Neptune's Fury

by J. Clifton Slater

  “The choregraphed death of a man, no matter his crime, is a serious matter,” Praetor Seubus explained. “I will maintain the dignity of these proceedings to the extent of ordering arrests.”

  Real or faked, the four observers stopped shuffling and straightened their backs to demonstrate their concern for the execution. But Alerio didn’t stop to listen to the Judge, he continued past the gathering. Thinking the prisoner was attempting an escape, the temple guards quickly formed a semicircle. Hemmed in with no exit, everyone watched to see what Alerio would do.

  Centurion Sisera marched to the very edge of the cliff and peered down at the Tarpeian Rock.

  “Whether you grant me eighty years, Nenia Dea, or eighty feet more of life,” Alerio prayed. He turned his back to the cliff and, with his heals hanging over the edge of the clifftop, raised his arms to the sky. “The end will be the same. You will lift my soul from a wretched body. For once, I offer no choice. My battle this day is not contested against a foe I can submit for your consideration.”

  Alerio slammed his fist into his breast in a cross-chest salute. For a heartbeat, he lamented the lack of armor that would have made the salute boom over the gathering.

  “Praetor Valerius Seubus. Centurion Alerio Sisera requests permission to be relieved of duty, sir,” Alerio stated.

  Valerius Seubus’ lips quivered in surprise and he appeared at a loss for words. Convelli, the court scribe, reached up, gathered a handful of the white cloth, and pulled the Praetor down to his level. The scribe, knowing Praetor Seubus had no military training or understanding of Legion ethos, whispered into the Judge’s ear.

  “Alerio Sisera, you are convicted of treason against the Republic and are sentenced to death on Tarpeian Rock. Most people condemned to death put up a fight,” the Praetor commented then stopped to consider the makeup of a man who would voluntarily jump. After a pause, he declared. “This is highly unusual but, permission…”

  Act 7

  Chapter 28 - Praetor’s Authority

  Big, massively muscular animals, whipped and driven up a steep twisting road, snorted and huffed, filling the air with a physical manifestation of their breaths. Adding to that, their hoofs thundered on the stone pavers. The wall of sound rolled up Capitoline Hill, broke on the crest as if an ocean wave, and crashed over the execution party.

  The first rider to reach the top was bent over the horse’s neck. He drove his heels into his mount’s flanks urging the exhausted stallion forward. Behind him, ten mounted Legionaries, their calvary armor weighing down their horses, struggled to reach the top.

  Pulling back on the reigns, caused the lead horse to rear up, his hind legs hopping while the animal attempted to stop. With the stallion still in motion, the man slid off and ran forward to keep his balance.

  “Centurion Sisera, remove yourself from the clifftop,” Praetor Zelare Sudoris ordered as he jogged to a stop. “Before you fall and get yourself killed.”

  The ten cavalrymen, in not so dramatic a manner, reigned in their horses and dismounted.

  “Sir, I believe that my death is the object of this exercise,” Alerio advised the commander of the Republic’s Navy. “Or else someone wasted a really nice feast.”

  “Praetor Sudoris. You are interfering with my decision as the Judge in this case,” Praetor Valerius Seubus stated. “You may witness the throwing of the convicted but you may not interfere.”

  “I don’t see anybody throwing or pushing. It looked to me like one of my best junior officers was about to jump,” Naval Commander Sudoris challenged. “Who here is the Jurist?”

  “I am, Praetor,” Imprecari replied with a respectable nod of his head. “Do you require an opinion on a matter of the law?”

  Alerio took three steps off the clifftop. Wide eyed and confused, he repeated Zelare Sudoris’ words, “One of my best junior officers.”

  “I do have a legal question, specifically, about rigged tribunals,” Zelare Sudoris questioned. “What are the limits to the veto power of a Praetor?”

  “Roman law states that a Praetor of equal or higher rank can veto the decision of an equal or lesser Praetor,” Imprecari said quoting the law. “In the case of a court’s judgement, another Praetor can reject a decision made by a single Judge if he qualifies as previously stipulated. In the case of two Judges, the refuting Praetor would not have a strong enough standing to refute the ruling unless he held the rank of Consul.”

  “That’s what I thought,” Zelare Sudoris confirmed. “As the senior Praetor, I proclaim this court vetoed.”

  “You of course mean, the sentence is overturned,” Imprecari suggested.

  “No Advocate. I mean the entire court is vetoed,” Praetor Zelare Sudoris declared. “Legionaries, arrest everyone here.”

  Cavalry shields were lifted from the sides of horses, strapped to arms, and gladii swooshed from sheaths. Then the ten Legionaries began herding the witnesses together. Two of the temple guards leveled their spears.

  “Any reason to let them live, sir,” the cavalry officer asked.

  “This would be easier if they all died,” Praetor Sudoris suggested. “But I don’t think I could explain that many bodies to the senate. Unless, they attack first.”

  Hearing the cold-blooded discussion, the temple guards threw their weapons to the ground and fell in with the others. When Praetor Valerius Seubus and Convelli the scribe failed to move, Praetor Sudoris lifted his arm and pointed in the direction of the temple.

  “Please go to the small stadium,” he instructed. “Failure to follow orders will result in your deaths. And trust me, I won’t have much to explain to the senate.”

  Valerius Seubus and Convelli fell in behind the Legionaries.

  ***

  “Sisera, you too,” Praetor Sudoris called. “Move it or I’ll throw you off the cliff myself.”

  Alerio was so taken by the surprise interruption of his death that he stood still afraid of moving and breaking the spell. The sky never looked so beautiful and the gardens on Capitoline Hill drew his eyes from one colorful blossom to another. At the sound of the Navy commander’s voice, he snapped out of the trance and trotted to the Praetor’s side.

  “I’m not sure what happened here, sir,” Alerio stammered. “I was sentenced to death for treason.”

  “What happened here, I don’t know about,” Praetor Sudoris told him. “What I do know is I was finishing dinner last night with several of my Centurions. The main topic of our conversation was the shortage of warships. Suddenly, a retired Optio barged in and informed me, I had a trireme docked at the city pier.”

  “Civi Affatus, sir?” Alerio guessed.

  “One of your patron’s household guards,” the Navy commander confirmed. “I dispatched a cavalry troop to investigate. I had turned in for the night when my Senior Centurion walked in with news that indeed there was a trireme at the dock in the Capital.”

  “Yes, sir. We rowed it down from Stifone,” Alerio informed him.

  “Don’t say that. Don’t even think the name,” Praetor Sudoris scolded. “Before dawn, I took a Century of cavalrymen and rode for the Capital. We arrived and, as I’d been warned, there were city guardsmen preventing anyone from boarding the ship or leaving it.”

  “I jumped over the side before…”

  “I spoke with an engineer and a Greek ship builder,” the Praetor of the Navy described. “And then a Centurion from the guard informed me. Me, the Praetor of the Republic’s Navy, that the ship was being taken. It seemed a consortium had purchased the ship to satisfy bills acquired while the warship was being built.”

  “What did you do, sir?” Alerio inquired.

  “Did I mention I brought a Century of cavalry with me?”

  “Yes sir. There is a problem and a large sum owned to an Umbrian, up north,” Alerio said being careful not to say Stifone. “It, apparently, is the cause of a treaty violation triggered by my traitorous actions.”

  “Centurion Sisera, the sum is not large,” the Praetor stated. �
�Up north is the only location that has produced a warship so far. And according to your ship builder and engineer, the territory can build everything we need. I’m going to get a fleet out of the Umbria. Squadrons of triremes and quinqueremes to go ram to ram against the Empire. And the Qart Hadasht will never know where we are building the warships. You think the bill you ran up is large? I’m going to pour one hundred times that amount into the area.”

  “Sir, I’ll be proud to work on the fleet,” Alerio remarked.

  “No, you will not,” commander Zelare Sudoris responded. “I need trained and aggressive officers for the new ships. You won’t be working on the fleet. You’ll be working in the fleet.”

  “Wherever the Legion needs me sir,” Alerio assured him. “I’d like to serve on Neptune’s Fury.”

  “The name the ship builder gave the trireme,” Praetor Sudoris said. “No. I need you elsewhere.”

  ***

  They arrived at the amphitheater and the Praetor sent Legionaries around the venue to prevent anyone from approaching the area.

  “You will strip the name of Stifone from any records,” Zelare Sudoris instructed. “And you will never mention the name of the town again. If you do, you will find yourself on the clifftop at midnight. And early rising citizens will find your body on The Tarpeian Rock at dawn. We are at war with the Empire. They have fleets on every ocean and the Republic has twenty triremes. That will change and I swear, Qart Hadasht will never see us coming. Questions?”

  Alerio was standing off to the side listening when the Legion cavalry officer approached him.

  “There’s a fresh horse in the quad for you,” the Centurion informed Alerio. “The Praetor wants you away from any burning embers until this political firestorm burns itself out. Ride to Ostia and report to the Furor's Face trireme. The ship’s senior Centurion is Dilato Invitus.”

  “Furor’s Face. The God of mad rage has a warship named after him?” Alerio inquired.

  “And once it was a face to be feared,” the officer replied.

  “And now?” Alerio asked.

  “The Praetor wants you out of the Capital before dark,” the cavalry officer directed. “Better get moving.”

  Alerio backed out of the theater, located the alleyway, and made his way to the holding room. After retrieving his armor, Centurion Sisera marched to the Legionary with the horse. Once mounted, he rode from the temple grounds and, a half mile later, Alerio passed the place where he should have died.

  Chapter 29 - The Face of Mad Rage

  The stars burned holes in the early morning sky.

  After crossing the Capital and riding through the southern gate in the Servian Wall, Alerio exchanged the temple’s mount at the first posthouse. Without delay, he started off on the road to the coast. Caution in the dark night forced him to allow the sturdy Legion horse to walk the ten miles. Although he could usually sleep anywhere, the animal’s jerking gait kept him awake. Due to the rough ride, Alerio arrived at the next posthouse stiff and exhausted.

  Following a short nap in a pile of hay, Alerio led the fresh mount a few steps while admiring the stars. Then he hopped onto the horse’s back and, with a tug of the reigns, guided the animal through a break in the stable’s fence. On the road towards Ostia, he kneed the horse to urge the animal to pick up its pace.

  Seven miles to the Navy port wasn’t far but, Alerio wanted to reach Ostia by daybreak. From the horse’s back, he shifted his attention, alternating from peering at the dark road ahead to admiring the million points of light overhead.

  ***

  The beach gently elevated from the water’s edge to a line of sheds. Tall and long but narrow, the five buildings rested on land not too high above the surface of the ocean. Yet the buildings were far enough back from the shoreline, they were safe from the highest of tides or the fiercest of storm surges.

  Following general directions from the stableman, Alerio ambled around until he located the five trireme sheds. Then, after recognizing three figures standing beside the second structure, he lengthened his stride.

  They didn’t notice Alerio approach. Their focus was on a Priest standing on a ladder painting an eye on the side of the hull. Two buckets of paint hung from the top rung and the Celebrant selected brushes as he put the finishing touches on the artwork.

  “Neptune, see what we offer you. Use these eyes to avoid obstacles. Use these eyes to find safe harbors,” the Priest prayed while leaning back to admire his work. “Use these eyes to frighten off monsters from the deep. And use these eyes to guide the ship to safety before the storm. Neptune, King of the sea, bring luck to this vessel, your namesake, Neptune’s Fury.”

  At the conclusion of the chant, the Priest pulled up his buckets and began climbing down.

  “I see, Master Pous, they kept the name you gave the trireme,” Alerio said to the boat builder.

  Cata Pous, Pejus Monilis, and Optio Adamo Florian spun around. Wide eyed and with mouths open, they gawked at Alerio.

  “Is something wrong?” he questioned the three.

  “Master Monilis had suggested they might sell you into slavery to pay the bills,” Adamo Florian remarked. “You are still a freedman, aren’t you, sir?”

  “Yes, and still a Centurion,” Alerio assured the NCO.

  “That is a relief as Pejus was very persuasive in his argument for debtor slavery,” Cata told him. “Will you be commanding Poseidon’s, no excuse me, Neptune’s Fury once the benches are constructed? Or will you be accompanying us to, I mean, up north?”

  “I’ve heard the speech about the nameless place,” Alerio informed them. “I’m afraid neither is an option. I’ve been assigned to Furor’s Face.”

  “Can’t you get out of that assignment?” the engineer inquired. “It’s not good, not good at all.”

  “At least the Centurion has an assignment,” Sergeant Florian complained. “I’ve got to make my way to the Capital and ask about an opening for an Optio.”

  Alerio ignored the NCO and studied Pejus for several long moments. Finally, he asked, “Master Monilis. Why is it you are positive, energetic, and filled with ideas when things go wrong? Yet so negative when the situation is going smoothly?”

  “I am an engineer. Finding solutions is my training and my nature,” Pejus answered. “In chaos, I’m solving problems which brings me joy. In good times, I am anticipating the worst so I’m prepared.”

  “That does explain some of your comments,” Alerio acknowledged. Then he inquired. “What are your plans?”

  The engineer and the ship builder were excited to return to Stifone and get started on enlarging the ship building facility. While Adamo Florian, as he mentioned, worried about securing a place with a Legion. There was only one Optio in each Century and a majority of the time, the Centurion picked his own NCOs.

  The four men talked for a while then Alerio excused himself. With promises to meet later for a meal, he left to find ship’s senior Centurion Dilato Invitus and the Furor’s Face.

  ***

  The warship wasn’t in the next three sheds. But on the far side of the last building, beyond several patrol boats, and sitting off by itself, was an old trireme. As Alerio got closer, he noticed the eye on the starboard side of the hull. Cracked paint over hull planks ranging from slightly aged to weathered to bent and curled gave the ship’s eye the appearance of being crazy. It fit the name of the warship, if this was the Furor’s Face. Having no other options, Alerio walked towards it.

  An old man sitting on a stool dabbed the corner of a cloth into a bowl, scooped up a little paste, and rubbed it on the trireme’s bronze ram. Alerio passed under the raised keel of the ship and stooped to admire the ancient one’s work.

  “Good job on the bronze,” Alerio said about the glistening blades on the ram. “What’s your secret?”

  “Vinegar and salt,” the man replied. He indicated the bowl without looking away from his task. Then, he added. “plus, hard non-stop rubbing. I mean put your shoulder into it polishing. That
’s how you make the business end of a warship shine.”

  “I can’t argue with those results,” Alerio admitted. “Tell me old timer, where I can find senior Centurion Invitus?”

  Looking up, the man’s face took Alerio by surprise. The ancient man had only one good eye. A scar running diagonally across the eye, gave testimony to the blade strike that took half his vision. Plus, the round face was deeply lines and pock marked. Like the eye painted over the ravaged side of the vessel, the man’s ragged face was the embodiment of insane. Both matched the name of the warship.

  “The Centurion is around,” the old man replied

  With a dismissive wave of an arm, he returned to polishing the bronze ram. Alerio had to chuckle at the disparity between the glowing ram and the loose seams of the hull boards. They were so bowed and gapped, a line of thirty laborers worked at caulking the spaces.

  Alerio strolled behind the men. He watched them take rods, dip them into bags of hemp fibers, lift out a fistful of strands, then plunge the hemp into a kettle of hot tar. After spreading the mixture along a seam, the laborers took mallets, and by tapping on the end of the rods, they pushed the sealant deep into the cavity. All of them, except one.

  Alerio stopped. He hadn’t realized the broad age range of the workmen. From youths barely old enough to effectively hold a gladius to old men who may have been too old to lift a blade, thy seems to be a strange mix.

  “You tap the hemp and tar into the gaps just enough to fully fill them. Too deep and you’ll push it into the ship,” Alerio instructed. “If you do a poor job of caulking, you’ll be bailing water more then you’ll be rowing.”

  “Yes, Centurion,” the lad responded.

  Then Alerio noticed what age group was missing. Anyone in their prime between the teens and the old men was absent.