Fortune Reigns Read online

  The Legion systematically eliminated seven ranks of soldiers. But, the addition of disciplined Syracusan troops to the fight and the Legionaries uneven footing on a carpet of dead caused the Legion’s advance to falter.

  “It’s going to be bulls locked in a mating dance,” announced Nicephrus seeing the line stop. “I’m betting on mine. Send the first maniple forward.”

  Flags and orders passed on his command and the Legion’s veterans shoved between the third maniple and replaced the Second. And soon, the Colonel’s prediction came true. The best of the Legion clashed with Hiero’s professional soldiers.

  Grunting, heaving, and slashing, the line moved but the toll on both sides had the stretcher-bearers and Medics racing to the line and dragging back wounded or dead.

  Colonel Nicephrus trotted his horse back and forth watching the state of the enemy troops. When he felt he had a feel for them, he pointed at the signalman.

  “Send up the third maniple,” he directed. “It’s time they earned their coin. And earned their place in the Legion.”

  Flags and shouted orders carried his message, and the inexperienced maniple tossed down their javelins, drew their gladii and shoved between the first maniple, shouldering the veterans back and out of the way. Behind them, the second hustled up and began stabbing over their shoulders.

  “Three advances,” ordered Nicephrus as General Caudex rode up beside him.

  The Tribunes around the commanders were confused. The first maniple could only manage a few steps forward against King Hiero’s best soldiers. Now their Colonel wanted three steps from his least experienced line. But no one questions a battle commander and, the orders were flagged and passed.

  “Advance, Advance, Advance,” the Centurions, Sergeants, and Corporals shouted.

  To everyone’s amazement, the Legion moved forward. Following the violent thrust of their shields and the follow-up stabs with their blades, the puppies of the third maniple advanced. The motions were repeated and the third maniple stepped forward again. After the third advance, the line halted and set their shields as they hacked and stabbed at the soldiers.

  “How did you know?” inquired Caudex.

  “They committed their best all along the line,” the Colonel explained. “They only had one rank and no second rank to relieve them. Our veterans wore them down and our pups had the advantage of facing exhausted troops. They’ve been properly bloodied. Send up the second maniple.”

  For the rest of the day, the Legion advanced one step at a time. On the flanks, the horsemen came at each other in waves but their injured or killed was far less than the shield wall fighting of the heavy infantry.

  “They’re pulling back,” observed General Caudex. “Are you going to chase them down?”

  “No, sir. We hurt them enough. They’ll think twice about coming against us again,” replied Colonel Nicephrus. “Now it’s up to Colonel Requiem.”

  “Aren’t you afraid the Syracusans will attack when the Qart Hadasht attack?” offered Caudex.

  “I am General. But if we pursue King Hiero, it’ll be a fight late into the night,” explained the Colonel. “We’ll end up camped too far from the city to respond. Besides, the Legionaries have to repair their equipment and rest. Tomorrow, when the sun is high, they’ll face the Empire.”

  Chapter 12 – In a Day of Illusions

  Colonel Palaemon Nicephrus limped into the medical tent. A doctor, seeing the blood soaking through the bandage on the battle commander, ran up.

  “Colonel. We’ll clear an area and get you treated,” the Doctor exclaimed.

  Nicephrus glanced around at the Legionaries waiting for medical attention ranging from amputations to minor stitches.

  “I’ll wait until you finish treating the more seriously injured of my men,” the Colonel announced as he hobbled to a stool at the back of the tent. He sat stiffly, folded his arms across his chest, dropped his chin and began snoring.

  The Doctor stared at the Colonel for a moment before stepping over to the patient laying on his surgery table. He shoved the man’s intestines back into his stomach and sewed the sword wound closed. Shaking his head at the futility of bothering to close up the dying man, he pointed to a pair of Medics who lifted the Legionary off the gore-soaked table.

  “Water,” demanded the Doctor and another Medic tossed the contents of a bucket and washed the blood and tissue off the tabletop. “Bring me the next patient.”

  Two blood splattered veterans pushed through the flap and marched into the tent. Their leather and metal armor creaking and their gladius sheaths snapping against their armored skirts.

  “Medic. We’re looking for a wounded infantryman,” one called out loudly.

  “Take your pick, we have plenty,” a Medic walking across the tent replied. He pointed around the tent. “Take two if you want.”

  “Don’t smart mouth me,” warned one of the infantrymen. “You might end up keeping your teeth in a bag and sucking your mush through a hole in your throat.”

  The other veteran smiled but rested a hand on the hilt of his gladius. He seemed prepared to carry out his companion’s threat.

  From the side of the tent, a clerk at a table called to the men, “What’s the name and unit of your friend?”

  “Not a friend. Don’t know more than he was third maniple,” one stated as he strutted to the table. “His name’s Eolus.”

  “I have a Private Eolus from Seventh Squad, Sixth Century, third maniple,” the clerk reported as he read from a long scroll. “He came in at midday.”

  “Where is he?” demanded the veteran.

  Colonel Nicephrus woke to the sounds of the rough voices and followed the infantrymen with his eyes. From their exchanges with the passing Medic and the clerk, they needed their leashes jerked for their boorish manners.

  “Follow those two Medics,” the clerk instructed.

  The Medics, carrying the Legionary with the fatal stomach wound, were going through a slit in the tent. As the infantrymen stomped after them, Nicephrus struggled to his feet and limped across the tent towards the slit.

  An awning attached to the Medical tent covered an isolated area. Laying on blankets around the area were butchered Legionaries. Their arms too weak to raise, their bodies displaying holes and slashes from swords and spears, contrasted with their clean faces. The reason for the freshly washed faces was obvious. A young man in a dirty tunic kneeled in the dirt beside an injured Legionary washing his face. He chanted in a grating voice.

  Nenia Dea

  You hover just out of sight

  But death is called

  To claim his life

  With gentle hands so light

  Take him with care

  As is a worthy man’s right

  Goddess of Death, Nenia Dea

  Hear our plight

  As you hover just out of sight

  “You there, Priest, Medic? Where is Private Eolus,” shouted one of the infantrymen.

  The man continued chanting as if the veteran hadn’t called out.

  Allow him to pass bravely

  His comrades call his elegy

  We sing Memento Mori

  For this man’s end

  remembering we will all die

  Release this Legionary

  This son of man

  This best of friend

  Grant him an end

  Goddess of Death

  Allow him to pass bravely

  The man wiping the Legionary’s face glanced up as he chanted. Then he looked down and went back to removing the blood and dirt from the deathly pale skin.

  Nenia Dea

  You hover just out of sight

  But death is called

  To claim his life

  With gentle hands so light

  Take him with care

  As is a worthy man’s right

  Goddess of Death, Nenia Dea

  Hear our plight

  As you hover just out of sight

  “I’m talking to you,�
� one of the infantrymen cautioned as he stormed down an aisle between the wounded. “Ignore me at your own peril, Priest or Medic, whatever you are. I asked you a question.”

  Nicephrus arrived at the slit in the tent as the infantryman lifted a foot preparing to kick a kneeling man. A bucket of water sat next to the young man and a sopping wet rag was clutched in his hand.

  Before the battle commander could call out, the man in the dirt tossed the wet cloth in the infantryman’s face. Snatching up a rustic cane made from a tree root, the kneeling man used it to swipe the blinded infantryman’s leg out from under him. One end of the cane had a large knot and, as the veteran fell and fought to get the cloth off his face, the knot hammered him in the head. Then, the man in the dirt used the cane to get unsteadily to his feet.

  “If you pull that gladius,” warned the man with the cane in a low voice. “You’ll be back in the Medical tent and on the Doctor’s table. Your call. What will it be?”

  While the veteran near the slit pondered the possibility of being hurt by an obviously injured man with a tree root, his companion on the ground stirred. The young man poked him with the blunt end of the cane. “Stay down and you’ll walk out of here. Move and I’ll be washing your face and chanting to the Death Goddess for you.”

  Nicephrus was tempted to let the drama play out, but his thigh hurt and, he could feel blood running down his leg.

  “What in Hades’ name is going on here?” he demanded as he stepped through the slit.

  The man with the cane and the upright infantryman snapped to attention at the sight of the silver breastplate with the gold inlay.

  “Colonel. We were looking for Private Eolus,” the infantryman explained.

  “Did you and him locate the Private?” questioned the Colonel while pointing at the embarrassed infantryman laying in the dirt.

  “No, sir. We, ah, seem to be having an issue,” the veteran stammered.

  “And what are you doing?” the battle commander inquired of the man with the cane.

  “Teaching a lesson, sir,” the young man replied. Then glancing down at the infantryman. “You began your kick to close. It left you open for a preemptive strike. Next time, get a handle on your temper and kick out from a distance. Now get off the dirt in the presence of the commander.”

  All three stared at the cane in the man’s hand and at his feet. Although standing stiffly, his feet were spaced for balance and the cane held as if was a gladius.

  “Explain the rag and bucket of water,” requested the Colonel. “And your soiled tunic.”

  “Sir, this is the staging area for those waiting for the touch of Morta,” he informed Nicephrus. “The Medics, as you saw, are busy. I was unable to fight today so I decided to comfort the dying. They fought and lay waiting for their threads to be cut. They will not pass alone or with dirt and blood on their faces.”

  After watching the infantryman scramble off the ground and stand at attention, the Colonel asked, “Who are you, that you care for my critically wounded in their last moments? And put one of my veterans in the dirt from your knees?”

  “Sir. Lance Corporal Alerio Sisera, Southern Legion and weapons instructor,” he answered softly. “I apologize for the melee. But, this duty weighs heavily on the heart.”

  “I would imagine. Do you know the whereabouts of this Private Eolus?” Nicephrus inquired.

  “Yes, sir. He’s at the edge of the overhang,” Alerio said pointing at a covered body. “He went hard. To the last, he fought to stand up and return to his squad and the battle.”

  “There’s your answer,” Nicephrus said to the infantrymen. “What now?”

  “Nothing, sir,” one replied as they dragged coins from pouches.

  They walked to Private Eolus’ corpse, pulled back the blanket and placed coins on his eyes. With coins placed so Eolus could pay Charon, the ferryman, and secure passage to Hades, they marched off, one of them limping from a sore ankle.

  “Lance Corporal Sisera. You were the one who apprehended the Syracusan messenger,” ventured Nicephrus.

  “Just the eyes for the Century who caught him, Colonel,” Alerio replied. He sagged and his knees almost buckled. “Sorry, sir.”

  “I heard about the punishment post fiasco. One more thing before I leave you to your chanting,” questioned the Colonel. “What would you suggest we do with Macario Hicetus? Put him on the wood or stone him?”

  “Neither, sir. Send him back to King Hiero and let him explain that the Qart Hadasht army won’t be coming to support him,” suggested Alerio. Indicating the dying Legionaries around the isolated area, he added. “Without their aid, he might have second thoughts about creating Legion corpses.”

  “Carry on Lance Corporal Sisera,” Nicephrus ordered before turning towards the slit in the medical tent. “Doctor, I’m cutting into the line.”

  “Yes, sir. Come in and hop on my surgery table,” the Doctor replied from inside the tent. “Water!”

  ***

  The sun was low when Colonel Nicephrus nudged his horse up the steep hill. After handing the mount off to a servant, he limped into the Citadel.

  General Caudex, Senior Tribune Eutropius, Colonel Requiem and Senior Tribune Claudius, along with a handful of Tribunes, sat around a table.

  “Palaemon, come. Have a celebratory drink with us,” called out the General. “I was just explaining how our strategy of deception would make the God Dolos blush. Where have you been?”

  “Getting fifteen stitches and visiting our wounded,” replied the Colonel as he crossed the room. He took a chair offered by one of his Tribunes. “And getting sage advice from a Lance Corporal.”

  “What advice could a junior NCO offer you?” inquired Colonel Requiem. “Today you seemed to have a genius for all the right moves. Except for when you failed to dodge the Hoplites’ spear.”

  “That was unavoidable,” Nicephrus defended his wound as he picked up a mug. After a sip of wine, he looked General Caudex in the eyes. “General, we need to release Lieutenant Macario Hicetus.”

  Tribune Eutropius slammed a hand on the table.

  “No. The Syracusan is to be crucified tomorrow,” Maris slurred. “The Legionaries will enjoy the sight of him up on the wood.”

  “Or is it you looking forward to the man’s pain?” questioned Senior Tribune Claudius.

  “Tribunes, the Colonel was about to explain his idea,” Caudex said hushing the staff officers. “Please continue Colonel. By the by, who was this Lance Corporal?”

  “Lance Corporal Sisera and he…”

  Another rap, this one harder than the first, came from Maris’ hand on the tabletop.

  “I will not suffer the name of that disrespectful…,” but he never finished.

  Colonel Nicephrus stood quickly, grimaced from the pain in his thigh, and leaned on the table.

  “You interrupt me again Tribune and I will send you to the Medical tent for stitches of your own,” threatened Nicephrus as he lifted a hand and rested it on the pommel of his gladius. “I will not be shouted at by you. This is a battle council, not an orgy with your sycophants sucking at your family’s nipples. Sit quietly while men of reason discuss important issues.”

  Nicephrus sat but his eyes remained locked on Maris Eutropius. Despite the warning, the Senior Tribune opened his mouth to reply when an open hand slapped the back of his head. His head rocked forward before he jerked around to see who dared strike him.

  “Go ahead, challenge me,” offered Colonel Pericles Requiem. “Colonel Nicephrus is exhausted and injured. I am neither. Should we draw blades?”

  “Colonel Nicephrus is correct. This is a battle council,” declared General Caudex verbally stepping in between the two men. “Let’s get back to the matter of King Hiero on one side of us and Qart Hadasht forces on the other. Please, Colonel, inform us of Lance Corporal Sisera’s contribution.”

  Maris Eutropius slouched in his chair and pouted. But his eyes burned and he shifted them between the Colonels. His evil eye went unnoti
ced by the General and his battlefield commanders, but not by Senior Tribune Gaius Claudius.

  “We release Macario Hicetus and allow him to see a parade of fresh, unsoiled Legionaries,” explained Nicephrus. “Then we put him on a horse and let him report to his King. What else can he say except that he saw fresh Centuries.”

  “The King will overestimate our strength,” declared General Caudex. “It might be enough to make him pause when we go against the Qart Hadasht army.”

  “You are correct, as always, General,” Colonel Requiem exclaimed. “With your permission, I’ll send Senior Tribune Claudius to roust the cleanest Legionaries and have them marching around when he escorts the Syracusan through Messina.”

  “Order it, Colonel,” instructed Caudex as he lifted his mug. “In a day of illusions, let us hope for the success of one more. I propose we drink to the Goddess Tyche. To her continued blessings and good fortune.”

  Everyone at the table raised their mug high overhead and whispered their own prayer.

  ***

  Lieutenant Macario Hicetus expected to be blinded by the sun when Tribune Claudius guided him from the dark room. Instead, the light of early evening allowed him to open his eyes fully. And what he saw surprised him.

  “Be careful,” urged Gaius Claudius as a Century of Legionaries stomped by. “Our heavy infantry is disappointed in missing out on today’s skirmish. They’re looking for a fight and a Syracusan cavalry officer is tempting.”

  “What skirmish?” asked Hicetus.

  “Some of our Legionaries formed a battle line and your troops came out to play,” Claudius said nonchalantly. “When King Hiero called them back, the Legionaries let them go before the rest of our lads had an opportunity to join the fun.”

  They strolled up the main boulevard and as they walked, Century after Century marched by in both directions. By the time they turned at the road leading to the gates, Macario Hicetus had lost count of the units. The parade didn’t end when they approached a cavalry unit milling about besides the gates. Even then, Centuries came from side streets crossing the road and vanishing behind buildings as if Messina was bursting at the seams with Legionaries.