Uncertain Honor Page 18

  “Yes. And make it a priority,” Alerio said before asking. “Where is Hektor?”

  “He’s at the clinic treating wounded Legionaries and Marines,” Gratian responded.

  The Centurion dismissed the assembly of supply NCOs after giving them orders. Afterward, he helped Alerio out of his armor.

  “We haven’t finished our bath facilities, sir,” Gratian informed Alerio.

  “You supply men live good,” Alerio offered.

  “It’s only because we need to test the supplies before they get distributed to the men,” Gratian said defensively. “Before you begin drawing, sir, can I get you soap and water and clean clothing?”

  “Do I look that bad?” Alerio inquired.

  “You don’t look as bad, Senior Tribune,” Gratian conceded. “as you smell, sir.”

  ***

  Four days later, Alerio stood at the entrance to the command tent. Around him, rather than shrinking with the dwelling of supplies, the depot had grown.

  “Centurion Illotus. Is it my imagination or are we adding tents to the depot?” Alerio called into the tent.

  He ducked inside and out of the sunlight. Illotus, his other supply officer, looked up from the ledger and placed a pen in a holder.

  “The land along the Punic coast is bountiful,” the Centurion reported. “Every wagon returning from a patrol brings in grain and livestock. As it’s going sir, we’re bringing in more food than we’re passing out. Should we stop scavenging?”

  “Once we finish building the supply wagons, the Legion will march inland,” Alerio informed him. “Stockpile all the provisions you can because once we’re on the march, there will be less opportunity to forage.”

  “After the sea voyage, I’ve grown fond of Kelibia,” Illotus commented. “I’ll miss the city.”

  “If you’re angling to remain here, forget it,” Alerio cautioned. “I need you and Gratian with me when we leave. Whenever that is.”

  “It won’t be much longer, sir,” Illotus reported. “Centuries from Regulus Legion East are attacking the fort this afternoon.”

  “And how do you know that?” Alerio inquired.

  “Yesterday, Centurions came by requesting livestock for sacrifices plus extra grain and vino for a celebration,” Illotus replied. “I didn’t bother you with it as one of the combat officers was Centurion Palle.”

  “And why would Palle assume I would approve the extravagance?” Alerio questioned.

  “He boasted that he saved your life on the beach and that you would deny him nothing,” Illotus answered. “Is that true, sir? Did he save your life?”

  “Not that I recall,” Alerio scoffed. “I’m going to watch the assault on the fort. If you need me, I’ll be in the southwest quadrant.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Alerio snatched his Tribune helmet from his desk and debated exchanging his duty tunic for his armor. Deciding he wasn’t invited to the fight he placed the helmet back on the desk and marched out of the command tent in only a duty tunic. While walking in the direction of the hill fort, he tried to recall the fighting on the beach and when the Ardent Rabbit could have saved his life. As far as he recalled, they spoke twice during the battle and were positioned at different ends of the combat line.

  Could it be the cocky Centurion Palle lied? With that thought in mind, Alerio strolled towards the fort.

  ***

  The low afternoon sun blinded anyone looking westward. Guards in the tower on that side of the fort had to squint when attempting to scan beyond the wall. Using the harsh light as cover, thirty Marines ran from between buildings. Their shields held overhead, they protected each other from arrows and spears while scaling the incline. But there were no missiles to guard against as they moved unseen in the blind spot.

  “A tortoise formation,” Alerio remarked to an NCO. “But what about the rest of the Century?”

  “They’ll go when the formation is set, sir,” the Optio replied.

  “But why the delay?” Alerio questioned. “We should be crowding the base of the wall. Not restricting the attack.”

  “Sir, you’ll need to take that up with Centurion Palle,” the NCO suggested.

  “And where can I find the Centurion?” Alerio questioned.

  The Sergeant lifted his arm, extended a finger, and pointed at the Marines charging up the hill.

  “I see,” Alerio remarked.

  The thirty Marines reached the wall and five short men stepped out from under the canopy. Four held grappling hooks and coils of rope. Quickly, they twirled and tossed. Arching through the air, the hooks vanished over the wall. The rear of the formation dropped to their hands and knees while the forward section rose and placed their shields on top of their heads. They had constructed a ramp that touched the wall three feet from the top. The four holding the ends of the ropes jogged to the rear of the incline formation and held the ropes taut.

  One of the short men reached to the ground, picked up a Centurion’s helmet, and tugged it over his head. With the red horsehair comb and his arm waving, Palle signaled the rest of the Marines forward.

  From four alleyways, files of Marines charged to the base of the hill and trudged upward. Alerio put the elements together when the soldiers in the guard tower began waving flags to alert the garrison.

  Using the blind spot, Palle had limited the number of men he took up to the wall. While the grappling hooks would help, they were an aid. The real way over into the fort were the thirty Marines under the ramp of shields.

  The four files reached the men holding the ropes. Some used the ropes to pull themselves up while others simply sprinted up the ramp. At the wall, they dove over and vanished from sight.

  Senior Tribune Sisera watched as Marines flowed up the hill, ran the shield ramp, and plunged over the wall. As a former infantryman and combat officer, he couldn’t take the suspense. Alerio had to be involved in the assault of Fort Kelibia. He was three sprinting steps from the base of the hill when something pounded into his back. Tackled, Alerio Sisera face planted to the ground and lay with men kneeling on his shoulders.

  Chapter 21– Passion nor Compassion

  When no blades or punches followed the mugging, Alerio twisted his neck attempting to see who had attacked him. Before he could get a look at the men, pairs of hands grabbed his shoulders and yanked him to his feet.

  “Consul Longus wants to see you, Senior Tribune,” an unfamiliar NCO told Alerio. “Will you come willingly?”

  “Do you expect me to start a fight in the middle of the street,” Alerio challenged, “instead of answering a summons from a Consul of the Republic?”

  “We were warned that you might, sir,” the Sergeant admitted.

  Alerio looked at the brushed and polished armor of the NCO and his Legionaries. While the repairs reflected the craftsmanship of metalworkers, the hard use of the equipment told him about the men he faced.

  “What is so important, the Consul sends a unit of First Century to collect me?” Alerio asked.

  “I’m sure, I don’t know,” the veteran NCO told Alerio. “If you’ll come with us, sir?”

  “I know the way to the expedition’s headquarters,” Alerio stated.

  “The General is not at headquarters,” the Optio corrected. “He’s waiting at Longus Legion North.”

  ***

  Distributed as if spokes on a half wheel, the four Legions of the invasion force had divided the area around Kelibia. Each marching camp sat ten miles from town and provided patrols to prevent a counterattack by the Empire. Alerio was familiar with their locations as his supply wagons traveled the roads that connected them.

  “We could have waited until morning,” Alerio remarked to the Optio. “Traveling on these rutted paths in the late afternoon is dangerous for the horses.”

  “We’re under orders to deliver you quickly, sir,” the Sergeant replied.

  Longus Legion North occupied the defensive position to the southwest of Kelibia. A large lake provided fresh water, a natural ba
rrier, and a beautiful display of light on the still surface.

  “It’s a lovely place for a summer villa,” Alerio observed while watching sunlight from the setting sun reflect off the water. “But wouldn’t you have more flexibility if you positioned the Legion Fort on the far end of the lake?”

  “It’s not my place to question orders, sir,” the Optio said curtly.

  When the riders approached the gate, they were questioned, and waved into the stockade. At the center of the marching camp, they rode by the command tent. One street away, the riders reined in at a supply tent and dismounted.

  “You know, if there is a problem with supplies, Consul Longus could have sent me a memo,” Alerio commented while tying Phobos to a post.

  “I wouldn’t know, sir,” the Sergeant stated.

  The Optio signaled for his Legionaries to remain outside as he held the tent flap for the Senior Tribune.

  “Thank you,” Alerio acknowledged before exclaiming. “It’s dark in…”

  A noose dropped over Alerio’s head and the rope cinched down cutting off his air. With his hands at his throat trying to loosen the line, he had no defense against his legs being swept out from under him. Alerio crashed to the floor of the supply tent as herding clubs rained down blows.

  ***

  “You will not have the opportunity to ruin my reputation as a General of the Legion,” Lucius Longus hissed from the dark. “Your plotting ends here.”

  A lantern hung overhead from the tent’s frame. Its light illuminated the chair where Alerio sat and the ropes that bound his arms and legs. The Consul stood beyond the pool of light as if hiding. Alerio shifted and felt pain in several places that weren’t normally susceptible to strains.

  “How could I ruin something I didn’t know you had?” Alerio responded.

  An arm extended from beyond his vision and delivered a blow with the head of a club. Alerio’s chest resounded with a thud from the impact.

  “I know how your kind behaves,” Longus sneered. “You sense weakness and attack the lion while he is injured.”

  “What smear? What lion?” Alerio demanded. “I can assure you, Consul, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Sir, we should burn the tent and get back to Kelibia,” a voice with a permanent hoarseness to it suggested.

  A raspy voice resulted from many things, such as shouting at mules, or laborers or attempting to cast one’s voice over great distances. But in a Legion camp, the leading cause was from directing Legionaries in combat.

  “Why is a Senior Centurion participating in this?” Alerio questioned.

  “Don’t answer him, Calpar,” Longus instructed. “Drop the lantern and let’s get back to town.”

  A muscular arm reached up and took the lantern from the frame. Alerio saw two shapes move to the entrance. One he recognized as the Consul. The other he knew as Calpar, the First Centurion. The two men rushed for the exit.

  With a toss, the lantern burst at the base of a bundle of cotton. The flames climbed and the material flared, blocking the exit. Even if someone saw the fire, no one would be coming in through the entrance to rescue Alerio.

  As smoke filled the supply tent, he attempted to yell for help. But a fit of coughing stopped the shout before it cleared his throat. The brightness of the hot fire forced him to turn his face away from the blaze.

  “Stata Mater, I believe it’s too late to bring you into this. But if there is anything you can do, I would appreciate it,” Alerio prayed to the Goddess Who Prevented Destructive Fires. Changing to a deity more appropriate to the situation, he mumbled to his personal Goddess. “Of all the ways to finally meet you, this is not how I dreamed of it. Take me quickly if you can.”

  While seeking help from the Goddesses, Alerio worked his arms to free his hands. Other than to cutting into his wrists, the hemp cord resisted his efforts. Coughing hard, his chest heaving from the smoke, Alerio twisted and pulled until the rope separated and fell away.

  “Stata Mater? Nenia Dea?” he questioned while trying to keep his head clear enough to free his legs.

  But the smoke clouded his mind and he fell forward, landing on his face.

  “Neither Senior Tribune. It’s Hektor Nicanor,” the youth announced.

  “Right now, you are as pretty as a Goddess,” Alerio whispered. “Untie my legs.”

  Hektor’s knife pulled, sliced the ropes, and came into view. Fire reflected off the blade as if the steel held flames.

  “Done, sir,” the youth declared.

  “You are mightier than a…”

  Alerio collapsed and his mind went blank.

  ***

  The stench of smoke and horse manure coated Alerio’s tongue. For a moment, he wondered where the three judges of Hades had placed him. Obviously, to end up in a realm of the afterlife that stunk, he had not led a good life. His stomach rolled, bile spewed from his mouth and spurted threw his nose. Even after the gushing ended, a thick substance ran down his face.

  “Does Hades have throwing up?” he questioned.

  “Senior Tribune, drink this,” Hektor encouraged.

  A stream from a wineskin flowed over Alerio’s lips. Catching a mouthful helped wash away the taste and the fog from his mind.

  “I had finished at the Legion clinic and was coming to find you,” Hektor volunteered. “You and five Legionaries left the area as the Marines were assaulting the fort. That didn’t seem right to me.”

  “Why is that?” Alerio inquired.

  “You are a warrior, sir,” the youth replied. “To leave in the middle of a battle goes against your nature. So, I followed.”

  “How did you locate me?” Alerio inquired. A glance at his arms showed fresh bandages encircling both wrists. “You did this?”

  “It’s why they allowed me through the gate. The guard had a boil on his thigh. After I lanced it and put ointment on the wound, he called me Doc and let me through the gate,” Hektor described. “Finding you was easy. Four grooms were trying to get Phobos away from a supply tent. I knew you had to be in there.”

  “Where are we, now?” Alerio asked as he shifted and sat up.

  “We’re in the fatal ward behind the surgery,” the youth told him. “The Legion hasn’t seen any action so the area is empty. And seeing as this is a place of ghosts and Gods, most Legionaries avoid it.”

  Alerio bowed his head and silently thanked Nenia. A Legion death ward was the location where he first embraced the Goddess of Death.

  “What’s going on, sir?” Hektor asked.

  “Either I am losing my mind and can’t remember things,” Alerio confessed. “Or Consul Longus has lost his. We need to get back to Kelibia. Any idea where we can get a pair of horses?”

  “Phobos is in a corral by himself,” Hektor informed him. “I can get him saddled if you’re able to stand, walk, and ride.”

  “I’ve fought all day in the hot sun with worse,” Alerio avowed. He pushed against the ground. Halfway to his feet, he fell back on his rump. “I think I need a moment.”

  “No problem, sir,” Hektor ventured. “I’ll get the horses and meet you here. You rest.”

  The boy jogged away leaving Alerio sitting in the dirt.

  “I’m twenty-seven years old,” he whined, “and too young to be this weak and broken down.”

  Gritting his teeth, Alerio placed his fists on the ground. Ignoring the pain in his wrists and his body, he pushed to his feet. Although wobbly, the Senior Tribune refused to sit while waiting for Hektor to return.

  ***

  Between the time he pulled himself into the saddle at the Legion stockade and the slow ride back to the supply depot in Kelibia, Alerio’s muscles loosened, and his lungs cleared. Although his throat remained raw and he ached in several places, Alerio felt as if he could function.

  “I’m going to clean up,” he told Hektor. “Lay out my battle armor.”

  “You should get some rest, sir,” the youth suggested. “You may not be thinking clearly.”


  “I have questions,” Alerio shot back. “And I will have answers.”

  The Senior Tribune marched to the barrel of water at his command tent and stripped off his tunic. It smelled of smoke, had dirt and blood stains, and a vomit trail down the front. In the chill of early morning, Alerio scrubbed his body in the cold water.

  “Good morning, sir. Orders for the day?” a sentry inquired.

  The Legionary assumed the staff officer had risen early to get a head start on his duties.

  “Continue your rounds,” Alerio whispered through the pain of his sore throat. Before dumping a pail of water over his head, he replied. “The order for the day involves answers. But not from men who understand the honor of a standup fight.”

  “Excuse me, sir?” the Legionary asked.

  “The Senior Tribune means he is preoccupied with other matters,” Hektor proposed to the sentry. After the guard left, Hektor informed Alerio. “Your armor is out as well as a fresh undertunic and your hobnailed boots. But, sir, shouldn’t you wait for daylight?”

  “Fresh hate is fuel,” Alerio remarked to the boy while stepping into the tent. With groans of agony, he struggled to get the tunic over his head and the hobnailed boots laced up. When Hektor handed him the armor, Senior Tribune Sisera explained. “They wanted someone to die this night. I’m only fulfilling their wish.”

  “Where are you going, sir?” the valet asked while holding up the armor.

  “To the expedition’s headquarters,” Alerio replied.

  A short while later, Hektor finished strapping the gladius belt around the armored skirt. With Alerio dressed for battle, the youth ran out of the tent and sprinted away from the supply depot.

  Outside the tent, Alerio scooped a bucket of water from the barrel and carried it to Phobos. Picking up on his master’s mode, the stallion danced sideways in anticipation of combat. The frantic movements reminded Alerio of lessons from his youth. Centurion Efrem and Optio Egidius had drilled him on the correct use of weapons and the proper attitude for war.

  “You’re right,” he said to the horse. “Never allow your temper to rule your emotions. And never temper your revenge with passion or compassion.”