Neptune's Fury

by J. Clifton Slater

  The right side of the hull scraped the silt and sand, vibrating the warship. Finally, the bow angled away and the ship reached midstream.

  “Hold, hold. Now, all stroke, stroke, stroke.”

  Alerio and the man on the other rear oar shoved to the right forcing their blades to the left. The Trireme rowed around the next bend staying in the center of the river. They entered a long-curved section of water and the rowers relaxed.

  Three miles later, they fought another twisting section of the river. With only thirty-six oarsmen rowing the sides, two men on the rear steering oars, and a handful of extra bodies, the crew was exhausted when the ship emerged from the turns, having avoided the rocks and the sandbars.

  At forty-eight miles from the Capital, Centurion Sisera called it a day. They entered a broad section of the river and located lowland. This time, the swung the aft around and backed the ship down until the keel was beached.

  “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.”

  ***

  In the morning, the trireme made twelve twisting miles under low threatening skies. Before the rain started, Tite Roscini handed his oar to a relief rower and worked his way to the aft platform.

  “Centurion Sisera,” the farmer turned militia officer advised. “We should find shelter.”

  “If you’re afraid of getting wet, I’d give you an oiled skin if I had one,” Alerio replied. “We have to reach the Capital before any messengers get there.”

  “I realize the need for haste,” Tite replied. “But the clouds are coming in from the northeast.”

  Fat, cold rain drops splattered on the deck. A few struck Tite, sending strands of his hair flying. But other drops soon plastered the wild hairs down. The militia Lieutenant didn’t move when water ran into his eyes as if to show he wasn’t afraid of getting wet.

  “You’ve proved your point, Tite,” Alerio acknowledged.

  “Getting wet wasn’t my issue,” Roscini informed the Centurion. “Getting this vessel off the river before we are swamped, is the problem.”

  Thunder cracked across the sky and small explosions of water followed each drop that impacted on the deck. Almost as if the deck was attempting to shoot the beads back at the sky, the rain drops jumped to ankle height.

  “What exactly is your issue?” Alerio shouted to be heard over the downpour. “We are safer in the center of the river then trying to land in this weather.”

  “It’s not this,” Tite said while leaning forward and pointing at the heavens. “The clouds came from the mountains to the northeast. They have dumped rain up there all night. That water has to go somewhere.”

  Alerio glanced over the side. The river’s surface was dimpled as if a thousand slingers were pelting the water with rocks. A bad memory of being ensnared in a flash flood zipped through Alerio’s mind. In that instance, he was caught walking up a sandbar and nearly drowned in the wave of turbulent water.

  Designed to handle sea swells and crashes into troughs between waves, the trireme had the buoyancy to survive. But that included a full crew of veteran rowers and an open ocean. This situation had neither.

  “Take Florian to the bow and find us a way off the Tiber,” Alerio ordered.

  “Yes, sir,” Tite confirmed.

  The Umbrian walked the side platform, tapped the Optio on the shoulder, and both men moved to the front of the ship. Immediately, Alerio had a problem. He could only see a gray outline of the men. From one hundred and thirty feet away, their arm movements were lost in the sheets of rain.

  Imagined or not, Alerio felt the deck under his feet lift and panic tighten his chest. A wave of water could easily propel the warship off the river. It would splinter against a grove of trees, ending his life and leaving a legacy of Alerio Sisera as a thief and a swindler.

  “Master Pous. Master Monilis,” Alerio instructed after fighting off the despondency. “I need you to form a relay from the fore section.”

  The two masters spread apart until one could see Florian and Roscini, the other had a view of Alerio and both could see each other. Then they waited for a signal while Alerio waited for a massive wave and the arms of Nenia Dea.

  ***

  Sixteen and a half miles from where they had bivouacked the night before, Florian patted his butt then pointed to the left. Cata Pous repeated the movements for Pejus and, in return, the engineer demonstrated the actions to Alerio.

  Trust was hard in stressful situations. Most people would hesitate and require confirmation. But Centurion Sisera was a combat veteran. Life and death decisions made by the wave of a hand or a warning transmitted by the jerk of a shoulder were as clear to a Legion infantry officer as a written set of orders. And as in those situations, there was no time to read or even think.

  “Starboard side, hold water,” he commanded. The eighteen blades stopped in the water, acting as breaks for the right side. “Port side, stroke, stroke.”

  To help the vessel turn, the two rear oarsmen pulled their oars to the left which pushed the blades to the right. The trireme pivoted sharply.

  Alerio peered over his shoulder to see a stream with low banks in the distance. Florian and Roscini had located a creek fed backwater off the main river.

  “Back it down,” Alerio instructed. “Back it down.”

  Again, having the trained Legionaries as examples helped the rowers to propel the warship to the rear and into the backwater. After a few more reverse strokes, the hull rose up onto the creek bed.

  “You are already wet,” Optio Florian announced. “Over the side with you all.”

  It brought a smile to the experienced Sergeant’s face when most of the crew finished the speech for him, “If the ship floats away, I’ll throw you in and have you swim after it.”

  “Exactly, so move your cūlī,” Florian declared while walking back to see Alerio. “Sir, why are we beached up a creek?”

  “Because Lieutenant Roscini is expecting a flash flood,” Alerio reported. “He is an Umbrian and they are a mountain people.”

  “Next thing you know, Centurion,” the Optio informed Alerio. “You’ll be telling me they are skilled hunters.”

  “Aren’t they?”

  It rained continuously and the crew of Legionaries, masters, and craftsmen spent a damp cold night huddled in wet clothing. Before dawn, a rumble shook them awake. Most had no idea what was causing the commotion. The Umbrians and Alerio recognized the source. When the warship lifted and floated further up the creek, everyone realized the sound was a wall of water flushing the Tiber.

  At dawn, they nudged the trireme from the swollen creek. Alerio called for strokes as the two rear oars angled the vessel to nose it downstream. They were thirty-one miles from the docks at the Capital.

  ***

  Thirty-one miles of winding river in an underpowered warship equated to almost a day of rowing. Conversely, on horseback, the distance from that area of the Tiber to the Capital measured twenty-five miles. Adding to the riders’ advantage, once on the Northern Legion’s road system, the messengers could use way stations to change mounts. When the trireme launched in the morning, only one mile away, two horses left the Legion stables.

  On land, the messengers, dry and rested with full bellies, let their fresh mounts set their own pace. On the water, the crew worked the oars to warm up and generate enough body heat to dry their clothes. Plus, they were hungry as their rations were gone.

  It wasn’t a race to a finish line. Both voyaging entities were on course to a flashpoint. An embattled crossroads where other parties, much, much higher in society, would clash over riches, power, and influence. Unfortunately, their proxies would suffer burns from the flash. One was thirty-one miles from the docks, and the other twenty-five miles from the walls of Rome. And both were moving towards their fate.

  Chapter 24 - Millstone of Power

  The last three and a half miles, Alerio yel
led, snapped, and talked to keep the rowers’ attention. None of the Umbrians had seen a city of one hundred thousand people. Or brick buildings so tall, walls as massive, and the handful of majestic temples constructed from granite. They stumbled, forgot to row, bumped into the oarsman in front, and fouled their oars.

  After snaking through giant coils of river, the trireme rowed into a long sweeping curve. It wrapped around until the crew had a view of Quirinal Hill rising from behind the defensive wall. A small island in the distance marked the beginning of the docks and, in his elation at finishing the trip, Alerio neglected to pay attention. The heights of Capitoline Hill slid by too quickly.

  Before passing the docks and coming parallel to Palatine Hill, Alerio called out, “Hold water.”

  The oars stopped moving but, as instructed, the blades remained in the water. Unfortunately, the current continued and carried the warship dangerously close to the island.

  “Starboard side, stroke, stroke,” he said directing all of the power to the right side so the vessel turned left. “Port side, blades up.”

  The oars on the left rose into the air as the hull slid along an open section of the city’s dock.

  “Starboard side, hold water,” Alerio ordered.

  The oar blades, acting as breaks, slowed the trireme while Legionaries jumped to the dock hauling lines. Once on shore, they looped the ropes around piers and pulled. The ship came to a gentle stop when the ropes went taut.

  “Starboard side, blades up,” Alerio instructed then added. “Good work everyone and thank you.”

  The men on the wharf took in the slack from the mooring lines. In response, the warship moved backward for a couple of feet before stopping against the dock. They tied off the lines and stood looking at the Centurion for directions.

  “Orders, sir,” Sergeant Florian inquired.

  Alerio scanned the port. To his disappointment, a squad of city guardsmen marched by the warehouses, scattering laborers carrying bundles and causing carts to swerve off to the side. The guard unit ignored the protests of the harbor’s work force and continued on a direct path to the trireme.

  “Optio Florian. Arm the squad and defend the ship,” he replied. “This is your post until relieved by Fleet Praetor Sudoris or me. Understood?”

  “Yes, Centurion. If I may ask, where will you be?” the Sergeant questioned.

  “Getting everyone something to eat,” Alerio informed the Optio. “Afterward, I’ll state my case to important people. Then I’ll try to stay out from under the millstone of the senate.”

  “I’ve never heard the workings of the senate described like that,” Florian commented. “What does it mean?”

  “It means, Sergeant, if I’m not careful, rough grains like me can easily be crushed by the political machinery,” Alerio answered. “The Legion’s navy and I are depending on you. Carry on.”

  While Optio Florian and Decanus Ippazio helped the squad of Legionaries pull their war gear from inside the hull, Alerio collected Cata Pous and Pejus Monilis.

  “I need a screen,” he explained while stripping off his clothing. The borrowed shirt, and trousers were wrapped around Alerio’s boots and folded into a bundle. “I would appreciate it if you’d have the craftsmen block the view. And if one of you would toss this down to me.”

  Unseen by the dock laborers and the approaching city guard squad, Alerio slipped over the side and hung for a moment from the top boards of the hull. Then he released and dropped into the Tiber. All Legionaries are required to be proficient swimmers in order to qualify as heavy infantrymen. And Alerio was an excellent swimmer. He came to the surface, used scissor kicks to keep his arms and shoulders out of the water while reaching up.

  Pejus dropped the clothing over the side then turned away. Yelling from the dock drew his attention. He didn’t wait to see if Centurion Sisera caught the bundle.

  ***

  Garrison contuberniums are composed of nine men plus their Decanus and an Optio or Tesserarius if more authority is required. The northern Legion squad had an Optio in command while the city guard squad brought a Centurion. An officer usually beats an NCO, unless the Sergeant has a standing order not to relinquish his post.

  “Optio, stand down and step aside. I’m here to take Alerio Sisera into custody,” the guard officer informed Florian. “and to secure the boat.”

  “I can’t do that, sir,” the Sergeant replied.

  “And why not?” demanded the Centurion.

  “Because Centurion Sisera is not here to release me from my orders nor is Praetor Sudoris,” Florian explained. “Until one of them arrives, I will guard this naval vessel.”

  Nine armed Legionaries climbed from inside the trireme, hopped over the side and lined the dock. Now, nine guardsmen stood braced, shield to shield facing an equal number of heavy infantrymen. Behind the lines, their squad leaders stood beside their commanders waiting for instructions.

  “Decanus. As the dock officer, I order you to remove your squad,” the Centurion said shifting his threats to the Legion Lance Corporal. “Not complying will go hard on you and your contubernium.”

  “Sir, I am Decanus Ippazio of Second Squad, Fort Orte, Northern Legion,” Ippazio reported. “My infantry officer is Centurion Decalcavi and he isn’t here. In light of that, my orders are to follow the directions of Optio Florian, sir.”

  The guard officer puffed up and his face darkened. Then he glanced up and down the lines of armed men and realized they were very close to clashing and drawing blood. At the thought of being responsible for a skirmish in the harbor, he calmed and turned to his NCO.

  “Lance Corporal. Back off five paces while I sort this out,” he instructed the guard squad leader. “I’m going to get clarification. Nobody leaves that ship.”

  “Yes, sir,” the squad leader said while hiding his relief.

  He could tell by the appearance and self-assured stance of the Northern Legion squad that they were accustomed to fighting. His contubernium would be better at breaking up drunken brawls, crowd control and, collecting taxes. The skill sets didn’t favor his men and with enthusiasm he ordered his squad to back up.

  “Guard squad, five paces to the rear, march.”

  “Squad, stand easy,” Ippazio directed his contubernium. Then he asked. “What now, Optio Florian?”

  “We wait, Lance Corporal,” the Sergeant remarked. “For what or how long, I have no idea.”

  ***

  The porters at the warehouse paid little attention to the naked man when he climbed out of the Tiber and scrambled up the riverbank. Baths were available but some citizens enjoyed the exercise of swimming while cleaning their bodies. The nude man, as demonstrated by his physique, obviously fell into that category. When he slipped on a shirt of good quality wool with hand woven designs, they knew he favored the exotic such as a swim in the river to end his day.

  Alerio tugged the shirt down over hips and slipped on the trousers. He felt the fine fabric and was thankful to the Umbria craftsman who loaned him the clothing. After his hobnailed boots were strapped on, he broke into a run heading southeast out of the harbor area.

  He passed the Golden Valley Trading House, crossed the boulevard, and took the road into the commercial district. After a number of turns, Alerio trotted by Zacchaeus the cloth merchant’s establishment and increased his speed as he approached the intersection. One of the cross streets ended at the property line for an inn. Alerio mounted the steps to the porch of the Chronicles Humanum Inn, crossed the tiles, pushed open the front door, and entered the great room.

  ***

  “Master Harricus,” Alerio greeted the proprietor. “Good afternoon to you.”

  “Alerio Sisera, dressed in workmen’s clothing, barging through my front door without baggage or transportation, means one thing,” Thomasious Harricus stated. “But don’t hold me in suspense, lad. Who have you offended? And what do you want?”

  “I believe a segment of the senate opposed to building warships,” Alerio offered. He
held up three fingers. Then, reached up and collapsed one of the digests ticking off an item. “I need food and drink for forty-one men. No, wait. Make that fifty-one because the city guard is there.”

  Alerio pushed down a second finger as he counted off the answers to Harricus’ questions. In response, the inn keeper waved him to a chair and indicated to a serving girl to bring food to the table.

  “You don’t want much do you?” Harricus challenged. “What else?”

  “I need a Centurion’s armor and helmet before I visit Senator Maximus,” Alerio said finishing the list. “My rank should help with my defense.”

  “That is a lot of baggage. Go back to the anti-warship faction,” Harricus instructed. “That’s interesting as the senate has debated the issue and reached compromises. Tell me about your troubles.”

  A clay bowl of soup landed in front of Alerio along with a wedge of cheese and half a loaf of bread. He ate some of all three before continuing.

  “Stifone sits up north in Umbria territory and Tribune Subausterus is trying to discredit it,” Alerio told the inn keeper. Then remembering Thomasious Harricus’ alter ego, he warned. “But the Clay Ear can’t gossip about or mention Stifone. It’s a secret ship building location. At least it should be, if the staff officer doesn’t ruin it.”

  “Should be? Ruin?” Harricus remarked. “I know the Subausterus family. Big on horses in the Capital. But their largest land holdings are in the east.”

  “Well, the Tribune doesn’t want any ships built in Stifone,” Alerio commented. “And he has managed to hang the expenses of building one on me.”

  “Building warships is expensive,” Harricus observed. “But if you have a product to show for the coins, you should be fine.”

  “That’s why I need food sent to the craftsmen on board and the Legionaries defending the trireme,” Alerio stated. “The warship is at the city docks.”

  “You built a warship up north and rowed it to the Capital?” the inn keeper questioned.

  “I had to. Subausterus’ Century was going to burn it,” Alerio assured Harricus. “And murder Cata Pous, Pejus Monilis, and Optio Florian so they couldn’t testify at my trial.”