“Pivot right,” Procopius shouted and the line swung to face Illyrians scrambling to pick up their shields. “Advance. Advance.”
The unprepared Illyrians fell wounded or dead to the clay pavers of the plaza.
“Turn about,” Procopius ordered. Each Legionary spun in place to face the enemy behind them. “Advance. Advance.”
Sweeping back across the plaza, the Legionaries collided with the shields of Illyrian soldiers. In addition to the professional warriors, the plaza was filling with pirates and rowers from the beach. After glancing at the crowded stairs, where men pushed and shoved to get at the infantrymen, Procopius decided Lance Corporal Sisera had enough of a diversion.
“Right face and run,” Procopius shouted as he moved to the front of the line.
Two Legionaries fell and were swarmed by sica wielding pirates. With his shield swinging back and forth, the temporary squad leader protected the remaining five members of his squad as they raced for the stairs.
The plan was to form a shield wall and back up to the second level plaza. If Procopius lost any more men, there wouldn’t be enough of Third Squad left to seal the steps.
“Welcome to Hades. Greetings from the wolves,” Procopius screamed as shields and spears battered his lone shield. He stepped back and stumbled. The Illyrians sensing a kill moved in on the off balanced temporary squad leader.
Suddenly, a wall of Legion shields closed down in front of him. Fearing Third Squad was sacrificing themselves for him, he screamed, “Step back.”
A hand slammed into his shoulder armor and he turned to see Fourth Squad’s Lance Corporal with his face an inch away.
“You haven’t been a squad leader long enough to order my men around,” the NCO challenged. “Now. Hit the steps so my lads can step back.”
Procopius paused on the steps to look down on the plaza. Fourth and Fifth Squads were stacked in two ranks. In front of them were hundreds of pirates and two squads of Illyrian soldiers. The engaged Legionaries slammed their shields forward but didn’t follow with a gladius strike. For this maneuver, they used the space created by the thrusts to step back before bracing for another assault.
Disengaging with the enemy while collapsing their formation to mount the steps was going to be a problem. The pirates massed on the plaza created constant pressure against the Legion ranks. Again, the Legionaries shoved forward with their shields, but the space opened and closed almost as rapidly as the shields created it. A battle of attrition spelled doom for the Legion squads.
“Procopius. Would you like to join us?” a voice rang out.
The temporary squad leader spun around to see Commander Cephas standing at the top of the stairs. Around him, on the second level plaza, were the remaining members of Third Squad and a half squad of additional Legionaries. Procopius sprinted up the steps. At the top, four javelins were placed in his hands.
“Arching throws,” ordered Cephas. “Drop them in close but don’t hit our men. On my command. Throw.”
Eleven javelins disappeared against the night sky. When they reappeared, the shafts were embedded in the heads, shoulders, or chests of pirates.
“On my command,” shouted Cephas. “Throw.”
Again, eleven iron tipped javelins arched up and over before raining down on the second rank of pirates. Now, the first rank realized the pressure from behind had lifted. The Legionaries noticed the easing and the familiar shafts falling among the Illyrians. When a third flight struck down another eleven pirates, the squads shoved their shields forward and followed with their gladii.
As the squads folded in their flanks, trumpets sounded from the beach. Before Fifth and Fourth Squads mounted the stairs, the Illyrians broke off and ran for the steps leading down to the first level. With the Legionaries withdrawing and the pirates running, the second level plaza was soon empty.
***
“Good work. Clean your gear. Get some rest,” Cephas said to one Legionary as he climbed to the third level plaza and filed by. Each man was greeted by the Garrison Commander as he reached the plaza. “Good work. Clean your gear. Get some rest.”
Third Squad’s temporary squad leader was the last to climb the stairs. He had an injured Legionary slung over his shoulder.
He stopped in front of the Commander. After the medics took the wounded man, Procopius asked, “Did we give the weapon’s instructor enough time?”
“I don’t know. But I do know this. Third Squad gave him all they had,” Cephas offered. “Go clean your gear. And, get some rest.”
Chapter 56 – Underestimate at Your Peril
Alerio crept around the side of the pavilion. He knew the Legion archers were on the hill watching, but he was cautious anyway. Peering around the corner, he saw the arrow ridden bodies around several of the closest campsites. Someone had fallen into one of the fires.
Flames around the naked man’s head flared and burned with an intensity beyond simple burning cloth.
“Swift and overwhelming violence,” Helicaon whispered from behind him. “Never give your foe a chance to organize or to bring in reinforcements.”
Alerio didn’t reply. His hands rose above his shoulders and he took a firm grip on both hilts. As he stepped around to the front of the pavilion, both gladii came free. He held them crossed at chest height as he approached the pavilion’s entrance.
Without breaking stride, Alerio extended the crossed gladii and inserted the tips in the tent flaps. By jerking the blades to the sides, he threw the cloth entrance wide open. Then, he squatted, tucked his head, and shoulder rolled through the opening.
A dagger and an arrow clipped the edges of the material as the flaps closed. By then, Alerio was through the opening and coming up on his feet.
Two men stood in the back of the pavilion. One held a Greek sword while the other fumbled to fit an arrow on a crossbow.
“You are too close for the bow, Navarch Martinus Cetea,” Alerio sneered. “Sergeant Pholus has the right idea. This is sword work distance. And, I brought both of mine.”
“Do I know you?” Martinus Cetea asked as he tossed the bow to the ground. He replaced it with two curved sicas pulled from his belt. “I don’t recall us meeting.”
Before Alerio could reply, the tent flaps opened and Helicaon shuffled through the opening. He seemed harmless with the gladius tucked into his belt and a comb in his hand.
“Are they dead yet?” the old Spartan asked. Then he looked around and added. “No? That could be a mistake.”
The three combatants watched as Helicaon navigated the carpeted floor. As if his old legs could barely support his weight, the Spartan inched across the floor to a stool. He started to sit, but the gladius caught in the stool’s legs. After fumbling with the hilt, he managed to pull the blade free of his belt. Holding it in his left hand, he eased down on the seat. As if to accentuate to his age, he grunted as he sat. The gladius ended up resting on his knees with the hilt hanging over his left leg.
He began to comb his beard.
“Alerio. You should just kill them,” the old man suggested. “Too much talking.”
“You side with a Legionary against a fellow Greek?” Pholus shouted at the old man. “So, you will die as well.”
“You, a Greek? Your city state hired mercenaries from the Republic,” the old Spartan replied. “When your King died, you sent the Sons of Mars away. They march on Messina. Where was your Greek pride when those thugs murdered all the men in the city? Leaving the Greek women widows and at the mercies of the Sons of Mars? You’re not a Greek. You are a stupid, weak, cowardly piece of Syracuse merda.”
Sergeant Pholus was a cunning leader and a brave warrior. He was also a vain, and prideful man. The tip of his blade came up and he ran across the pavilion screaming a war cry. The roar filled the tent and the hairs on Alerio’s neck stood up. Most men would freeze from the beastly sound; others might, at least, rise to meet the threat. Helicaon sat combing his beard with his right hand while his left hand rested on the hilt of the gl
adius.
Pholus let his wounded ego take control. Wanting to make an example of the rude old man, he drew his blade to the side. It swung back with the intention of separating the weathered face and groomed head from the wrinkled old neck.
As the blade chopped, Helicaon’s bones seemed to turn to liquid. At least that’s how it appeared to Alerio. From sitting stiffly on the stool, the Spartan’s entire body collapsed like a silk scarf. While sliding off the stool, his left hand slapped the hilt of the gladius. The weapon arched up and when Helicaon grabbed it with his right hand, the gladius’ tip was pointed upward.
The blade rose and twisted as it penetrated Pholus’ sword arm. Yelling in pain, the Syracuse Sergeant stepped back to inspect the wound. It shouldn’t have been too bad. The gladius tip had barely touched him before he pulled away. Yet, there was so much blood. It bubbled around the wound and pumper from the jagged center.
Holding the injured arm, the Sergeant turned and ran for the tent flaps. Four steps from the exit, the blade of a gladius was thrust between his legs and he toppled to the floor.
“Going somewhere, Sergeant Pholus?” Alerio asked.
Pholus looked over his shoulder ignoring the Legionary. The old man had resumed his seat on the stool and sat combing his hair.
“Who are you?” Pholus asked weakly.
Blood continued to pump from the wound, but it no longer came out in spurts.
“Helicaon, the Spartan,” the old man stated with no inflection or emotion. “Goodbye, Sergeant.”
Chapter 57 – Make Sport Of
“So, it’s you two against me,” Martinus Cetea bragged. “I’ve faced worst odds and still came out alive. I can’t say the same for my attackers.”
“Don’t look at me,” the Spartan said. “I’ve talked too much. I’m becoming a regular orator.”
“It’s just you and me, Cetea,” Alerio assured the Illyrian.
“At least you’re honorable, Spartan,” Martinus Cetea said. Then to the Legionary, asked. “What is your name?”
“Lance Corporal Alerio Sisera of the Third Century, Southern Legion,” Alerio stated.
“Lance Corporal…Ah, the farmers at the inlet. Now I remember you,” Cetea accused. “You killed members of my crew. Butchered them really. While they were defenseless. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Alerio realized the Navarch was stalling for time. Despite the knowledge that reinforcements could arrive at any moment, Alerio couldn’t resist.
“You murdered old men, old women, and children,” Alerio stated. “They were mothers, fathers, and people’s children. You killed them and threw their bodies in with their families. For that, I can’t allow you to live.”
“Wait. All this, the arrows and snakes while my crews were sleeping,” Cetea ventured. “The night attack by the Legionaries and you charging into my tent. All this for a few farmers.”
“Revenge is a better motivation then chasing a chest full of coins,” responded Alerio.
Martinus Cetea laughed so hard the tent sides flexed.
“You believe I’d bring four warships, their crews, and soldiers for a box of coins?” Cetea asked between chuckles. “Lad, you have no idea. The Egyptian coin is for my crews. Me, I’m working on a bigger contract. Syracuse wants to expand on Sicilia. But, so does the Empire. They made an agreement. Syracuse gets Bovesia and the port and the farmland. That leaves Sicilia for the Qart Hadasht Empire to settle. Whether the Empire helps Syracuse defend against the Republic, when you come to take it back, I don’t care. Illyrians have our homeland and the sea. As long as shipping continues, we’ll continue to take what we want.”
Alerio realized the value of the information for Tribune Velius. It caused him to hesitate. Suddenly, one side of the tent snapped as three arrows pierced the fabric. The arrows meant the Legion archers were leaving. Leaving because pirates were returning from the steps at Bovesia.
“My father is a farmer,” Alerio said as he walked toward Martinus Cetea. “I have a mother.”
“Well, good for you,” Cetea congratulated the Legionary as he dropped into a fighter’s stance. “Most of us do.”
“And two sisters,” Alerio added as he approached the Illyrian Navarch. “Do you know who doesn’t?”
“Oh pray, tell me, Legionary of the Republic,” Cetea said as he shuffled to his left.
Alerio jumped to his right blocking the Illyrian’s path to the exit.
“The farmers at Occhio,” Alerio stated as he brought his right gladius up in a high guard.
Cetea stepped back to get out from under the blade. As he moved, Alerio’s left gladius swung upward while the Legionary took a giant step forward. The Illyrian slapped the blade away and leading with his sicas, stepped in.
He was an experienced enough fighter not to go for the torso. Rather, his target was Alerio’s left wrist. Wound a wrist and the arm was useless. So, he sliced the air as his curved blades went for the first cuts of the duel.
Alerio, to Cetea’s surprise, didn’t pull the arm back. With the limb so close, he aimed to slice the arm with both blades. Cetea leaned forward so they would bite deeper; sufficiently deep to end the fight. Or at least, stop the Legionary, and allow Cetea to make it to the exit.
The curved blades closed with the Legionary’s flesh. Then, the gladius fell from Alerio’s hand. A puzzled thought ran through the Illyrian’s mind at the action.
Both of Cetea’s arms jerked to a stop. The Legionary stood with one leg far to the front in a split legged stance. His left forearm was bent at the elbow and in contact with the inside of the Illyrian’s wrists.
Although it stopped the blades, it was a poor defense. All Cetea needed to do was…
The right gladius tapped the pirate leader on the crown of his head and he crumpled to the carpeted floor.
“Just kill him,” the Spartan urged.
Alerio ignored Helicaon as he tied strips of cloth high on Cetea’s ankles and around his wrists.
“Navarch Martinus Cetea. Wake up,” Alerio said as he tapped the Illyrian’s cheek. “I want you alert for this.”
“For what?” asked an obviously groggy Cetea.
“Making sport,” Alerio said as he hacked at Cetea’s ankles.
Cetea screamed as the bones crumbled, the tendons separated, and the nerves reported the pain to his brain.
“That was for the old men and old women,” Alerio said as he jerked the blade out of the crippling ankle wounds. “And this is for the farmer’s children.”
Cetea felt new pain in his wrists but the agony in his lower legs overrode the new injuries.
“And for throwing the babies’ bodies in with the women and children,” Alerio announced.
He ran a gladius across the bridge of Cetea’s nose.
Oddly, the injury to his nose didn’t hurt much, Martinus Cetea thought. Although he had trouble seeing. It was so dark in the pavilion; the Legionary must have blown out the lanterns.
Chapter 58 – Fleeing in the Dark
A ripping sound from the back of the pavilion drew Alerio’s attention.
“Follow and try to keep up,” Helicaon called as he stepped through the slit he made in the fabric.
Alerio swung the gladii over his shoulders and seated both blades in their sheaths. Then, he ran to the opening, squeezed through, and sprinted after the Spartan.
***
Alerio pulled alongside Helicaon further down the beach than he would have thought.
“You should have killed him,” offered the Spartan.
“Strategy Helicaon,” Alerio replied as they arrived at the boat.
The beach was deserted. Alerio looked around for the archers and Lupus. A figure separated from the shadows on the top of the bank and walked over.
“I sent the others on ahead,” the Legion bowman explained. “We’ll take to the hills and work our way back to the garrison. And, Lance Corporal Sisera, Private Lupus didn’t make it. He did a good job creating the panic. So good in fact, not a blade touched him
.”
“How did he die?” asked Alerio.
“It had to be the snakes,” the archer explained. “I was busy killing pirates, but one of the other archers saw him staggering around in his cloth cobra hood. He was holding two really big snakes in his hands.”
“I guess the gift failed him,” Alerio mumbled.
“Excuse me, Lance Corporal?” the archer asked.
“Nothing. I don’t think the pirates will follow you far,” commented Alerio. “But don’t engage unless it’s necessary. Now go.”
A line of swaying torches appeared far down the dark beach. The archer pointed at the lights before jogging off. Alerio followed the arm and nodded. Then, he reached down to help the Spartan place the boat in the water.
“The water’s cold,” Helicaon warned as he stepped into the boat.
“This isn’t cold,” Alerio replied as he walked the boat through the surf and into deeper water. When the water reached his chest, he shivered while climbing into the boat. “Now it’s cold.”
“Grab a paddle and stroke,” ordered the Spartan. “That’ll warm you up.”
The torches and a herd of angry Illyrian pirates moved across the beach. While they searched for the archers and the butcher of their Navarch, the small boat moved silently away from the shoreline.
***
The boat moved easily over the swells of the Ionian Sea in response to Alerio and Helicaon’s steady paddling. They settled into a rhythm, which propelled the boat away from shore, around the biremes, and towards the fresh water. When they entered the mouth of the Kaikinos River their matched strokes fell apart. The choppy water and swiftly moving river threatened to overturn and swamp Helicaon’s small boat.
Relentless driving strokes pushed them upriver and by the time the boat touched the pier, both of them were exhausted; the old Spartan from the exertion of paddling out and back. Alerio from the freezing swim and recovery, and the return trip. They climbed out and pulled the boat onto the wooden dock. Then, they staggered up the ramps to the garrison area.
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