“Sergeant Martius. Do you mind if I join you?” he asked.
Like the other men in the training unit, Alerio was naked except for his wool undershorts. Martius surveyed the fresh scar on the young Legionary’s side, the ragged lines on his arms, the parallel scars on his shoulder, and the odd crescent shaped wound on his head.
“Yes, if you can explain those,” Martius said while pointing to the multiple blade marks.
“Lance Corporal Alerio Sisera, formally of the Raiders in the Eastern Legion,” Alerio reported as he sat. He explained while motioning to each scar. “Four rebels, a rebel Captain, a sword competition gone wrong, and a disagreement with a gang in the Capital. And, you?”
He was pointing to Martius’ mangled right leg. Short scars crisscrossed the Optio’s arms, chest, and his thigh. While prominent, the scars on his body paled in comparison to the mangled right leg. A wide scar ran down the front of the Optio’s shin. It ended part way across the top of his foot.
“Barbarian ax on the western frontier,” Martius stated without emotion. Then he inhaled deeply, closed his eyes, and began to recall. “I was just a Private. The Right-Side pivot for my squad, but still, only a simple infantryman. We formed our double lines when the tribes came out of the woods. Two Centuries of infantrymen, about one hundred and ninety shields, against six hundred barbarians.”
“Those are ugly odds,” suggested Alerio.
“We had them held but the General pulled our cavalry,” Martius explained. “Seems the barbarian horsemen had targeted the headquarters’ Century and they needed the cavalry more than us.”
The Sergeant reached down and punched his thigh twice as if to accent a point.
“There was still over a hundred of us able to fight, so we formed a fighting square. With the wounded and our mules in the center, we broke wave after wave of barbarian attacks,” he stated with pride. “The lads were in it and the ranks held. Held until another troop of mounted tribesmen joined the fray.”
“They charged our northwest corner while the horde smashed at our ranks,” he explained. “The Centurion pulled my squad off the back line and sent us to reinforce the corner. I remember the Legionaries doubling up behind the men at the corner. I remember them falling back as three tribesmen sacrificed their ponies on Legion gladii. I remember a burning pain in my thigh. I don’t remember the ax that split my leg.”
“I woke up in a field hospital. The medics had set the bone and stitched the flesh, but the foot was fused, and had little feeling,” explained the Optio. “I took a medical discharge and limped back to my village. After a winter of pity and handouts from my neighbors, I packed my belongings and left.”
“To most of the Legions, the Southern Legion has a bad reputation. We’re not infantry, except for the patrols in the high hills along the rivers,” Martius explained. “Mostly, we’re on boats or in small garrisons along the coast. Legionaries don’t respect fighting from boats or walking guard posts with seagulls. So, they look down on us. Well, I needed a place that was desperate for experience. I arrived and was turned down by the Senior Centurion. But, I persisted. For a year, I rowed on any merchant vessel that would have a crippled oarsman. I studied the art of the oar. Then I read about warship-attacks, and discussed the tactics with every old Captain I could find. You’d be amazed how many served in the Greek, Illyrian, Syracuse, or even the Qart Hadasht navies.”
“Almost a year to the day, I limped into the Centurion’s office and presented him with a plan to improve his rowers and the maintenance of his patrol boats,” declared Martius. “He made me a reserve Corporal and watched me for six months. At the end of my probation, he called me into his office. I thought he was going to relieve me. Instead, he offered me the Chief of Boats position with the rank of Optio. And now, every Legionary joining the Southern Legion has to go through me to qualify.”
Chapter 4 – Blisters
“Hold-water,” Martius shouted from the aft of the boat.
The training unit leaned over their oars and gasped lungs full of air. They had rowed south along the shore of the Messina Strait. Then made a wide turn placing the river patrol boat in the center channel stream and rowed south. Both directions were against the current. Now they rested with the oars in the water.
“Dip this in the saltwater and wrap it around your blisters,” the Sergeant instructed.
A bundle of wool cloth pieces was passed along the lines of rowers. Each took a piece and soon five of the Legionaries had dipped the cloth over the side and wrapped it around their raw left hand. All the rowers except one.
“Sisera. The cloth is for your blisters,” Martius advised. “Not for your head.”
“No blisters, Optio. But, the damp cloth is refreshing,” Alerio replied. The cloth drooped over his ears and dripped saltwater onto his shoulders. He had to peek out from under it to see the instructor.
“All Legionaries have tough skin on their right hand from gladius practice,” offered Martius. “Rowing always draws blood from the left until it toughens up. What makes you special?”
“Gladius instructor, Sergeant. I practice with both hands,” explained Alerio.
“Port and Starboard, ready oars,” Martius said ignoring the hearsay of a Legionary admitting to using his left hand to wield a gladius. “Stroke, stroke, stroke.”
The river patrol boat moved slowly towards the beach. With six rowers, instead of the normal crew of sixteen, the vessel was woefully underpowered. Despite the shortage of oars in the water and the exhaustion of the six, the boat held steady as it cut across the current that tried to push the hull northward.
“Back-it-down,” Martius ordered when the bow of the boat was two yards from the shore.
The oarsmen reversed their strokes and the boat slowed until it nudged gently against the beach.
“Fall out,” Martius directed.
The six Legionaries climbed over the sides of the gunwale and splashed into the water.
“Beach her,” Martius instructed.
The Chief of Boats sat in the rear while the oarsmen heaved and shoved the boat out of the water. Once it was high enough on the sand, Martius rolled over the side and pushed on the rail so he could stand.
“Stack your oars in the rack and grab something to eat,” he said while pointing up the beach to a table laden with bread, meat, and fruit.
Seemed the Southern Legion was generous with the rations, Alerio thought. Then he realized that he was really hungry. While running, jumping, blade practice and even wrestling worked up an appetite, rowing left him starved. He placed the oar in the rack and joined the ravenous training unit at the meal table.
Lectures on boat handling filled the afternoon. A few of the Legionaries snoozed and others barely paid attention. Alerio listened to every word.
Late in the afternoon, a boat appeared far down the shoreline. At first, the vessel was a dot on the water. As it drew closer the training unit noted it angled left then right as if the oarsmen were out of sync. It eventually came close enough to be recognizable as a full-sized patrol boat.
When the bow drifted to starboard, the current caught the fore section and began turning the boat away from the shore. Sergeant Martius, who had been watching the boat struggle as he talked, pointed down the beach.
“Something’s wrong,” he declared. Indicating one member of the training unit, Martius ordered. “You, go fetch a medic. The rest of you double time down there and secure that boat.”
Alerio jumped to his feet and raced toward the stricken vessel.
Chapter 5 – Attack Aftershock
Alerio splashed into the surf just behind another Legionary. By the time they started swimming, the current had grabbed the hull of the distressed patrol boat and propelled it further from the beach. The bow caught the edge of the central channel’s flow. Between the opposing currents of the strait and the water at the shoreline, the vessel began to spin.
Even though Alerio was right behind the first swimmer, he ended up on the oppo
site side of the rotating boat.
The Legionaries pulled on the rails and both came out of the water at the same time. As their arms hoisted their chests above gunwale height, they looked down into the patrol boat.
A Legionary with one arm leaned unconscious on the rearward-facing oar. The nub of the other arm was tied off at his bicep. Three bodies lay on the central beam unmoving. The last occupants were ten men slumped over their oars. All ten were dripping fat, red drops into the bloody water collecting in the bottom of the boat.
As the other three trainees climbed in, Alerio said to the smallest, “Take the rear oar. Guide us into mid channel. We’ll use the northern current to help us.”
With only four oarsmen, it was impossible to move the patrol boat against the southern current running along the shore. Once over the edge of the opposing currents, they rowed with the flow.
Martius watched from the beach. Behind the Sergeant, ranks of men stood at the ready.
Alerio didn’t call for a reverse stroke as the boat neared the shore. He let it run hard onto the sand. Legionaries on the beach hoisted the vessel out of the water.
“Medics, stand by! We’ll bring the wounded to you,” shouted Martius once he saw the slaughterhouse of the interior. To the Legionaries, he ordered. “Lift them out and carry the wounded to the medics.”
Once all fourteen injured were in the treatment area, Alerio walked down to the boat. Martius was leaning in and pulling gladii, javelins, and arrows from the red tinted water.
“The appropriate order is back-it-down,” the Optio scolded.
“With only four oarsmen, we were barely able to keep forward movement,” explained Alerio. “I was afraid if we slowed, the boat would stall away from the beach.”
“What you need to be afraid of are hidden rocks ripping out the bottom of my boat,” Martius sneered as he pulled another gladius from the water and tossed it to the sand. “If you land a boat that fast on an uncharted beach, you’ll be marching back to Rhegium. Where I might add, I’ll be waiting to ask you about my boat.”
“I understand, Optio,” replied Alerio. “What happened to the boat’s crew?”
“That’s a good question Lance Corporal Sisera,” Martius remarked as he pulled an arrow from the wood of the gunwale. “Let’s go find out.”
The fourteen Legionaries from the patrol boat were laid out in a circle with their feet towards the center. medics tended to the living. The dead required no treatment.
“These are all that’s left of our three-squad garrison at Occhio,” a Centurion informed Martius and Sisera as they approached the triage area. “A merchant ship came up the inlet and its Captain started yelling for the Legionaries. Ten men and their Optio began rowing across the river. Before they could reach the merchant, an Illyrian bireme came upstream.”
“What was so valuable a pirate ship would dare attack a settlement with a Legion garrison?” asked Martius.
“No one knows. The Illyrian ship cut between the patrol boat and our garrison dock,” continued the officer. “With our forces split, the Legionaries couldn’t link up. The Illyrians rained arrows and spears down on the patrol boat while sending fighters down a ramp to the Legion’s dock.”
“The Legionaries on the garrison side fought a retreat down the river,” reported the Centurion. “Once the patrol boat managed to get out from under the shadow of the Illyrian ship, they rowed to meet them. One squad leader and three men formed a shield wall on the riverbank. They held off the Illyrians while the injured jumped for the boat. The fourteen who rowed back are the only survivors.”
The officer stared at the circle of wounded and dead Legionaries. Shaking his head to clear the image, he focused on Optio Martius.
“Or should I say, these are the ones who made it back,” he ventured, narrowing his eyes. “I want those Pirates up on crosses; every last one of them. But, they’ll be gone by morning. We can’t counterattack, and we have no way of knowing why they chanced tangling with a Legion garrison at an unimportant farming village.”
It was late in the day. Half the sun had dipped below the mountaintop on the island across the Messina Strait.
“I don’t understand, Sir,” Alerio inquired. “Why can’t we go after them now?”
“Because the Southern Legion is scattered up and down the coast,” the Centurion explained. “It’ll take half the night to gather our forces. We’ll have to wait for sunrise to move our ships and men down the coast for a coordinated attack.”
“And the Pirates will row out at first light?” guessed Alerio.
“That’s right. Without a direction, we wouldn’t know where they’re headed,” confirmed the Centurion. “They’ll be at sea before we arrive.”
“Let me take a crew and drop off a spotter,” offered Martius. “It’s only five miles to the beach at the Occhio inlet. The farming village and docks are a little over a mile inland. Once our spotter is landed, we’ll breach at Point Ravagnese and watch for his signal.”
“Do you have someone in mind for the job?” asked the Centurion.
“Excuse me, sir,” broke in Alerio. “I’d like to volunteer. I’ve had experience sneaking up on rebels. I can’t imagine pirates will provide more of a challenge.”
“Optio. Your opinion?” inquired the officer.
“If Lance Corporal Sisera wants the job, it’s fine with me,” Martius remarked. “But, we need to get started before it’s fully dark.”
“All right, Sisera. You’re our spotter,” the Centurion ordered. “Collect your gear and go with the Sergeant.”
“Yes, sir. Sergeant Martius can you have someone load my armor in the boat?” Alerio asked. “If I’m going to sneak around, I’ll need to grab something from my quarters first.”
Act 2
Chapter 6 - Moonless Rowing
Martius clutched and unclutched the rearward facing oar handle while he bobbed in the patrol boat. His fifteen oarsmen on the port side were holding water. The fifteen rowers on the starboard side stood in knee-deep water. Between them, the boat remained near the shore even as the Chief of Boats grew more tense with each passing moment.
The Sergeant watched as the young Lance Corporal jogged onto the beach. Leather straps fell over his shoulders and the Legionary was fastening them together as he ran. When he neared the boat, Martius noticed two gladii hilts jutting up on either side of Sisera’s neck.
“Starboard side, push off and fall in,” Martius ordered while Alerio climbed over the side. The fifteen rowers on the left shoved the patrol boat and scurried over the gunwale. Once their oars were in hand, the Sergeant announced, “Rowers, standby. Stroke, stroke, stroke.”
Martius shoved the rear oar so the patrol boat angled away from the shoreline as it surged ahead. Unlike the undermanned river patrol boat, the training unit had rowed earlier, the larger coastline patrol boat with thirty oars cut sharply through the salty water of the strait.
“Here’s a fire kit,” Martius said handing Alerio a small wooden box sealed in wax. “If the Illyrians row straight out of the inlet light one signal fire to indicate they’re heading for Sicilia across the strait. Light two if they turn south and set sail; that means they’re heading for open water and home. If they turn south and continue rowing, light three. That would be the best scenario for us because they’re staying near our shoreline. We can then hunt them down and crucify the cūlus pirates.”
“What if they stay at the dock?” Alerio asked.
“Then they are stupid and they will die,” Martius assured Lance Corporal Sisera.
***
The patrol boat cruised south as the sunlight faded. Even when darkness fell and the shoreline vanished, the oarsmen continued their steady strokes.
“Are you navigating by the stars?” inquired Alerio. “I’ve heard mariners can do that.”
“No Lance Corporal. I’m using the fires from the fishing village at Point Ravagnese as a guide,” Martius replied. “Their cook fires will show me the point. We’ll turn onc
e the flames are behind us.”
In the distance, several candle sized flames danced in the dark. As the patrol boat traveled, the lights moved from ahead to off the starboard side. When the fishermen’s fires were over their left shoulders, Martius eased the oar so the boat curved in the direction of the dark shoreline.
“Back-it-down,” called the Sergeant ordered the oarsmen. “Let-her-run.”
The oarsmen reversed stroked once before lifting their blades from the water. With the patrol boat slowed from the backstroke and the oars hovering above the water, the boat gently nudged into the dark beach.
“The inlet is off to your right. Follow the beach,” Martius directed. “As you face inland, the garrison, fields, and grain storage buildings are on the right bank. The village is on the left bank and uphill from the water.”
“Why is the village not near the fields?” Alerio asked. The farmer’s son couldn’t understand the unusual layout.
“Flooding. In the spring and after heavy rains in the mountains, the fiumare at the end of the inlet floods over its banks,” Martius replied. “The fields flood and sometimes the garrison building floods. We have to rebuild the stockade every year. Now go.”
Alerio slid over the side and into the chest deep water. Holding his armor and helmet over his head, he waded towards the beach. Behind him, he heard Martius call to the oarsmen.
“Back-her-down. Back. Back,” the Optio ordered. The patrol boat moved away from the beach and vanished in the dark.
Chapter 7 – Survivor
Alerio heard the waves lapping at the shoreline. Where the land curved around forming the bank of the inlet, he dropped his armor and helmet on the rocky beach. By following the curving bank, he arrived at an area with thick reeds and a crop of trees. There he collected an armload of dry branches.
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