Neptune's Fury

by J. Clifton Slater

  Shoots of color stretched across the sky announcing the start of a new day. While the stars faded in the light from the rising sun, the ground and Nera river were deeply shadowed.

  “Look there,” a militiaman urged. “Up river.”

  From the gloom, the tall bow of a trireme emerged. Unlike the ones Alerio had seen at sea with one hundred and seventy oars stroking in unison, this one had twenty sticks haphazardly slapping the water. Despite the shortage of rowers and the lack of proper oars, the ship angled towards the shoreline.

  “It’s headed this way,” Tite observed. “I don’t know anything about warships. But it seems to be traveling at a high rate. Maybe as fast as a trotting horse. It that normal for taking on passengers?”

  “It is not,” Alerio informed him.

  The trireme slid almost into the riverbank and only frantic poking with long poles kept the ship from running up on the dirt.

  Optio Florian jogged to the bow area, cupped his hands around his mouth, and shouted, “We can’t slow. Grab a rope.”

  Six men ran to positions along the one hundred and thirty feet of hull. Once braced, they began twirling ropes as they prepared to throw the lines.

  “Run,” Alerio shouted.

  He turned to face downstream, kicked off hard, and sprinted along the riverbank. While he ran, a section of the hull caught up and began to pass him. A sideways glance showed an Umbrian on the ship increasing the spin as he readied to toss the rope.

  “Throw it,” Alerio shouted while lifting a hand.

  The line sailed from the ship, hung over Alerio’s head for a heartbeat, before falling into his outstretched hand. Two steps towards the river while gathering in excess rope and he jumped.

  Swinging on the line, his arms and face collided with the oak boards while his feet plunged into the river. As if dragged from a racing horse across rough ground, Alerio’s legs sank into the water and bounced out in a jarring pattern.

  He attempted to lift his body higher but the jerking caused his hands to slip and he dipped deeper. Then, he turned his face and caught sight of Tite Roscini.

  The militia Lieutenant had his legs lifted to waist level and his feet pressed against the hull. He seemed to be resting. Alerio, rather than trying to climb, mimicked Tite by bending and lifting his knees. Two attempts later, the Legion officer had his feet, flat on the side planks. Following Tite’s lead, Alerio began to pull on the rope and walk his feet up the hull.

  Alerio reached the top where hands grabbed him and pulled him onto the trireme. He fell onto the platform breathing hard.

  “Good morning, sir,” Florian greeted him. “We seem to have stolen a warship. I’m hoping you know what to do with it.”

  “I do, Optio,” Alerio assured him. “First, we need to stop at Fort Orte.”

  “Stopping and steering are issues, sir,” Florian explained.

  “I noticed,’” Alerio said. He climbed to his feet and looked at the twenty Umbrians craftsmen splashing water with long poles. “We need to fix that if we are going to arrive at the Capital in good order.”

  “I thought we would leave the ship at a Legion post along the Tiber,” Florian suggested. “Now, we’re taking it to Rome?”

  “We must,” Alerio informed the NCO. “It’s where the senate is.”

  “I thought this was a Legion naval vessel,” the Optio questioned. “What reason would the senate have to care about a single warship.”

  “One million eighty-eight thousand and one hundred seventy-three reasons,” Alerio explained. “But first Sergeant, we stop at Fort Orte.”

  ***

  One fact of boating on a river, in order to steer, the ship must travel faster than the water. Splashing and beating the surface with round poles would not propel the vessel faster than the current.

  “No speed, no steer,” Alerio stated. “Pull the sticks out of the water and cut flat surfaces near the ends.”

  “That won’t make them paddles,” Pejus Monilis offered.

  “Paddles are for taking your girl for a spin around the local pond. What we want are oars to control a warship,” Alerio corrected the engineer. “Hopefully, the adjusted poles will get us across the Tiber to a beach on the far shore.”

  A little over two miles later, the brown water of the Nera flowed into the yellow-whitish water of the Tiber. And as smoke does in the wind, the brown water was swept downstream where it dissipated. The trireme reacted to the power of the bigger river and the bow was pushed towards the near bank.

  “Stroke. Stroke,” Alerio shouted from the aft platform. He worked one of the two rear oars back and forth while directing the inexperienced oarsmen. “Starboard side, ship oars. Port side, stroke, stroke, stroke.”

  The bow angled away from the bank and the warship nosed into the center of the Tiber. With the current pressing on the right side and only the oars on the left in motion, they managed to nudge the warship diagonally across the river.

  “Starboard side, dip oars and stroke, stroke,” Alerio commanded. The trireme now drifted in the direction of the high, rocky riverbank. “Don’t let up. Stroke, stroke.”

  With the increased flow of the river, Alerio needed to get as much speed out of his rowers as they could deliver. Finally, Optio Florian, standing in the fore section, raised both arms and waved at the shore.

  “Just a few more strokes. Stroke, stroke,” Alerio promised the oarsmen. He attempted to see the beach that Florian indicated but it was too far in front of him. Finally, after several more rounds of rowing, the low section of the shoreline came into view. “Starboard side, ship oars. Port stroke, stroke. Ship oars.”

  The twenty poles hovered over the water and the ship drifted. Alerio and one of the big militiamen shoved their rear oars to the side and the warship partially spun. This time the current worked in their favor by pushing the trireme up and onto the beach.

  “Everybody, over the side,” Optio Florian directed. “Get us as far out of the water as possible. If this ship floats away, I’ll have the lot of you swimming after it.”

  Thirty-four men jumped to the beach. They pushed and pulled the ship halfway out of the current. Four ropes were tied together and the long line used to secure the ship to a tree.

  “Optio Florian, you’re with me,” Alerio ordered. “We need to get to Fort Orte as soon as possible.”

  The two Legionaries marched northward following the Tiber. Their fast walk quickly ate into the two miles distance to the Legion fort. But it wasn’t fast enough for Centurion Sisera. He indicated a change in pace before breaking into a Legion shuffle. Florian required a short sprint to catch up.

  “Why the rush, sir?” the NCO inquired.

  “Century Subausterus has horses and can send a troop to the fort,” Alerio informed the NCO. “I don’t know how long it will take them to reach and cross the Tiber. But I don’t want to force Senior Centurion Baccharis into making a judgement call about who has the rights to the trireme. So, we’re in and away quickly. That’s the plan.”

  “I’m still not sure what we need here,” the NCO questioned.

  “What else do you find at a legion post?” Alerio replied. Then he answered his own question. “What we need are equipment and Legionaries.”

  When the Centurion and Optio marched away, Cata Pous and Pejus Monilis crawled under the hull. They ran their hands over the birch pitch seeking bulges. Any raised area could be a crack in the keel or hull. After the violent launch, they wouldn’t be surprised to find damage.

  ***

  The sentry on the main gate of Fort Orte called for the Sergeant of the Guard.

  “Optio. Two men approaching fast,” he called towards a window in the duty office. “They look to be Latian but don’t have travel baggage.”

  The door opened and an Optio stepped onto the narrow porch. He strolled to the guard post.

  “Do you think they were robbed?” the Private questioned.

  “I hope not,” the Sergeant replied. “Organizing a chase and tracking
bandits is not a great way to start the day.”

  They watched as the two men reached the bottom of the hill and began running up the road.

  “One has a pugio and is wearing leather hunting clothing,” the Optio observed. “The other is unarmed and wearing a short sleeved red tunic.”

  “Like we wear under our armor,” the sentry said.

  The strangers reached the crest of the hill and broke stride as they approached the gate.

  “Centurion Alerio Sisera and Optio Florian. Take us to Centurion Baccharis,” Alerio directed. “And send for Centurion Decalcavi.”

  “Sir, it’s early,” the Sergeant of the Guard pointed out.

  “Optio Florian, how much sleep did you get last night,” Alerio quizzed his NCO.

  “None, sir,” Florian answered. “I’ve been up all night.”

  “See there,” Alerio informed the duty NCO. “We’re not early but late. Too late to stand at a Legion gate having the position of the sun pointed out to me by a Sergeant of the Guard. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir,” the SOG acknowledged. “Follow me.”

  ***

  They waited in the fort’s administration office until Senior Centurion Baccharis and junior Centurion Decalcavi pushed through the doorway.

  “Just once when you enter my command,” Baccharis confronted Alerio. “I would like to see you in proper Legion attire.”

  “Senior Centurion, I also would enjoy seeing you in situations other than those I find myself in,” Alerio replied. “But, as the fates would have it, I must beg your forgiveness while asking for favors.”

  “More than one favor?” Baccharis questioned. “How many exactly and to what degree?”

  “I need Lance Corporal Ippazio and his contubernium to accompany me to the Capital,” Alerio told the post commander.

  “When do I get my Second Squad back?” Decalcavi asked.

  “That depends on the senate,” Alerio stated. “If they want a trial or not.”

  “A trial for my Second Squad?” Decalcavi inquired. “What trial and why?”

  “Lance Corporal Ippazio gave the mail from Stifone to a third party,” Alerio reported. “It’s caused a conflict over who owns the warship we built.”

  “That’s Legion business,” Baccharis commented. “We can handle that internally on the punishment post.”

  “Unfortunately, Senior Centurion, there are large sums of coins involved,” Alerio informed him. “Big enough that only the senate can settle the disagreement.”

  “Well, it sounds like you only need the Decanus.”

  “I also need his nine Legionaries,” Alerio said. “To guard and row the ship. Which leads me to the other favors.”

  “You are just an early in the morning joy, Centurion Sisera,” Baccharis remarked. “A gift that keeps on giving. What do you need?”

  ***

  Cata Pous and Pejus Monilis noted the guarded wagons coming from the north.

  “Do you think Sisera got everything he wanted?” Cata asked.

  “Seeing as he failed to inform me of his requirements,” Pejus replied. “I haven’t the foggiest notion.”

  The wagons pulled up beside the warship and a squad of Legionaries and the drivers began to unload pieces of oars.

  “Those are broken,” Cata pointed out to Alerio when he arrived.

  “And they are too short to use on a trireme,” Alerio told him.

  “Then what good are they,” Pejus remarked. “Or did the Legion cheat you?”

  “Have the craftsmen split the ends of our poles and insert the blades from the broken oars in the groove,” Alerio directed. “There’s leather pieces and rope to secure the spliced segments.”

  “The oars will be too frail for heavy rowing,” Pejus offered.

  “As someone recently accused me of being,” Alerio commented. “You, Master Monilis, are a joy in the morning.”

  “We just have to be faster than the current,” Cata stated. “Those temporary oars will work for our needs.”

  “That’s correct, master ship builder,” Alerio agreed. “If the God Sors grants us luck and Tiber allows us uneventful days of rowing.”

  “May the gods smile on our voyage,” Pejus prayed.

  Chapter 23 - Seventy Miles to Rome

  Although the trireme had a long snout, the forward keel beam was sans the heavy bronze battering ram. Without the weight, the warship tended to favor its aft section. The elevated bow had aided in the run up the beach. Relaunching the hull from the shoreline, with only forty-two men proved difficult.

  “They usually row these things in aft first,” Cata advised.

  “They usually have a full crew of oarsmen,” Pejus shouted back. “to move the beast afterward.”

  Both the master ship builder and the master engineer were covered in mud from pushing, slipping, and falling onto the pulverized soil. Their appearance matched the other forty men attempting to move the ship-of-war.

  Disgusted at the procedure, Pejus Monilis stomped ten feet away before spinning and glaring at the stuck warship. Then his eyes shifted to the wagons and the mule teams.

  “You and you, bring down some ropes,” Pejus ordered a couple of Legionaries.

  “We don’t know where the ropes are stored,” one responded.

  “Young man, the hull is empty,” the master engineer informed the Private. “Just use your eyes and you’ll find the ropes.”

  The Legionaries scrambled up the raised keel and vanished over the side. They were gone for so long, the engineer thought about climbing up to see if they were injured. Before he acted, the Legionaries appeared on the hull and, with a yell, the two tossed the reserve hypozomata over the side.

  Three hundred feet of triple woven line unrolled before smacking into the churned-up soil. Centurion Sisera, Optio Florian, Cata Pous, and Pejus Monilis gasped as the pristine fibers soaked up moisture as the reserve hypozomata sank into the mud.

  “We found it, Master Monilis,” one of the Legionaries shouted. “There’s another one if you need it. But it’ll take us a little work to untie it.”

  “No young man,” Pejus responded quickly. “You’ve done enough already.”

  “Come down,” Alerio directed. Then he mouthed, so they couldn’t hear. “You’ve done enough damage.”

  “You ordered the rope, Master Monilis,” Cata informed the engineer. “What are you going to do with it?”

  Pejus Monilis’ mouth fell open at the sight and for a heartbeat he appeared to be a defeated man. Then his face lit up and a smile broke through. He ran to the teamsters and exchanged words with them. In response, they unhooked the mule teams from the wagons and walked a pair to either side of the warship. Then Pejus organized groups of men to untangle the hypozomata. Once the triple-strand line was unknotted, he stretched the rope across the raised fore keel and tied it to the mules.

  “This ship is going into the river,” Pejus Monilis announced. “Get on now or you’ll miss the boat.”

  Every man climbed the hull, then stood on the platform looking down at the mule teams. The master engineer walked to the fore section and posed with his arms reaching to the sky.

  “Teamsters, lead them forward,” Pejus declared with a wave of his arms.

  The mules moved, the hypozomata stretched then tightened, and the trireme slid backward into the Tiber. With water only knee high on the animals’ legs, the ship bobbed in the river free of land.

  A teamster called from the shore, “What about this huge rope?”

  “Keep it,” Pejus replied. “As a gift from master engineer Monilis.”

  “You are generous with the ship’s supplies,” Cata noted.

  “We’re floating, aren’t we?” Pejus scoffed. “If you want the line that bad, jump in, and swim back.”

  They were both flung to the side and forced to lean forward and grip the top of the hull.

  “Oars, oars,” they heard Centurion Sisera command.

  The ship had caught the current, dipped sideways, and
then righted itself. But they had a problem. No one was sure how much stress and abuse the spliced oars could handle. And the Trireme was drifting uncontrolled into a bend on the Tiber river, backwards.

  A well-trained crew could dip their oars deep, put their backs and legs into a few hard strokes, and carve a half circle in the water. The crew on the trireme was barely cognizant of the rowing commands and their oars were questionably serviceable.

  ***

  Sixty-eight miles from the docks at Rome, the Tiber went from a gentle curve to a sharp left-hand turn. Engineers designed roads to bend like the river to avoid obstacles or to respect property lines. The powerful Tiber cared little for either reason. What did influence the flow was granite. A jagged rock wall lurked under the water at the turn. On the surface, an aft heavy out of control ship-of-war traveled towards the wall.

  “Port side, hold water,” Alerio bellowed. The eighteen rowers on the left placed their oars in the water and held them steady. “Starboard side, stroke, stroke, stroke.”

  The fore section began to come around the left side. Unfortunately, the movement placed the hull broadside to the current.

  “Give me three Port side Legionaries to repel the riverbank,” Alerio directed when he realized the maneuver was too late to avoid the rocks.

  One benefit to adding the Legion squad to the crew, the Legionaries were trained in rowing and boat handling. Three flipped their oars, putting the butt ends forward while rushing to the front of the ship. As the trireme’s nose swung around on a collision course with the stone embankment, they placed the poles on the bank, braced their feet, and fought to keep the keel from smashing into the granite wall. The Gods Sors and Tiber noticed the near tragedy and allowed the bow to swing downstream undamaged.

  However, as the gods are known to do, they hadn’t finished mocking the mortals. Twenty-four hundred feet from the first bend, the mighty river smacked another wall of stone and made another left-hand turn. Compounding the navigation, silt and gravel deposited when the current slowed after the first turn, creating a sandbar on the right side of the river.

  “Starboard side, stroke, stroke, stroke” Alerio ordered. “Port side, hold water. Hold…”