Clay Warrior Stories Boxset 1

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Clay Warrior Stories Boxset 1 Page 49

by J. Clifton Slater


  Back on the beach, he piled dirt into three piles before patting the top of each flat. From behind his back, Alerio pulled a long, curved dagger with a yellow stripe on a black hilt. It was more than a fine weapon. It identified him as an Ally of the Golden Valley, and a friend to the assassins of the Dulce Pugno, the valley’s protectors. After shaving off kindling with the dagger, he tented branches and the thin wood strips on the three raised flat surfaces. Finally, he dug out a depression in the beach and laid the last of the branches in the bottom.

  Once the three unlit signal fires were set, he unstrapped the dual gladius rig and slipped on his armor and helmet. He resettled the gladius harness over his armor and tied it down before setting off towards the village of Occhio.

  A mile in daylight over roughly plowed fields was a simple march. In the dark, it was a tortuous path and bruising on the ankles and knees. Alerio smiled at the mounds and valleys of the planted rows, the smell of freshly turned soil, and the aroma of green growing plants. It reminded him of home.

  The fields on the flat land soon transitioned to cultivated hillsides. As Alerio climbed, he left the small grain field behind and arrived at a row of beans. His early work on a farm prevented him from simply bashing through the vine plants. Out of respect for the farmers, he walked to the end of the row before proceeding up the hill.

  “You can’t go,” a voice whispered from a few rows to the front.

  Drawing his hip gladius, Alerio crept forward.

  Another voice choked back a reply, “I’ve got to free them.”

  A third voice caused Alerio to relax.

  “Lance Corporal, you are injured,” a man stated. “If you stumble into the pirates in your present condition, you will be killed.”

  “Someone has to…” and the weak voice trailed off.

  “How is he?” another voice inquired. “Is he dead?”

  “No. But his breathing is ragged and shallow,” came the reply.

  Alerio looked up to see a slice of the moon over the mountain. He squatted down to wait. Shortly, there would be some illumination. He figured it was better to meet the voices in shadowy moonlight rather than stumbling into a group of strangers in total darkness.

  “What are we going to do?” pleaded another man.

  “There’s not much a handful of farmers can do against those Illyrians,” someone answered. “If we rush down there, we’ll be killed.”

  The half-moon drifted slowly above the mountain spilling weak light over the rows of bean.

  “Stand down citizens,” Alerio said as he moved forward to join the group. “I’m a Legionary. Lance Corporal Sisera. What’s going on here?”

  The question was asked for two reasons. One it occupied the speakers so they would think instead of attacking a form appearing from the dark. The other reason, Alerio was curious.

  “Is the Legion here?” a man asked hopefully.

  “Not until morning,” Alerio responded.

  “It’ll be too late,” another one whined. “They’ll row out at first light. It’ll be too late.”

  “First things first,” Alerio commented. “Where is the Lance Corporal?”

  “He’s here. We fished him out of the water after the Illyrians knocked him off the bank,” a kneeling man reported. “He must have been alert enough to take off his armor. When he floated to the surface, we paddled out and brought him to shore. I’m afraid he’s cut up bad. I’ve bandaged him but he’s not doing well.”

  Alerio dropped to his knees and ran a hand over the Legionary. Rough cloth covered his arms and lower legs but the worrisome bandage was the wet cloth wrapped around his stomach. The light wasn’t necessary to recognize the sticky dampness on the wrap. It was blood.

  “Thank you for taking care of him,” Alerio offered. “Now. Why will the morning be too late? Too late for what?”

  “They’ve rounded up our old, our women, and our children,” stated another man. “They said if we attack, they’d cut their throats.”

  “They’ll take them as slaves when they row out,” added another farmer. “It’s the fault of the merchant ship that brought them.”

  “What was so important about the merchant that the Illyrians chanced attacking a Legion garrison?” questioned Alerio.

  “We’ve discussed that but we have no idea,” another farmer admitted. “Other than piracy.”

  “The man they took off the merchant ship was tall, thin and swarthy,” described the farmer kneeling beside the wounded Legionary. “He was dressed in a gold embroidered robe.”

  “Him and the four slaves carrying the big coin chest,” another farmer stated. “And a man in strange pants toting stacks of parchment and scrolls.”

  “The coin chest is enough to warrant an attack,” Alerio suggested. “Tell me about your families?”

  “The Illyrians rounded up everyone in the village. Then they marched them across the fiumare,” a farmer reported. “We were in the fields and couldn’t get back in time. Their leader said if we attacked, they’d kill them all. Now, our families are under guard in the grain storage building.”

  “How many?” inquired Alerio.

  “Twenty-five,” came the answer.

  “Twenty-five guards?” asked a shocked Alerio.

  “No, no, women, children, and our elders,” the farmer corrected. “There are six Illyrians guarding them. Can you help us?”

  Alerio was conflicted. On one hand, he had an assignment to report the direction of the Illyrian ship. On the other hand, he was confronted with the need to save a farming community. However, if killed in the process, he wouldn’t complete his initial assignment.

  From the bean terrace, he could see moonlight on the inlet. Gentle ripples flowed down toward the strait. Across the water, the fields were black with no surface to reflect light.

  “Where is the grain storage building?” he asked.

  “You can’t see it from here. The hills with our village block the view,” the kneeling man informed him. “Can you? Will you help us?”

  “I need you to carry the Lance Corporal to the crop of trees at the beach and hide there,” answered Alerio. “When the Illyrian ship leaves, you’ll need to light signal fires to alert the Legion. If you do that, I’ll free your families. Or die trying.”

  “Oh, Laetitia blesses us this night,” a farmer gushed.

  “Don’t celebrate yet,” warned Alerio. “Let me rescue them before you start invoking a Goddess.”

  “Still, you’ve given us hope,” the kneeling man said. “We’ll carry the Lance Corporal to the beach and come back to help you.”

  “No. I’ll need two men to guide me to your families,” instructed Alerio. “If I have too many citizens running around in the dark…well. let’s just say someone could get hurt if it becomes a melee.”

  “Cimon. Marcissus. Go with the Legionary,” the kneeling man ordered. “Row him across and show him the grain storage building. Then, follow his directions.”

  Two men stepped closer to Alerio. One was tall and thin while the other was short and stocky.

  “I am Cimon,” the thin farmer introduced himself before pulling the stocky man close in. “He’s Marcissus. When do we get started?”

  “As soon as the rest are on the way to the beach,” Alerio told him.

  It took little time for two farmers to pull up a pair of anchoring poles from the bean rows. Soon they had strips of goatskin stretched between the poles and the injured Legionary placed on the stretcher. As the group of twenty-three farmers moved down the terrace, Alerio turned to Cimon and Marcissus.

  “Two questions. How do we cross the inlet?” he asked. “And, what material did you use to construct the grain storage building?”

  “We have a flat bottom boat,” Marcissus replied. “We use it to transfer men and supplies across the inlet. We can row you all the way to where the inlet meets the fiumare.”

  “No. We’ll cross here and approach from the fields behind the building,” Alerio explained. “What about
the storage building?”

  “It’s brick,” Cimon stated with pride. “Brick with a mud layer. Our productivity is good because we don’t lose the harvest to vermin or rot when it rains.”

  “At my father’s farm, the village’s storage buildings have bricks for the first three feet and the rest is wood,” said Alerio.

  “You’re a farmer?” asked Marcissus.

  “My father is the farmer. I’m a simple Legionary,” Alerio replied. “And we have a mission. Show me to the boat.”

  Chapter 8 - Grain Storage and Hostages

  Lantern and torchlight lined the pier but Alerio couldn’t make out details from the flat bottom boat. What he could see was the black hull of a long ship that blocked the light as Cimon and Marcissus paddled them across the inlet. By the time they reached the right bank, the lights of the village on the hills came into view.

  “Most of the pirates are in the village,” Cimon commented.

  “Let’s hope they stay there,” Alerio replied.

  They tied the boat to a post and the three men climbed up the embankment. As they entered the grain fields, Alerio had to nudge Marcissus when the farmer turned left.

  “The Legion stockade is just up there,” Marcissus whispered.

  “Go further into the field. We need to approach the grain building from the rear,” Alerio advised.

  They walked deeper into the field before angling around. When Alerio saw campfires in the distance, he grabbed the farmers and had them squat down.

  “Who has experience with a sword?” he whispered.

  “I’m good with an ax, but with a sword, no,” replied Marcissus.

  “No sword, but I can plow a field all day,” confessed Cimon. “I’m strong.”

  “Marcissus. Take this and stay behind me,” Alerio instructed while handing Marcissus his hip gladius. “Once I clear the guards, you get the elders, the women, and the children out of the building. Cimon. You lead them away from the storage building. Marcissus will bring up the rear. If any Illyrians chase you, chop them down like an old pine tree.”

  “Like a pine tree?” asked Marcissus.

  “You know, big chunks and lots of gooey sap,” replied Alerio. The farmers chuckled and relaxed.

  Alerio learned swordsmanship during harvest times on his father’s farm. During his formative years, a Centurion and an Optio from the Northern Legion came annually to work the harvest. While there, they taught former Sergeant Sisera’s son military tactics and gladius work. One of the lessons involved surviving hard and difficult tasks; when faced with the impossible, sing and keep a good sense of humor.

  Alerio needed the farmers loose and thinking, rather than freezing up at the first sign of trouble.

  “Humor and singing,” Alerio mumbled to himself before asking. “Do either of you know a song?”

  He was disappointed when both replied no.

  “Marcissus, remember to stay behind me. Cimon, stay at the edge of the grain field so you can lead the families deeper into the fields,” Alerio repeated the assignments before stepping forward. “Breathe deep, stay loose, and follow me.”

  Moments later, Alerio stood stooped over so his eyes were just at the top of the grain stalks. In front of him a domed structure occupied a cleared area near the inlet. From his vantage point, the dark storage building partially blocked light from campfires to the left and right. He could see pairs of men sitting at the fires. If the farmers were correct, two more men were somewhere in front of the grain storage building.

  From across the inlet and high up on the hill, singing carried from the village. In response to the faraway voices, the Illyrians guarding the hostages sat up and joined in the ditty. At the first note, Alerio reached over his shoulders and unsheathed both gladii.

  Look around me, the view never changes

  For I am a rower in the Greek navy

  My vista is steady, if not picturesque

  It’s of benches, wood sides, oak oars and dreck

  With a peek at the blue sea, out the oar hole, at its best

  No matter the landfall

  To my eyes and nose, there’s no rest

  For I work on a bench, surrounded by pests

  Look around me, the view never changes

  For I am a rower in the Greek navy

  His back hairs thicken, on every cruise

  From behind curses, garlic breath, endlessly spews

  Hold your fluids from below, spit flies, gas roars, from on high

  It’s better than farming

  Or hauling big loads, proudly says I

  This life in the navy, without dirt or sky

  Look around me, the view never changes

  For I am a rower in the Greek navy

  My view on the bench, is a rower’s lament

  Unseen green coast, the blue sea, horizon sunset

  Row faster, slower, cruise, power those oars, and we bank

  No matter the cruise

  To my sight and smell, there’s just planks

  For I work on a bench, surrounded by stank

  Look around me, the view never changes

  For I am a rower in the Greek navy

  My scene’s consistent, even in battle

  Ship oars, increase strokes, and attack angles

  I row to the drums, I pray, row all the day, as if addled

  No matter the foe

  To my eyes and nostrils, there’s no battle

  For I work on a bench, surrounded by cattle

  Alerio smiled at the song. The Illyrians and Greeks had been at each other’s throats for decades. It wasn’t hard to understand the song as a barb at Greek oarsmen. Especially those assigned to the center tier in the Greek’s large fleet of quinqueremes.

  The smile faded as Alerio stepped out of the grain field and began to sing.

  Chapter 9 - Fight on the Right Bank

  Alerio hooked around and approached from behind the left campfire. The two Illyrians at the fire were unaware a fight was about to start.

  “Look around me, the view never changes,” Alerio sang. “For I am a rower, in the Greek navy.”

  Swinging inward with the two gladii, his strikes slammed the pirates on their temples. The two fell together and ended up resting on each other.

  One pirate near the storage building door wondered why his companions decided to whisper in the middle of a song. His curiosity ended when a single figure leaped over the flame. It landed and raced at him.

  “My vista is steady, if not picturesque,” Alerio crooned as he jumped at the third pirate. “It’s of benches, wood sides, oak oars and dreck.”

  The other pirate at the door was in full voice with his face lifted as if to compete in volume with the crewmen in the village. He jerked when his partner punched his shoulder in warning, but it came too late. Alerio ran his gladius through the first pirate’s right side. Stepping beyond the crumpling man, he conked his partner on the crown of the head. The singing pirate fell silent and toppled to the ground.

  “Marcissus. Free your people,” Alerio ordered with a turn of his face. Looking ahead at the final two pirates, he picked up the song. “No matter the landfall. To my eyes and nose, there’s no rest.”

  The last two pirates drew long curved knives and shuffled forward in a coordinated attack. Holding their sicas high, they aimed for the Legionary’s unarmored neck. Alerio ran at them, and the Illyrians leaned forward expecting to meet their foe face-to-face.

  Two feet from the points of the knives, Alerio dropped to his knees and slid under the sicas. One of his gladius’ tips faced downward and he drove it into the top of a pirate’s foot. Sharp, narrow steel penetrated the foot and the bone split. With his balance gone and agony flashing up from the foot, the pirate collapsed and grabbed at the wound.

  The second gladius pointed upward. Alerio pushed it into the pirate’s throat, through the soft palate, and up to the base of the man’s skull where it nicked the bone. Although by the time the nick occurred, the Illyrian was too busy
trying to suck air past the gurgling hole in his throat to care. He was the only pirate to die in the initial confrontation.

  “For I work on a bench, surrounded by pests,” sang Alerio as he stood between the two pirates.

  In a straightforward duel or swordfight, killing your foe was easy once you fought through their defenses. When attacking a group, it proved faster to simply disable the enemy. Except for the last pirate, the other five sustained survivable wounds.

  Alerio spun to check on the four Illyrian pirates on the ground. Two stirred but didn’t seem as if they were ready to stand and fight.

  Shrieks, wailing, and moaning came from the direction of the grain storage building. Glancing over, Alerio saw a woman emerge through the doorway with two small, limp forms draped over her arms. Behind her, another woman stepped into the torchlight with a dead child cradled in her arms.

  “Marcissus. What’s the problem?” Alerio asked. He was unable to comprehend the meaning of the tiny bodies carried by the women.

  The farmer turned from where he was helping the women and older children out of the storage building.

  “The Illyrians killed our young, and our old men, and our old women,” he uttered with tears streaming down his face. “Then. Then, they tossed the bodies in with the living.”

  Alerio grasped why the pirates had eliminated slaves that were too young or old to be productive and wouldn’t sell for top coin. Weeding out the weak made sense economically. But, tossing the dead in with their families was cruel. Cruelty and economics, he understood intellectually. Emotionally, he imagined his own mother and his two sisters among the dead farmers. He lost his temper.

  Chapter 10 - Massacre at Occhio

  Two of the pirates were regaining consciousness. They rolled over and placed their hands on the ground to push up. In their confused state, they didn’t understand when hands gripped their collars. The idea, that everything wasn’t as it should be, came to them when they were bodily dragged across the ground, and dropped between two torches.

 

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