribune sneered. “But, if I granted you the benefit of the doubt, why Minerva?”

  “After the battle, sir,” Alerio explained while slipping between the wall and the Tribune. On the other side, he finished. “The Goddess shows sympathy for the vanquished.”

  “And who is vanquished here?” the nobleman demanded.

  “The man who maintained his footing,” Alerio said without stopping.

  Tribunes could be trouble. Especially young staff officers looking to prove they knew how to maintain discipline and control of the Legionaries. At the next office, Alerio didn’t know the occupants, he just wanted out of the corridor, he ducked through the doorway.

  “Can anybody tell me where I can find Senior Centurion Typus?” he asked.

  “He shares a small office next to Praetor Sudoris’ suite,” a clerk replied.

  “Thank you,” Alerio acknowledged.

  He backed out of the overcrowded office and into the crowded corridor. Slowing to avoid a repeat of the run-in, he moved by desks, dodged couriers, and gave way to staff officers. In the distance, he could see the door to Praetor Sudoris offices and a second door.

  Prior to the buildup, the space might have been for a scribe to work on the Fleet Praetor’s letters and official missives or, it might have been a storage closet. But the door hung open announcing to the world that the small room was a working office.

  Remembering the rushed young Tribune, Alerio slowed at the entrance to the Praetor’s office. He glanced in to be sure no one was coming out. For a moment, Alerio appeared in the doorframe then moved on.

  “Sisera. Is that you?” the Fleet Praetor shouted. “Get in here.”

  Alerio was a step from the Senior Centurion’s office. But, when a Praetor selected by the Senate demanded your attention, you braced and followed directions.

  “Sir, you called?” Alerio announced after backing up to the Praetor’s office.

  “Get in here,” Sudoris ordered. “Tell me and the staff about the corvus.”

  Worried about repercussions from the war games, he almost begged forgiveness and left to find Typus. But infantrymen do not run from danger.

  “Yes, Praetor,” Alerio replied while walking into the conference room. “What do you need to know.”

  ***

  “This is Tribune Bicornis,” Praetor Sudoris introduced an older staff officer. “Bicornis, this is Centurion Sisera.”

  “Nice to meet you, Sisera,” Bicornis acknowledged. “So, you’re the one.”

  “The one what, sir?” Alerio questioned.

  “Sisera, after your performance at the war games, I realized the fleet needs several squadrons equipped with the corvus,” Sudoris informed Alerio. “The Qart Hadasht ships are built lighter, better powered, and subsequently quicker than our quinqueremes.”

  “Yes, sir. I have been on one and that’s true,” Alerio agreed.

  “When were you on an Empire ship-of-war?” Bicornis inquired.

  “After the ship I was on was sunk last year, Tribune,” Alerio responded. “I managed to swim under the hull and join survivors from another Qart Hadasht ship. It was only for an afternoon but, I had a good view of their ship-of-war.”

  “See Bicornis, I told you,” Sudoris asserted. “Centurion Sisera is resourceful.”

  “Centurion, our ships are heavier and that combined with our inexperienced seamanship makes us slower,” Bicornis explained. “The General wants ten ships armed with the corvus to lead each attack line.”

  “Be the vanguards for the fleet,” Sudoris said picking up the description. “Tribune Bicornis’ squadron will engage and pin ten Empire ships. That will create ten artificial islands. Obstacles that will slow their ships and force them to come a long way around to reach us.”

  “It’s a good plan, Praetor,” Alerio remarked. “but what does it have to do with me?”

  “Starting right now, you are going to supervise the construction of the boarding ramps while your team trains the rowers,” Sudoris informed him. “Take the Tribune to the metalworkers and you two get them started building whatever you need.”

  “Sir, I need to speak with the Senior Centurion,” Alerio pleaded. “It’s about…”

  “And Tribune Bicornis needs to persuade thirty ship’s Centurions that they want to have a corvus installed on their ships,” Sudoris stated. “And most have already voiced reasons why their warships shouldn’t be encumbered by the boarding ramp.”

  “It’s surprisingly light,” Alerio said defending the boarding ramp. “Centurion Savium can attest to it not effecting steering or handling.”

  “Excellent. Bicornis, take Savium with you when you speak to the other ship’s officers,” Praetor Sudoris directed. “In the meanwhile, I want the ramps installed so the crews can practice. And that starts at the forges. Now gentlemen, make this happen.”

  “Yes, Praetor,” Bicornis and Sisera acknowledged with salutes.

  They rushed from the conference room. Alerio thought about a quick detour to the Senior Centurion’s office but Tribune Bicornis’ pace ate up the distance down the corridor. Alerio jogged to catch up.

  ***

  Expanded from a few tents, the supply depot lined roads and streets. On the backside of the tent city, smoke from forges marked the metalworkers and armory areas.

  Alerio hung back. Having a staff officer accompany him meant the Tribune could use his authority to negotiate for the work and metal.

  “Who are you going to speak with?” Bicornis inquired.

  Alerio’s dream of having the order placed by a Tribune evaporated.

  “Let’s start with the head craftsman,” Alerio suggested. “He’ll need to know the specifications even if he sends us to the Centurion in charge.”

  As if the craftsman heard his name, he appeared from around the brick furnaces.

  “A staff officer and an infantry officer at my forges,” a bull of a man observed. “My name is Eburarius. What can my lads make for you?”

  Alerio searched for a flat, smooth surface. At the back of the forges, a layer of clay, probably left over from the forges subbase when they were built, fit his needs.

  “It’s a u-shaped bracket with a spike on the bottom,” he explained while drawing the boarding ramp’s anchor structure on the clay with a piece of charcoal.

  “If you want it to pivot,” the craftsman suggested. “Put an iron brace with a hole in the center.”

  Alerio etched the plate and finished th
e bracket.

  “And we’ll need a big spike,” he drew the end of the ramp and extended the pinning spike. “Finally, we need two bars. One to fix the boards to the base bracket and the other to secure the spike on the far end of the ramp.”

  The craftsman bent over and studied the drawings.

  “Are you a craftsman?” he questioned.

  “No, sir,” Alerio informed him. “I’m trained as a map maker.”

  “Too bad you have the arms of an iron man and the eye of a craftsman,” Eburariu, the head metalworker, stated. “I assume these figures get scaled down.”

  “No, no,” Alerio assured him. “These are the exact sizes.”

  “If we made iron gear this size for a wagon, the cart shafts would be the size of young trees,” the craftsman laughed. “Go see my Centurion for the price of labor and material.”

  Bicornis and Sisera following directions went to find the office of the Centurion in charge of the metalworkers. As they walked away, Eburariu spit at the drawings and sauntered back to his forges.

  ***

  The Tribune and the Centurion negotiated back and forth. The morning faded into late morning before they reached an agreement.

  “Sir, I have business with Senior Centurion Typus,” Alerio informed the staff officer.

  “You are dismissed, Centurion Sisera,” Bicornis said, releasing him.

  Alerio jogged back to the headquarters building to inform Typus that he had lost an instructor.

  ***

  With a last slap of his hobnailed boots on the road stones, Alerio arrived at the headquarters building. He stepped onto the colonnade pavers and froze.

  “Centurion Sisera,” the Senior Centurion bellowed. “Where in Hades have you been?”

  “At the metalworker’s compound,” Alerio replied. Then to prevent confusion, he added. “with Tribune Bicornis following orders from Fleet Praetor Sudoris.”

  “Well, there’s a message for you,” the senior infantry officer informed Alerio. “It’s from Senator Maximus.”

  He handed Alerio a letter.

  Centurion Alerio Sisera,

  I trust this missive finds you in good health. Although this is short notice, I need you in the Capital, tonight. Arrangements have been made at the Historia Fae for your armor. Make haste and once properly armored, present yourself at my villa before sundown.