Clay Warrior Stories Boxset 1

by J. Clifton Slater

  He held up a scroll and waved it in the air.

  “I turn the scandals and secrets into stories,” Harricus said proudly. “Wealthy ladies pay handsomely for the tales.”

  “Don’t they recognize their situation in the stories?” questioned Alerio.

  “Although I change the names, they almost certainly know some of the tales are about them,” Harricus admitted. “But, that only adds to the value because they assume the rest of the stories are about other people in their social circles. They play parlor games of who is who in the stories.”

  A young man came in the backdoor and strolled to the rear of the alcove.

  “Master Harricus. Good day, sir,” the man said in greeting. He was slim and seemed nervous. His ink stained fingers twitched as he spoke. “Is it ready? Or, do I have time for a bowl of the cook’s soup?”

  Harricus laughed and laid the scroll on the corner of his desk.

  “The Clay Ear may have a few details to add. I’ll go upstairs to his room and check with him,” Harricus said. “In the meantime, go have a bowl. When you’re finished, the scroll will be right here.”

  The man bobbed his head, “Thank you, Master Harricus.” He spun around and retreated down the hallway.

  “One of the scribes I hire to copy the Clay Ear’s scroll,” Thomasious explained. “In turn, the scribes hire people to sell the copied scrolls at wealthy villas. No one knows who the Clay Ear is or where he gets his information. Are you hungry?”

  Alerio took a seat at the table where directed. Soon large bowls of soup arrived, along with a loaf of freshly baked bread, two plates of cheese, and a pitcher of watered vino.

  “My father and grandfather spent time in the Legion,” the innkeeper explained as he popped a slice of cheese in his mouth. “They encouraged me to go in a different direction. Both said the same thing. Picking up a shield and a gladius changes you. Picking up the parchment and the pen changes your world.”

  “And selling salacious stories changes the world, how?” Alerio inquired as he dunked a chunk of bread in the soup.

  “Oh, the Clay Ear enjoys tweaking the aristocracy with the stories,” Harricus replied. “It makes good coin but isn’t socially significant. However, the chain-scroll, I was working on when you first arrived, does.”

  “What’s a chain-scroll?” Alerio asked. “In the village near my father’s farm, we have scrolls for studying. But, none of them were referred to as chain-scrolls.”

  “It’s a city invention,” Thomasious explained. “When a chain-scroll is brought to me, I read the entries written by previous possessors of the scroll. Then, I add my own words of about one hundred and sixty letters before having a courier deliver the chain-scroll to another person. That person adds their words and sends it to another person. One chain-scroll gets entries from about thirty people before the end of the parchment.”

  “How is that socially significant?” asked Alerio as he shoved the empty bowl away. “It sounds like nothing more than gossip to me.”

  “The power of an idea, spread city wide, has influence,” Harricus said defending his declaration. “As the Clay Ear, I insert my political opinions in the chain-scrolls. You see, having weak and absent Consuls and a powerful Senate isn’t an efficient form of government. I’d like to see the Republic become more balanced.”

  “Master Harricus. You are speaking treason,” Alerio stated in horror. “How can you trust me not to turn you into the City Guard? Why tell me these things?”

  “Because, young Lance Corporal Sisera, you are just passing through and don’t know the political players of the Capital,” Harricus explained. “Plus, they’re not my ideas. Rather, the reclusive Clay Ear writes them. To answer your other question of why you, it’s simple. I needed to brag and you’re handy.”

  “Don’t tell me anymore,” begged Alerio as he stood. “I wouldn’t repeat any of this. No one would believe me anyway. However, please, no more of the Clay Ear’s politics. I’m going for a stroll around the city to see the sights and to forget what you said.”

  “If you walk around dressed like a slave or a day worker,” Harricus observed. “The City Guard will stop you if you wander into the better neighborhoods. Go see Zacchaeus, the Cloth Seller, about proper clothing. Afterwards, go to the Historia Fae and ask Tomas Kellerian about Legionary armor. He’ll give you a good rate on better fitting equipment compared to any other armorer.”

  Act 2

  Chapter 7 - Fashion of the Day

  Alerio took the steps down from the inn’s porch, angled across the intersection, and pushed open the door to the Cloth Seller’s Shop.

  “Master Zacchaeus. I am in need of acceptable clothing,” Alerio exclaimed. He stepped deeper into the interior of the shop after setting his rope bag beside the door.

  An old man shuffled over, took the end of Alerio’s shirtsleeve, and rubbed the material between his thumb and forefinger.

  “Indeed, you are young sir,” Zacchaeus said. “Fresh off a boat, I’d guess. Unless the salt is from dragging your sleeves over salted hams.”

  “I just arrived from the east coast,” Alerio explained. “I’m in need of civilian clothing as well as a Legion tunic.”

  “Ah, a Legion Tribune, I assume,” the Cloth Seller stated as he turned and walked towards a pile of different colored cloth. He stood with an outstretched hand drifting over neat rolls of rich material as if trying to decide on one.

  Tribunes were politically appointed Legion staff officers. Mostly they acted as administrators for the General, Colonel, and their staffs. Young men from important families used the Legion experience later in life to further their political ambitions. A few remained and made the military a career.

  “No, sir. I’m a simple Lance Corporal of the Legion,” corrected Alerio.

  Zacchaeus’ arm dropped, and without any sign of disappointment, the old man moved to a different pile where he selected several rolls of cloth.

  “Come with me young man,” he ordered while walking through a door into the rear of the storefront.

  Alerio followed and was surprised by the change in lighting. While the front of the shop had been muted, in the rear work area, it resembled midday. Polished metal ovals reflected the sun’s rays into every corner. Long tables topped with smooth marble had cloth sections spread over the surfaces. One person was cutting shapes from the material. Two others sewed the shapes together to form tunics, togas, dresses, and other garments. The last craftsman sat stitching decorative trim on the finished apparel.

  “Step over here to the stool,” directed Zacchaeus pointing to a lighted area in front of a mirrored surface. “And take off your shirt.”

  There was a knee-high stool with footprints from previous use a yard from the mirror. Not knowing any difference, Alerio stepped up on the stool. From the height, he looked down on the top of the shop owner’s head. Laughter rippled through the work area.

  “No. The stool is for me,” Zacchaeus explained.

  Alerio stepped down and the old man took his place. Even with the added height of the stool, Zacchaeus was a head shorter than the Legionary.

  Alerio yanked the loose shirt over his head and let it fall to the floor. Whether it was the sight of the scars on such a young man or the long scabbard of a dagger strapped to the small of his back, he didn’t know, but the cloth workers went silent.

  A piece of olive colored cloth was draped over Alerio’s shoulders. The old man began marking the material with a small piece of chalk.

  “Olive color is the military fashion of the day,” Zacchaeus explained as he gathered a fold of cloth around Alerio’s thick biceps. “Seems the veterans returning from the northern campaigns brought back an appreciation of the forest hues.”

  While the tailor worked, the craftsman sewing the decorative trim held up a length of finally woven material. The bronze wire had been woven through the cloth latticework creating bright lines in the light brown trim. The old man nodded his approval.

  “We’ll
sew on the Lance Corporal band around your right sleeve in bronze,” Zacchaeus explained. “It’s reasonably priced and looks excellent against the green of the tunic. Other than the rank, are there any medals or unit designations we should include?”

  “No medals. But, I am a gladius instructor,” Alerio said. “And, I was with the Legion Raiders in the east.”

  Zacchaeus shot an inquisitive glance at the trim craftsman. The man searched through some boxes for a few moments before pulling out a thin metal tab stamped with a gladius. From another box, he pulled out a silk band painted with a scene of the sun rising over cresting waves.

  The sound of the front door opening and boots walking on the flooring reached them.

  “Please excuse me for a moment,” Zacchaeus said as he stepped down from the stool.

  He handed the marked cloth to a cutter before moving to the doorway.

  Alerio looked at the cutter and asked, “How long will it take you to make the uniform?”

  “It’ll be a couple of days, sir,” the man said as he flattened the cloth and began connecting the tailor’s marks with curved lines.

  Raised voices from the front of the shop carried to the work area.

  “Next week, old man,” an angry male voice exclaimed. “You’ll have all of our money. Or we’ll come back and trash this place.”

  The heated words, obviously directed at the old man, raised Alerio’s curiosity. He stepped away from the stool and walked to the doorway.

  Two men with their faces only a couple of inches from Zacchaeus’ were glaring, and poking the old man in his frail chest. Each finger jab hurt as Alerio could see by the look on the tailor’s face.

  “Is there a problem?” Alerio asked from the doorway.

  “Mind your own business,” one of the men ordered. He was thick bodied around the torso but his legs were thin and his knees knobby.

  “No problem, sir,” Zacchaeus stammered looking around at the Legionary. “Please, wait in the back. I’ll be with you in a second.”

  “Yes, like he said,” the other man mimicked the old tailor. “Please, wait in the back.”

  The second man was leaner with sloping shoulders and long arms. Both men were about the same height as Alerio.

  Chapter 8 - Making Friends with the Local Crew

  “We will be back next week,” the first man warned. “You better have all of our money.”

  “You want protection,” the second man sneered. “You’ve got to pay for it.”

  Alerio watched as Zacchaeus slumped in defeat as the men turned. They were almost at the front door when the man with the sloping shoulders reached out and grabbed the handle of the hemp rope bag.

  “We’ll just take this as a penalty for you shorting us,” he stated as he picked up the bag.

  “That doesn’t belong to you,” Alerio advised the man while striding across the room to confront him.

  “It does now,” knobby knees announced.

  “Let’s try this again,” Alerio said with a smile. “Please put the bag down, and take your tiny, shriveled mentula out of the shop. Or?”

  “Or?” demanded sloping shoulders as his face turned red. “Or what?”

  The other man didn’t say anything. Instead, he pulled an iron knife from his hip.

  “Let’s go,” he said to his companion while pointing the knife at Alerio. “And bring the bag.”

  Alerio’s most prized possessions, in fact, his only possessions, were the dual gladius harness and the two gladii. The rig and swords rested in the bottom of the rope bag. Now the bag was about to be walked out of the door.

  It’s one thing to face two men when your weapon is drawn and you know they will attack. It becomes a different issue when one might bolt through the door with your property.

  “Ah, I’m really sorry about distributing you,” Alerio apologized. He hung his head as if ashamed while shuffling his feet. The body language reflected the young man’s embarrassment at his behavior.

  The shambling seemed innocent, except the movements carried him closer to the men. Guessing the lad was truly frightened of the knife and, out of fear, couldn’t make eye contact, the man with the bag reached for the door handle.

  “If I might ask a question?” Alerio inquired shyly still slouching and moving forward.

  “What lad? Hurry up, we’ve got rounds to make,” the man holding his bag demanded.

  He was half turned with one hand on the handle of the shop’s door. His upper body twisted around to glare at Alerio. In his annoyance, the man failed to notice the scars or the fact the lad wasn’t looking at him. Instead, Alerio was staring directly into the eyes of the man holding the knife.

  “Don’t you want the coin purses?” Alerio asked while tapping the money pouches suspended from his belt.

  When the knifeman’s eyes dropped to ogle the coin purses, Alerio kicked the man near the door. The bottom of his hob nailed boot caught the man high on the back of his shoulder. From the force of the kick, the man’s torso twisted forward and his chest was driven into the shop’s front door. His head rocked back before whipping forward. The man dropped the rope bag when his face smashed into the solid wood door.

  Alerio didn’t wait to observe the blood spilling from the broken nose or watch the man stagger from the shock of being bounced off the thick wood.

  The long, curved Golden Valley dagger came out of its sheath. Alerio brought it around backhanded. The blade traced a line on the knifeman’s hand. Blood drops began forming before the man knew he was injured.

  “Gods! Your hand! Look at your hand,” Alerio screamed as if surprised.

  The cut man looked from where his compatriot was attempting to collect himself from the floor, over to the lad who suddenly held a long, gleaming blade. It took his mind a moment to catch up and focus on what was being said.

  When flickers of pain started to fan out from his hand, the man’s body went into self-preservation mode and he followed directions. He looked down at the thin line and the blood drops dripping onto the floor.

  Alerio cocked his left arm and delivered a roundhouse punch to the side of the knifeman’s head. The man crumpled to the tiles.

  At the doorway, the thug with the sloped shoulders recovered and reached for his own knife. Alerio lunged towards him. At the last second, he raised a knee. The knee caught the man’s fingers between the hard bone of the patella and the harder iron of the knife’s hilt. Two fingers broke. Alerio brought the butt end of the Golden Valley dagger down on the crown of the man’s head. The thief crumbled to the tiles.

  “That went well,” exclaimed Alerio as he walked over and picked up his rope bag.

  “Oh, good Discordia,” cried Zacchaeus while holding a palm to his forehead. “You’ve brought strife, discord, and rivalry down on my shop.”

  “You picked the correct Goddess,” commented Alerio. “I couldn’t let them take my bag. I am sorry, if I’ve caused you trouble.”

  “They’ll be back tonight,” Zacchaeus wailed. “The last time I didn’t pay, they destroyed a quarter of my stock. After this, I don’t know what they’ll do.”

  Alerio felt for the old craftsman. After observing him wringing his hands and moaning, Alerio asked, “When will they come back? Sounds funny, doesn’t it. It’s as if as they weren’t laying here but had left already.”

  “They’ll come back tonight,” explained Zacchaeus. “With friends. I dare not interfere or they’ll kill me and my staff.”

  “It just so happens, my social calendar is clear for tonight,” Alerio said. “Seeing as I started this, I’ll guard your property overnight. If you want me to.”

  “I don’t know what you can do against an entire gang,” Zacchaeus whimpered. “But maybe they’ll run when challenged by a Legionary. Yes, I accept your offer.”

  “Alright, but I’ll need a few things from you,” Alerio said. “Attire to change into after I remove these guys. Plus, a dark cloak and a full wineskin.”

  Chapter 9 - A delaying Tactic
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  Alerio put the wineskin strap over his shoulder and hoisted the first thug onto his shoulder. Outside, he turned left and crossed the street. He appeared to be a simple workman hauling a thick rug. Toted the unconscious body to the far side of the Wine Merchant’s rear wall, he rolled the body out of the carpet. A liberal dose of wine over the body completed the first phase of his plan.

  As he walked back to the Cloth Seller’s Shop, Thomasious stepped onto the porch of the Chronicles Humanum Inn. The innkeeper studied the Legionary. When Alerio exited the cloth shop with another rug wrapped body slung over his shoulder, Thomasious cocked his head in puzzlement.

  Alerio waved with his free hand and smiled as he angled across the street in front of the inn. Thomasious waved back but tension showed on his face. Zacchaeus poked his head out of the door of the Cloth Sellers Shop and glanced up and down the street before disappearing back into the shop. Seeing the merchant was alright, Thomasious relaxed.

  The second thug was dumped beside the first in the alleyway behind the Wine Merchant’s wall. Then, Alerio reached down and pulled off their woolen pants before dousing them both with vino from the wineskin. As a final act, he rolled both men so they faced each other. After placing their arms as if they were hugging, he smashed their foreheads together.

  Hopefully, the compromising position and the smell of wine would cause confusion when they spoke with their friends. Alerio needed them bewildered so they didn’t react quickly. He needed the gang to attack after dark when he was prepared. The Legion weapon’s instructor tossed their trousers into an empty barrel as he strolled back to the shop to retrieve his rope bag.