Neptune's Fury Read online

  In the Capital, the four were known to be reliable and cheaper than assassins from the Golden Valley Trading House. For this, there was no need for finesse. These killings were butchers’ work.

  They broke the single file formation and spread out in a line. Knives were pulled in preparation of eliminating anyone they crossed on the way to complete the contract. With bare blades, the four stalked towards the shipyard and the sleeping victims.

  ***

  “Four Legionaries armed with knives are crossing the sandbar,” a militiaman whispered. “Not armored.”

  “Get back to your sections and wait for my signal,” Florian instructed.

  The three men from the militia went off in different directions leaving the Sergeant standing with four woodsmen. Florian touched his side where his gladius should be hanging. But his shield, armor, helmet, and gladius were in his room in Stifone. He touched the Legion pugio in its sheath and drummed his fingers on the hilt of the heavy iron sword in his hand.

  “An inelegant weapon,” he muttered.

  “What’s that Optio?” one of the woodsmen standing with him asked.

  “Nothing. When I say attack, do not give the Legionaries a chance to set their guard,” he warned. “Strike them hard and often. Hit them even when they go down.”

  “When will we know they’ve had enough?” one questioned.

  “I’ll let you know when to stop,” Florian informed the Umbrian.

  The ten Umbrians loyal to Nardi Cocceia were divided up and clustered in groups around the NCO and the three militiamen. Florian feared Subausterus’ infantry officer would send an armored squad. If a combat contubernium had entered the woods, his orders would be very different. Kind of in the vein of, run for your lives. But four unarmored killers, boosted his spirits and gave the Legion NCO hope for the success of his plan.

  ***

  Tite Roscini and his four militiamen sat on the ridge. Between the tree branches they watched the sentry’s fire and sometimes the man when he walked around to stay alert. Tite wished the Legionary would just fall asleep and make it easier.

  The militia Lieutenant searched the sky, located the full moon, and waited for it to move four fingers beyond the zenith. When it reached the proper position, he tapped his two strongest men and sent them downhill. He and the last two followed close behind.

  There was no hesitation or delay. The two boar hunters struck the Legionary’s midsection with their shoulders. He was lifted into the air before they drove him into the ground. The only sounds were his armor hitting the soil and the breath exploding from his lungs. Then a pair of fists hammered the sides of his helmet and the Legionary lay still.

  “Get dressed,” Tite ordered one of the militiamen racing downhill beside him.

  While the man pulled on the Legion helmet, slipped the infantry shield on his arm, and rested the javelin on his shoulder, Tite and the other three crouched in a semicircle. They waited to see if the takedown had drawn the attention of any Legionaries. Or if the shadowed outline of his man dressed as the sentry fooled the other guard.

  “Walk around,” Tite urged when the fake Legionary ambled over for inspection. “Let us know if anyone comes calling. One blanket on the door. Use the other to shield us.”

  With a blanket blocking any light from the root cellar and another hiding the maneuver, Tite removed the cross beam and opened one of the doors. Peering down, he saw a lantern and Centurion Sisera wrapped in a blanket.

  “The bastards,” he said. Sisera lay on the steps in what had to be an uncomfortable position. Assuming the Legionaries had beat the Centurion before tossing him down the steps, Tite descended the treads, knelt, and began to feel for broken bones.

  “Lieutenant Roscini. I thought you would have had the good sense to run,” Alerio slurred. “Please tell me Optio Florian made his escape.”

  Tite smelled the wine on Sisera’s breath and he relaxed. They might have to support him but, thankfully, the Centurion did not require carrying.

  “The Sergeant is expecting us, sir,” Tite replied. “And we really need to get going. Can you run?”

  “Most people ask about walking before going directly to the hard stuff,” Alerio suggested while attempting to stand. He sagged, missed the step, and almost fell over. “You know, hard, like standing up.”

  “Lean on me,” Tite insisted. “I’m got two of my best to help you.”

  They stumbled up the steps. At the top, Tite let Alerio sink to the grass.

  “Take the Centurion up the ridge,” the militia Lieutenant instructed. “Walk him fast. He needs to be running by the time we catch up.”

  “There you go again, Roscini,” Alerio whispered. “Going right for the hard stuff.”

  Two of the militiamen grabbed Alerio, jerked him to his feet, then walked off with his feet dancing in the air as he tried to touch the ground.

  “Put the sentry in the root cellar,” Tite directed. “Throw his Legion gear down with him and let’s get out of here.”

  They caught up with a still confused Centurion Sisera and his two minders at the end of the ridge. All five dropped down to the road and quick walked. Alerio’s feet were just starting to keep pace with the others, although his strides were unsteady.

  “Optio Florian is always bragging about Legionaries running,” Tite commented.

  “Running is required,” Alerio informed him. “But I’m not sure my head or body is ready.”

  “In that case, Centurion Sisera,” Tite remarked. “I’m sorry about this. Militia, double-time, march.”

  With an Umbrian on each arm, Centurion Sisera joined the run. Head wobbling from side to side and his knees trembling, he resembled a sack of onions more than a veteran infantryman. It would take a mile and a half before the infantry officer hardened, shifted to the Legion shuffle, and carried his own weight. Although he hid it from the others, it would take two more painful miles before his headache subsided and he could think clearly.

  ***

  Sergeant Florian allowed the four killers to clear the trees. In the moonlight, they stood out clearly from the trunks and branches. The positioning was necessary. Most of his troops lacked training. Fighting among the trees in the shadows of the moonlight would be a disaster.

  “I am Optio Florian,” he announced while standing up. “Can I help you?”

  “Where are Cata Pous and Pejus Monilis?” one of the slayers demanded.

  The four angled towards the Legion NCO while attempting to hide their knives beside their legs. Their posturing was the sign he needed.

  “Attack,” Florian shouted. He reached down and picked up the heavy iron sword. “Attack.”

  As directed, his team of woodsmen stood and formed a wedge behind the Legion NCO. The assassins scanned the loose formation and realized it was amateurish and weak. They increased their pace.

  Florian swung the heavy blade back and forth forcing the killers to split apart. Moving around the heavy sword, they figured on dispatching the woodsmen behind the Optio. Then, they could focus on the Sergeant. The four murders were two body lengths from the woodsmen and the Sergeant when they sensed movement behind them.

  The three militiamen, backed up by the final six craftsmen, charged. They all carried long clubs that crashed down and through the quick guards thrown up by the assassins. As directed, the beating didn’t stop. The four professional murders resembled hogs that had been savaged by a pack of wolves before the Optio called a stop to the pounding.

  “Halt. Halt. Hold off,” Florian shouted. “I think they’re down.”

  “One moved,” a craftsman told him.

  Florian leaned down and studied the body.

  “That was a flap of skin from his skull falling over his face,” the NCO announced. He nudged the body with the toe of his boot. “I declare, the battle of Stifone is a total victory for the Umbrians of Nardi Cocceia.”

  A cheer went up from the craftsmen and they started repeating the declaration.

  “The battle of St
ifone is a total victory for the Umbrians of Nardi Cocceia.”

  “The battle of Stifone is a total victory for the Umbrians of Nardi Cocceia.”

  “Enough. Those fatuus thugs will be missed,” Florian informed them. “Simpletons or not, the Century will want revenge. Umbrians, it is time to leave.”

  The thirteen walked away from the dead bodies. While Optio Florian marched towards the trireme, the craftsmen moved to the stairs and the laborers sleeping in the camps.

  ***

  “Corporal of the Guard, there is something strange going on,” the sentry from Eight Squad called up to the Century’s command post. “You should see this.”

  “Is it an imminent attack?” Tesserarius Maurilius shouted back.

  He rolled out of his blanket and sat up. Too much vino and venison at the feast for Master Humi made him sluggish.

  “No. It doesn’t seem to be,” the Legionary admitted.

  The NCO shook his head and pushed off the ground.

  “Then why are you shouting, Private?” Maurilius demanded.

  “Because there are about a hundred or so people coming up the sandbar and crossing the river,” The Legionary told him.

  The Corporal jogged down the terraces until he reached the second level. The moon reflecting off the river illuminated men with tool bags and boxes balanced on their heads splashing into the Nera.

  “Lance Corporal. Get your squad down there and find out what’s going on,” he ordered.

  The Decanus kicked the sleeping members of his contubernium awake. As in any unit, some men can sleep through anything. Limiting them to javelins and shields, the squad leader quickly had his men assembled. He marched the nine Legionaries down the steps to the edge of the crowd.

  “Umbrians, what is going on?” the Lance Corporal inquired.

  “Is this a tribal migration?” one of his Legionaries suggested.

  “Keep your mouth closed, Private,” the squad leader ordered. “Umbrians. Where are you going?”

  “We’re going home,” one craftsman said. He shifted the tool bag balanced on his shoulder to a more comfortable position. “The contract has been cancelled and we’re leaving.”

  “Corporal. They say their work is done and they’re heading home,” the squad leader informed the NCO. “What do you want to do?”

  “Let them go,” Maurilius advised. “Pull your people back but keep an eye on the migration.”

  The laughter from the squad puzzled him but he ignored it. While climbing the stairs to the command post, the NCO debated informing the Centurion and Master Humi about the craftsmen leaving. A quick check of the sky showed him the moon was only partially to the horizon, meaning sunrise was a little way off. Figuring he could get some sleep before morning, Corporal Maurilius decided to report the event when the Century woke.

  ***

  Alerio recognized the turn off. When he first came to Stifone, he and his horse and mule had left the road to take a direct trail to the village. In hindsight, he was wrong to leave the road but it did show him the sandbar.

  Centurion Sisera shook off the hands of the militiamen and picked up the pace.

  “We can reach the shipyard by that trail,” he announced.

  “That’s not where we’re going, sir,” Tite informed him. “Optio Florian gave specific instructions for the meeting place.”

  “Did he and the master engineer and builder already leave?” Alerio questioned.

  Tite glanced over his shoulder at the moon to judge the lateness of the night.

  “I don’t believe they have left yet,” Tite told Alerio. “But we do need to be early.”

  “And where are we meeting him?”

  “A spot four and a half miles from here,” Tite said. “Do you need a break?”

  “No, but I could use a drink of water,” Alerio reported.

  A militiaman handed him a waterskin. Alerio drank on the run and handed back the skin.

  “What’s four and a half miles from here, Lieutenant Roscini?” Alerio asked.

  “It’s where the road bends towards the riverbank before drifting southeast,” Tite replied.

  “So, Florian, Pous, and Monilis are coming on horseback?” Alerio guessed.

  “No, sir,” Tite said. “You are not even close.”

  ***

  Two men waiting in the woods watched as the last of the craftsmen vanished in the dark. If the Century sent squads, their job was to warn the Sergeant. So far, the expected investigation of the four missing Legionaries had not developed. Except for the night sounds of animals and insects, the woods grew quiet after the exodus.

  On the eastern end of the shipyard, four men stood in the bottom of the channel. A pair of lanterns cast light on their tools and their location. Mallets rested on their shoulders. Behind them the bow of the trireme rose and vanished against the dark sky. And, to their front, the cofferdam stretched from one side of the construction trench to the other. Beyond the dam, the waters of the Nera flowed downstream. They listened to the river splash against the iron and wood barrier, eyed the braces holding up the dam, and waited for a signal from the warship.

  On the incomplete aft deck of the trireme, Master Pous gripped the hands of men holding long poles.

  “During the initial surge,” Cata Pous explained while shoving backwards. “Push us away from the rear wall of the trench. The ship will balance once the channel is full.”

  On the port side, Optio Florian walked men with long poles up and down the rail platform mimicking pushing off against the shore with the poles. Across the width of the warship, Pejus Monilis walked men and poles along the starboard side explaining the same procedure.

  “Master Pous, if we are going to do this, now would be better than later,” Florian suggested. “That Century is bound to come calling at dawn.”

  “But the crew, as they are, require more training,” Cata informed the Optio. “Much more.”

  “What’s the issue, master ship builder,” Pejus Monilis challenged. “Do you fear your boat will flip over and not float like a proper ship-of-war?”

  “This trireme is sturdy and constructed to survive war and Poseidon’s fury,” Cata declared. “If you doubt me, sound the signal and free my warship.”

  “As you wish, Master Pous. But I prefer the Latian Neptune’s fury,” Florian acknowledged. He squeezed around the polemen and walked the planks to the bow. At the very front of the ship, he leaned over and looked down at the four men, the cofferdam, and the dark water beyond. Then casually, he ordered. “Release the river.”

  In response to the Optio’s words, the four men pulled the mallets off their shoulders. After spreading apart and centering themselves on bracing struts, they lifted the hammers above their heads and paused.

  “May the God Clitumnus not take you for a plaything,” one of the labors prayed.

  “If the river god wants me, I’m here for the taking,” another boasted. “Let’s get on with it.”

  “Release the river,” the first man shouted.

  From overhead, the mallets arched downward and struck the heel blocks holding four of the braces. After knocking out one group, the men shifted away from the center. The dam held but the structure stretched and tightened from the weight of the water.

  Again, the men lined up on struts and the mallets descended. Four more blocks shot away making it a total of eight unsupported braces. It was enough freedom for the cofferdam to flex. River water poured over the center as if it was a spout on a pitcher.

  The men sloshed to new positions and lifted their hammers. Another set of heel-blocks flew from impacts and the pressure along the dam exceeded the strength of the iron and wood barrier. Resembling a wave curling along the beach, river water folded the cofferdam in sections, slamming each to the bottom of the trench.

  The channel filled with torrid and rushing water, rolling everything in its path downward and crushing it against the stone bottom. Three of the laborers clung to the sides of the trench. The fourth had fulfille
d his own prophecy and became a plaything for Clitumnus, the Umbria river god.

  ***

  Cata Pous heard sloshing as if someone had pitched water from a bucket onto a tile floor. But rather than fading, the sound grew to a roar. Then he stopped paying attention to noises, grabbed a post, and fought to keep his balance and stay on the warship.

  The bow of the trireme elevated on the surge of water. In response, the aft section squatted and the platform planks inclined so sharply, the crew fell and slid down the boards. Everyone grabbed on for their lives, except four men on the stern.

  In pairs, they held long poles against the rock face at the back of the channel. Using the poles, they walked up the steep deck attempting to keep the rear keel from smashing against the rock. Standing almost parallel to the ground, they looked down at the dark rising water, and screamed as their muscles strained to hold the ship steady against the flow. When it seemed their strength and nerve would run out, the front of the trireme slammed down, popping the tail section up and momentarily out of the water.

  The poles were ripped from their hands and the four men vaulted into the air. As they flew, the warship settled under them. From the height of three men, they fell. Two landed on the aft planks and crumbled into painful heaps. The other two missed the incomplete decking. From above the deck, they continued to fall an additional thirteen feet to the uneven surfaces of the ship’s ribs. Neither moved once they bounced off the beams.

  “Poles, grab your poles,” Optio Florian commanded.

  Scrambling around, a few men located poles, swung them over the sides, and pushed against the ground. When five on both sides of the boat had purchase, the trireme glided forward and out of the channel. To Cata Pous’ delight, the warship floated upright as it entered the flow of the Nera river and began to float downstream.

  Act 6

  Chapter 22 - Not Paddles