Abject Authority (Clay Warrior Stories Book 19) Read online

  Abject Authority

  Clay Warrior Stories

  Book #19

  J. Clifton Slater

  Abject Authority is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. I am not an historian although, I do extensive research. This book is set in the time of the levied, seasonal Legion of the mid-Republic and not the fulltime Imperial Legion. There are huge differences.

  The large events in this tale are taken from history, while the dialogue and close action sequences are my inventions. Some of the elements in the story are from reverse engineering mid-Republic era techniques and procedures. No matter how many sources I consult, history always has holes between events. Hopefully, you will see the logic in my methods of filling in the blanks.

  The manuscript for Abject Authority has been stirred, mixed, shaken, and strained to remove double speak and dead-end plots by Hollis Jones. With each correction and red penned note, she has removed extra verbiage and tweaked the story. Her editing notes are the reason the tale makes sense and flows. I am grateful for her work and guidance.

  All rights reserved by J. Clifton Slater

  If you have comments, please e-mail me.

  E-mail: [email protected]

  To get the latest information about my books, visit my website. There you can sign up for my newsletter and read blogs about ancient history.

  Website: www.JCliftonSlater.com

  Thank you for being a part of Alerio’s stories.

  Euge! Bravo!

  Abject Authority

  Table of Content

  Abject Authority

  Act 1

  Chapter 1 – Do Something, Anything

  Chapter 2 - Via Salaria

  Chapter 3 – Pieces of Coins

  Act 2

  Chapter 4 – Order of incidents

  Chapter 5 – Acquisition by Force

  Chapter 6 – Never Really Seen When Seen

  Act 3

  Chapter 7 – Never Caught When Caught

  Chapter 8 – A Wet Tumble

  Chapter 9 – Leverage

  Act 4

  Chapter 10 – Chariot Races

  Chapter 11 – Homecoming

  Chapter 12 – Saturn’s Celebration

  Act 5

  Chapter 13 – Fundamental Political Problem

  Chapter 14 – The Festival of Lights

  Chapter 15 – Political Clout

  Act 6

  Chapter 16 – New, Old Silver Chalice

  Chapter 17 – A Rich Man’s Pleasure

  Chapter 18 – Curses and Sources

  Act 7

  Chapter 19 – The Guilty

  Chapter 20 – A Hateful Deal

  Chapter 21 – Crisis of Fighters

  Act 8

  Chapter 22 – The Long Linen Scarf

  Chapter 23 – Behind the Shields

  Chapter 24 – Forcing Awards

  Act 9

  Chapter 25 – To the Victor

  Chapter 26 – Abuse or Is It Use?

  The End of Abject Authority

  A Legion Archer

  Journey from Exile

  A note from J. Clifton Slater

  Other books by J. Clifton Slater:

  Abject Authority

  Act 1

  The Latin tribes grew the Republic by force, if necessary, or intimidation when possible. Using their Legions, the Republic expanded the territory under their control. This included the northeast coast of Sicily, the Italian peninsula along both coasts, and northward through Tuscany.

  Once subjugated, the allied tribes received the benefit of laws that assured property and personal rights. They inherited a currency where the value of the coins was consistent and acknowledged by training partners both within and outside their tribal lands. Further, the Republic embraced local Gods and Goddesses and added them to the pantheon of deities for worship.

  And to manage the nominal yearly tribute for Rome and the number of auxiliary troops sent to the Legions, the Senate assigned Governors to the regions. Each a former Consul of Rome, the chief magistrates were either given the title of Praetor or Proconsul. Overall, the tribes thrived under the system. And Rome grew in resources and political sway.

  Conversely, the people under the boots of Rome had the fabric of their society changed. Their currency was depressed to nothingness and their wealth stripped away by the new coins. Often Roman citizens purchased choice parcels of captured land. And while the locals had rights, they didn’t have a vote or representation in the Senate.

  And by placing the local Gods and Goddesses in with a multitude of deities, the peoples’ once important objects of worship became entangled in a host of almost indistinguishable idols.

  Adding to the dissatisfaction, the young men sent off to the Legion didn’t always come home. But when they did, some brought home resentment. And the Governors, meant to hold the regions together, owed their allegiance to Rome and not to their district and the locals.

  Despite the drawbacks, many communities lived with the reality. In settled regions, a Praetor served as the chief magistrate. He dealt with legal disputes and kept the peace. Although politically powerful, the Senate limited the Praetor to calling out a militia in response to riots, pirates, and bandits.

  In unsettled regions, such as Sicilia and the northern borders of the Republic, the Governors held the title of Proconsul. Beyond the normal administrative work, these magistrates needed license to halt an invading army. To this end, the Senate authorized the Proconsuls to mobilize Legions, and to lead them against invaders.

  Both types of magistrates, the Praetors and Proconsuls, had secretaries, enforcers, and investigators. The system of assistants allowed the chief magistrates to focus on the big picture. For the dirty details such as bodyguarding, crowd control, bringing in the accused, and investigating infractions, each magistrate had between eight and eleven Lictors.

  Charged with managing the day-to-day issues of governing, Lictors needed to be tough and physically fit. These civil servants fell into two categories. Former Centurions doing a last assignment before fully retiring from the Legion. Or they were men starting on a political career by serving as Lictors.

  Welcome to 251 B.C.

  Chapter 1 – Do Something, Anything

  Rasce strutted ahead of his brothers, Vesia and Cilnia. Although the footing on the steep trail made the trek difficult, as the eldest of the three, he felt it was his place to set the pace.

  “Slow it up, Rasce,” Vesia called from the back. “The horn and meat are heavy.”

  As the middle brother, Vesia assumed the role of mediator. He glanced back to check on the youngest. The inattention cost him. He tripped and sprawled face down on the hill. The giant horn from the wild mountain goat slid off his shoulder and tumbled away.

  “Hold up,” Cilnia shouted to Rasce. He stooped over his sibling and inquired. “Is anything broken?”

  “Just my pride, little brother,” Vesia assured him.

  Cilnia moved forward, bent, and put two hands on the curved, five-foot long ibex horn. With a grunt, he lifted the huge bone to his shoulder.

  “Do I need to come up there and carry both horns?” Rasce sneered. He easily bounced the other horn from one shoulder to the other. “Maybe I should carry you both.”

  “Shut up,” Vesia said while adjusting the sack of ibex meat slung under his arm. “I tripped, get over it.”

  Rasce snorted, spun around, and strutted down the overgrown path.

  “He’s full of himself today,” Cilnia noted. “You go ahead. The Nera River is at the foot of the hill, and I need to relieve myself. Make sure R
asce stops until I catch up.”

  “Want me to take the horn?” Vesia asked. “You already have the hide.”

  “No. It’s my turn,” the youngest replied.

  Cilnia moved off the trail to do his business and Vesia rushed to catch up with Rasce. As he moved, he swung both hands to part the branches. With every swing, fall leaves fell around him in flashes of color. Free of the weight of the horn, he laughed and enjoyed the experience. At the top of the final slope, with the sounds of the Nera River splashing over rocks, he yelled.

  “Rasce, hold up and wait for…” Vesia reached the top of the embankment, parted the last tree limbs, and froze.

  His older brother knelt on the river stones. To his front were Legion spears and javelins while on Rasce’s flanks Republic archers stood with arrows notched on their bows. When Vesia appeared through the trees, five arrowheads shifted to target him.

  ***

  “Get down here and get on your knees,” Optio Montem directed. “Where is the Bronze Man?”

  At the mention of the highwayman, the fingers of the inexperienced archers twinged, and the shafts held by the newly trained light infantrymen wobbled. Their eyes roamed from the two men on their knees to the wall of foliage at the top of the bank, and back to the men on the river stones. Searching, they feared an attack from the forest by the Bronze Man.

  At the height of their tension, the younger brother plunged into the tense situation.

  “Look out below,” Cilnia teased, “here comes the horn of justice.”

  Realizing that in his zeal, his younger sibling was charging into the patrol, Vesia jumped to his feet.

  “It’s only my…”

  In that moment, Cilnia broke through the trees. Holding the wicked looking horn out front, he appeared to be assaulting the detachment.

  ***

  The arc from aiming at the man who jumped to his feet to the bandit charging down the embankment took less than a heartbeat. Three arrows plucked Cilnia off his feet. While the youth died, the prized horn slid down the hill.

  Vesia spun and ran with the intention of helping his little brother.

  “Don’t let that one get away,” Optio Montem ordered.

  Two arrows in his side took the middle brother to his knees. And a well thrown javelin drove the body of Vesia face first into the river stones. Seeing his siblings slaughtered, Rasce pulled his skinning knife and jumped at the closest Legionary.

  But Montem had watched the big man closely. When Rasce leaped, the Optio slipped in front of his Legionaries. With an upper thrust, he propelled his gladius blade into the man’s chest.

  “What now, Sergeant?” a squad leader inquired.

  Montem studied the three corpses while cleaning his blade. Slabs of meat and a fresh ibex hide stuck out from slings scattered beside the bodies. Along with a pair of giant mountain goat horns, he realized his patrol had killed a trio of hunters. Because the ibexes lived high in the mountains, the three couldn’t have been involved in yesterday’s robbery.

  “Assign body bearers for the dead and others to carry the meat,” the Optio instructed. “We’ll take them back to the stockade and let the Centurion sort it out.”

  “What about the horns?” an archer questioned.

  “I suppose the metalworker can use them to make knife handles,” Montem considered. “We might as well take them. Let’s go people, I want to be back at the fort before dark.”

  ***

  Two days later, at the cooperative’s depot in Rieti, Grantian Suasus tossed a bundle of cotton sacks into his wagon. The material covered the lead pipes that occupied most of the cart’s bed.

  “I’ll send word when we get in the rope,” the shopkeeper promised. “Are you sure you won’t stay and have a cup of vino?”

  “No, the child and I need to get home,” the Roman farmer replied. He rested a hand on his son’s head. “His mother will have a fit if I keep him out after dark.”

  Pollio Suasus wanted to move out from under his father’s possessive hand. As all seven-year-olds do, he balked at being called a child. Plus, being reminded his mother still controlled his life, irked the boy. But he remained in place, allowing the senior Suasus to ruffle his hair.

  “Come on lad,” Grantian urged, “let’s get the supplies back to the farm.”

  With his father’s help, Pollio mounted a horse. Once Grantian was seated on his horse, a servant snapped the reins, and a team of mules set the full cart in motion. They moved away from the depot, traveling slowly through the streets of Rieti. Being late in the day, little traffic delayed their passage. And despite the mules’ gait and the heavy load, they soon left the town behind.

  Once on the Viale Emilio Maraini, Grantian Suasus sat straighter and perused the landscape.

  “This was once a lake and a marsh,” Grantian explained. He waved his arm to indicate a wide stretch of the valley. Fields under cultivation and the estates of Roman citizens dotted the former lakebed. “Twenty-two years ago, Consul Manius Dentatus defeated the Sabine Tribes and claimed the territory for the Republic.”

  The boy got excited and started hopping up and down in the saddle.

  “The General was a giant and used his hands to push the land upward,” Pollio offered. “Then he tipped it over and poured the Velino River into the Nera.”

  Grantian laughed at the tale. He had heard and repeated it when he was a schoolboy.

  “Dentatus was a great General and a wise Consul, but he was hardly a giant,” Grantian clarified. “During the early days of his administration, leaders from the Sabine Tribe came to him with a problem. The center of the Rieti Valley was a lake surrounded by swamps. Anyone living near the marshlands got sick. Seeking to keep the peace, the General charged his engineers with finding a solution. After studying the problem for a year, his Legion engineers told him to cut a channel through the rock on high ground and divert the Velino River. With Dentatus’ approval, they started by building dams on the river around a worksite. Then they chiseled away wagon loads of rock. Finally, they cut a notch along the clifftop and allowed the waters of the Nera and Velino rivers to joins. Together they fall five hundred and forty feet to the Nera River.”

  “And that dried up the swamp,” Pollio guessed, “is now farmland.”

  “The channel on the high ground plus a trench down the middle of the valley did dry out the marshland and drain the lake,” Grantian confirmed. “Your grandfather purchased our farm from the General when the land was still under a foot of water.”

  “How did he know it wouldn’t make us sick?” Pollio asked.

  “Stagnant water was the culprit,” his father told him. “Moist earth is productive. It’s as simple as that.”

  Three miles outside of town, they left the Viale Emilio Maraini. Once off the main road, the wagon trail became rutted and pockmarked with washouts.

  “I should assign a few fieldhands to level this road,” Grantian remarked as they neared a tree line. “They have nothing to do until spring planting.”

  “But this isn’t our land or road,” Pollio commented. “Our property line is ahead.”

  “We use the road. Therefore, we should take some responsibility for…”

  Grantian Suasus ceased talking and reined in his horse. The servant halted the mule team and wagon. Young Pollio rode a few more paces before easing his mount to a stop. Something in the woods caught their attention. Then a Greek Hoplite emerged from the trees.

  His bronze helmet, and bronze breast plate flashed in the afternoon light. Glowing from the reflective surfaces, the man stepped onto the wagon trail as if a fearsome spirit.

  “Latian. Hold your caravan and pass over your coins,” the highwayman instructed.

  Other men stepped from around tree trunks. Folds of material over their faces hid their identities, and each held a spear. Knowing he was outnumbered, Grantian Suasus had no intention of fighting. But his Latin pride required that the insult of being robbed could not go unchallenged.

  “Bronze
Man, someday I’ll see you crucified,” Grantian swore. “If I had my armor, I’d ride you down like a dog and whip you.”

  “Well, Latian, I’m right here,” the bandit argued. “Come test me.”

  With his bluff called, Grantian deflated in the saddle.

  “That’s what I thought. All you Romans quake in fear of an Etruscan warrior,” the Bronze Man stated. “You are all cowards.”

  At the insult, Pollio Suasus squared his small shoulders, kicked his mount into motion, and charged at the highwayman.

  “My father is not a coward,” the boy screamed.

  Within three strides, a spear arched up from the trees then tipped downwards before sweeping the boy off his horse. Pollio’s small body jerked once as if trying to fight off the shaft that passed through his body. Then he relaxed, pinned to the ground like a bird brought down by a giant arrow.

  “Pollio, Pollio,” Grantian cried. He dismounted and ran to his son. With the little body in his arms, he asked. “Why? Why?”

  The Bronze Man walked to the grieving father, reached down, and placed a quarter of a bronze coin on the boy’s forehead.

  “Because you are here,” he whispered, “and your kind shouldn’t be.”

  Grantian Suasus remained on the ground with his son in his arms. The highwayman and his gang took the horses and the wagon. When they had gone, Grantian scooped up Pollio in his arms. Rather than heading to his Villa, the father turned back towards Rieti.

  “Proconsul Crassus, I am bringing you the latest victim of the Bronze Man,” he bellowed into the darkening sky. “Do something, anything, to stop the murderer. But know this, nothing you do will bring back my son.”

  ***

  The servant followed Grantian through town and into the compound of the Governor’s Villa. The farmer’s arrival caused a flurry of activity. Before dawn, a messenger raced away with a letter to Praetor Blasio on the coast at Pescara.

  In short, the letter begged for secrecy and help. While Proconsul Crassus could mobilize a Legion, he had no force to engage. And with the unrest in the Sabine Territory, all his staff members and Lictors were occupied with pacifying the locals and calming the citizens. If word got back to the Senate that one bandit had pushed a Proconsul to the breaking point, Otacilius Crassus’ career would be over. He begged Praetor Blasio for the favor of silence and the blessing of a solution.