Clay Warrior Stories Boxset 1

by J. Clifton Slater

  “Get up,” he yelled while pulling back the curtain. “Launch baby and get my darlings fed.”

  Five workers tossed back blankets and jumped to their feet. One lit a lantern. He jumped off the far side of the structure and the illumination showed a wall of logs. From behind the logs, pigs began to snort.

  “He’ll feed my darlings their morning mush,” explained the builder as he joined the other four workers at a covered object. “This afternoon, fishermen will bring them fish heads, guts, and tails.”

  “I don’t have time to savor the dietary regimen of your pigs,” Harricus reminded him. “I need to be in Ostia. There’s a Qart Hadasht fleet coming and I have to stop them.”

  “If you’re not kidding or drunk Thomasious,” the builder stated as he and his workers pulled the cover off a fourth boat. “There’s no charge as long as you bring her back to me undamaged.”

  Every craftsman, at least those with true passion and artistic talent, had a personal project. One where their everyday product was taken to an extreme.

  Potters, who mass product durable amphorae, had magnificently sculptured vases of exquisite, thin walled clay in the back of their factories; Metalworkers, who hammered out hot steel to form deadly gladii by the dozen, had sculptures. Steel art, with the hard metal so curved and flowing as to resemble leaves on a plant, tucked away behind their forges; Coopers, who shaved geometric edges on slats to make water tight barrels, had oak carvings of figurines. Wooden statues, with hands so real as to resemble miniature people, stored in the corner of their compounds; and the boat builder, who shaved and fitted lengths of wood to construct wide working boats, had a narrow swift craft under wraps in the corner of his building.

  The builder peeled back the cover to reveal his baby. It was long and sleek. Six bronze oarlocks lined with fine leather to protect the oars allowed for six tightly packed oarsmen. Carvings along the rails displayed scenes of Neptune ruling over sea creatures. Baby was so different from the average workboat, one could safely call her a work of art.

  While the builder and three of his workers rolled baby down the slope to the river’s edge, another worker selected long oars. These weren’t carved. The oars were polished and oiled to protect them from absorbing water.

  “You can use two of my workers,” volunteered the builder. “She’ll fit six rowers.”

  “We have Legion gear to carry,” Harricus informed the builder. Pointing to Erebus and the three Legionaries, he explained. “These four will do.”

  Two workers waded into the river and stabilized the boat. After lifting their gear out of the boxes, the Legionaries began to pile the armor pieces and helmets into the front of the boat.

  “No. No. No. Place the dead weight in the center of the boat,” corrected the builder. “You don’t want her bow or stern heavy. She’s designed to skim the surface so you’ll want to keep the weight balanced. Take off your robes.”

  These last words he uttered while pointing a gnarly finger at the rowers. With a nod from Thomasious Harricus, they pulled off their robes. As the builder walked to each, he grasped their shoulders and tested their weight by lifting them off the ground.

  “You, front right,” he directed Erebus to a rowing station before selecting another man. “You to the left front.”

  The final two were placed at the rear rowing stations and the builder turned to Thomasious.

  “Take care of my baby, innkeeper,” the craftsman said a little sadly. “I’ll expect a room and dinner the next time I’m in town.”

  “Breakfast in bed and a pitcher of morning vino will be delivered to your room Master Builder,” Harricus declared as he stepped into the boat.

  A gentle shove propelled the custom craft from the ramp and it drifted into the swift current.

  “Ready. Stroke,” Harricus said as he lowered the rear oar into the water.

  The boat lurched to the right as Erebus pulled his oar harder than the other oarsmen.

  “Hold water,” directed Harricus.

  The rowers placed their blades in a stable position in the water. The bow, aided by the rudder and the current, drifted back to the centerline of the river.

  Chapter 52 - The Tiber Run

  “Gentlemen, we need to reach the port as soon as possible,” explained Harricus. “We’ll not get there without teamwork. So, on my count, stroke and let it run.”

  The four oarsmen dipped their oars once then held them out of the water. As designed, the boat surged forward letting the rowers get a sense of the effect of a stroke.

  “Stroke. Stroke. Stroke. Let it run,” Harricus directed.

  This time with three even rows, the boat picked up speed and the rowers felt their timing improve. They waited with blades hovering above the water.

  “Stroke,” began Harricus and this time he continued the command again and again.

  As the rowers fell into a rhythm, the Tiber rolled to the left before gently curving into a long right-handed arc. Many powerful strokes later, the mighty river straightened and, almost as if built by Republic construction crews, it ran directly for the sea and Ostia.

  Chapter 53 - The Port of Ostia

  Harricus turned his head and tried to see over the trees for a view of the hills to the northwest. His attempt was foiled by the riverbank and the tall growth. He feared that somewhere out there a man was rushing to light a signal fire for the Qart Hadasht warships. Returning to his crew of rowers, he continued the mantra of stroke, stroke, stroke to keep them in rhythm.

  The sun had risen and he could see sweat gleaming off the taut muscles of the oarsmen. Although bone weary and breathing like a herd of sacrificial bulls, they didn’t let up as the boat raced for the port.

  “Let it run,” he announced when they arrived the mouth of the Tiber.

  While the oars hung unmoving over the water, he studied the docks on the ocean side of the left bank. Most of the smaller boats were beached on the shore. Only the large merchant transports with grain and goods to unload used the docks. After running his eyes along the Port of Ostia he located a Legion standard in front of a collection of buildings.

  “Stroke, stroke,” he ordered while shoving the steering oar to the right.

  The boat veered left and tracked along the line of the docked transports. Near the end of the pier, he pushed the rudder a final time, and just before the keel hit the sandy shore, Thomasious yelled, “Check. It. Down.”

  The rowers reversed their strokes slowing the boat so it beached slowly onto the sand. Harricus leaped from the boat, splashed through the knee-deep water, and once on solid land, ran for the Legion flags. Erebus and the Legionaries jumped into the surf and hauled the boat clear of the waves. After securing the boat, they collapsed against the hull.

  “Do you think we made it in time?” questioned Demetrius between deep gasps of ocean air.

  “I don’t see a signal fire,” proclaimed Pontus while puffing and almost choking as he attempted to get a deep breath.

  “You can’t see anything while sitting on the beach,” observed Celer who shook while his muscles tried to relax after the strain of the manic rowing.

  “Someone should walk up the beach and have a look,” suggested Erebus.

  “That’s a grand idea. Who wants to volunteer?” asked Pontus.

  Demetrius rose up and the other three looked at him expectantly as though he might go see if there was a signal fire. But he lifted only enough to grab a wineskin from the boat. After snatching the container, he resettled on the beach.

  “What? You thought I was going?” the Private asked as he drank from a long stream of watered wine. “Anybody else thirsty?”

  Three arms that felt as if they were made of lead reached for the wineskin. While the oarsmen sat in exhaustion, Thomasious searched among the Legion buildings for the Century’s Centurion.

  “Can I help you?” a Legion Private asked.

  The man had come from between two buildings. He was armored but didn’t seem to be on duty.

&nb
sp; “Where is your Centurion?” demanded Thomasious.

  “He holds office time for merchants in the afternoon,” advised the Legion private. “No appointment necessary, but you’ll have to wait your turn.”

  His duty done as far as he knew, the young Legionary began to walk away.

  “Private. I am Tribune Harricus,” thundered Thomasious. He fished in a pouch for the Tribune shoulder epaulet that he’d taken from the closet. “Under direct orders from Colonel Nigellus. You will escort me to the Centurion, no matter where he is. And you will do it now. Move!”

  “Sir, my apologies,” the Private responded while coming to attention. “This way, sir.”

  Thomasious’ throat hurt. While he hadn’t rowed, he had been calling out stroke counts for the entire trip down the Tiber. The outburst at the Private was the final punishment his voice could stand.

  They walked by four buildings before arriving at a small villa behind the military structures.

  “Centurion Seneca’s residence, sir,” the Private informed staff officer while backing away. “He usually sleeps late. By your leave, sir?”

  “Go,” Thomasious squeaked out.

  Although the word was garbled and barely understandable, the Private took the dismissal, performed an about face, and jogged away. Probably to avoid any more contact with the Tribune. Especially, seeing as the staff officer had pushed open the door to the Centurion’s villa and let himself in unannounced.

  Chapter 54 - Shifting Sands and Shifting Stances

  Thomasious marched down the hallway peering into empty rooms. At the end of the hall, he stepped through an arched doorway and into the master suite of the villa. An older man lay in bed snoring.

  “Centurion Seneca,” he said trying to sound commanding.

  Instead, his words came out in a horse whisper. Out of frustration, he kicked the bed, reached out, and pulled the blanket off the sleeping form. The man sat up with a pugio in his hand.

  “What are you doing in my bedroom,” he threatened while aiming the point of the Legion knife at Thomasious’ chest.

  Knowing he didn’t have the voice to communicate properly, Thomasious whispered one word. “Nigellus,” he squeezed out while extending the note.

  The newly awakened Centurion shook his head. After losing the cobwebs of sleep, he studied the man holding out a piece of parchment.

  “Colonel Nigellus,” Thomasious whispered.

  To his pleasure, he found if he spoke slowly in a whisper, while it hurt his throat, the words at least were understandable. And the Centurion got the meaning.

  “I’ll meet you in the study down the hall,” ordered the Legion officer.

  Thomasious made hurry up motions with his hands and fingers before realizing it looked ridiculous. He stopped flexing his fingers, turned and left the bedchamber. A short time later, the Centurion appeared. Having changed from a sleeping gown, he now wore a toga.

  “You mentioned Colonel Nigellus?” inquired the officer.

  Thomasious saved his garbled words and simply handed the man the note. As the officer read, Thomasious went to a desk and uncorked the ink container. He began writing and was still at it when the Officer finished reading.

  “I am Centurion Seneca, commander of Ostia’s defenses. The Colonel said to work with you,” the man stated. “What can I do for you, Tribune Harricus?”

  For all the writing Thomasious had done over the years, he felt particularly proud of this piece for a couple of reasons. It explained the need to block the Tiber while folding in just enough of the politics to give the reason. Like any good story, it tantalized and informed without preaching. The note was so good, the Centurion read it once and announced.

  “Come with me Tribune,” Seneca commanded.

  He guided them out of the villa, across a lawn, and into one of the military buildings. “Optio. Call out the Centuries,” the infantry officer directed. “I want four squads on the beach prepared to repel an attack from the sea. Give them extra signalmen with as many flags as they can locate. I want the Qart Hadasht navy to believe we have a Legion guarding Ostia.”

  “We have a squad of cavalrymen in town as well,” the Sergeant informed him.

  “Good. Have them mounted and walking behind the infantry as if they were commanders looking over a battlefield,” suggested Seneca. “Then send six squads to the docks. We are about to commandeer the merchant ships.”

  “Commandeer sir? As in capture?” asked the puzzled Sergeant.

  “No, Optio. More like borrowing them,” the Centurion explained. “We have two patrol boats in port. I want them manned and ready to tow the merchants into position.”

  “Yes, sir,” the Sergeant said before running out the door and shouting for the Centuries to turn out.

  “Did I miss anything?” asked the Centurion.

  Thomasious indicated his note. Seneca handed it over and Harricus pointed to the phrase mentioning the signal.

  “Let’s get the blockade done first,” advised Seneca. “Once all the elements are in place, we’ll go to the observation roof and take a look.”

  Thomasious’ oarsmen were mostly recovered, yet they’d chosen to stay on the beach. Only Erebus stood. He was scanning the buildings attempting to locate Harricus. His long light-colored hair was still damp and hung in wet strands down to his shoulders. The Legionaries’ short cropped hair dried quicker as they dozed in the warm rising sun.

  When four squads of heavy infantry marched to the top of the beach, turned and placed their shields in rows, Erebus thought nothing of it. Soon, mounted cavalrymen appeared behind the squads. They all seemed to be fixated on the sea and the horizon.

  The grating sounds of Legionaries shoving two patrol boats off the beach caused the northerner to look to at the far side of the beach. Turning back, Erebus located Harricus.

  The Tribune and a Centurion were marching towards the dock. Following closely behind the officers tailed six squads of infantry. Using both arms, Erebus waved to get Harricus’ attention.

  Harricus missed the gesturing arms. Unfortunately, Erebus did get the attention of the squads and the cavalry at the top of the beach. Forty pairs of eyes shifted from the horizon and locked onto the barbarian standing bare chested on the beach. Behind him, as if dead, lay three Legionaries and a uniquely shaped boat.

  When a half squad broke formation and raced down to the shoreline, Erebus glanced around to see what had caught their notice. He took in the three limp Legionaries and the exotic boat before panicking.

  “Demetrius! Pontus! Celer,” he called out. “A little help here, if you please.”

  Dropping to his knees, Erebus locked his elbows over his head and braced for what was coming.

  “What is it?” asked Celer through closed eyes. “I was dreaming about sailing through the Straits of Messina on my own ship.”

  “I could use…” Erebus didn’t finish.

  From his knees, the northerner was hammered to the ground by an infantry shield. He lay unconscious, his breathe with just enough force to roll a few grains of sand away from his nostrils.

  “Is he a spy?” asked the Legionary who had reached Erebus first.

  “No. He is first oarsman for Tribune Harricus,” Demetrius said as he uncurled from beside the boat and stretched to his full height. “If I were you, I’d get a medic here before the Tribune realizes you’ve injured his number one rower.”

  “Now you’ve done it,” Pontus stated as he stood. While not as tall as Demetrius, he was also sculpted with rippling muscles. “I can’t imagine what the Tribune will say or do if he wants to get back to the Capital today.”

  “Although, Erebus does look rather peaceful laying there,” Celer added as he stood and stretched. “Which one of you five is able to row at top speed for nineteen miles without a break?”

  “Come on lads,” Demetrius challenged. “Who’s going to replace him? The Tribune will want to know.”

  While the half squad stammered trying to reply, a Corporal walked u
p.

  “Report,” he ordered.

  “It seems we’ve knocked out the Tribune’s first oar,” one of the Legionaries replied.

  “Has anybody sent for stretcher bearers?” asked the NCO while shaking his head as if to say why me. “Or, called for a medic?”

  Tribune Thomasious Harricus stood beside Centurion Seneca as he bullied, pleaded, cajoled, and otherwise negotiated with the three merchant captains. None wanted their vessels in the way of a Qart Hadasht warship’s battering ram. Seneca explained that no one would ram their ships. He promised to place the Legion patrol boats in front to take the brunt of any attack. Eventually, each captain agreed and the towing process began.

  Thomasious took a second to look at the beach where his boat was located. It looked as if four men were carrying a man on a shield. Following the bearers were his three Legionary rowers. He couldn’t locate Erebus but there was a crowd of shields and armor on the beach so he didn’t worry.

  The sun was well above the horizon by the time the ships were anchored and blocking the center channel of the Tiber. Harricus and Seneca left the dock and headed for the observation roof. On the way, they passed the open door to the Post’s clinic.

  Stretched out in a hospital bed was Erebus. Sitting around the northern barbarian were the three Legionary rowers.

  “What happened?” Harricus demanded.

  “Your first oar stood up when he should have shut up,” Pontus replied.

  “The surgeon said nothing was broken,” Demetrius added. “But Erebus needs to rest for a couple of days before he can handle an oar.”

  “Centurion Seneca. If it’s not an imposition, I’ll need my rowers to billet here for several days,” Harricus said. “Also, they’ll require another two bodies to get the boat back to the Capital. And I’ll need a horse.”

  “We can handle that,” Seneca replied. “Let’s get to the observation roof and check out the Centuries’ placement.”

  They climbed the steps to the roof. Shortly after reaching the observation platform, three runners and two signalmen joined the officers. From the vantage point, they peered down on the squads and horsemen lining the beach. At the docks, other squads stood vanguard on the piers. In mid-stream, the Tiber was blocked by boats and ships anchored and lashed together. Finally, they looked at the horizon.