Death Caller (Clay Warrior Stories Book 13) Read online

  “We have wounded to collect before we can disengage,” Pashalis directed. “Organize their withdrawal.”

  The almost complete maniple flexed and powered forward. With every foot taken, they pushed the Qart Hadasht forces back and retrieved their injured and dead Legionaries.

  Then the ground shook and rumbling echoed off the trees sending leaves to the ground. From the north, the leading units of General Hanno’s three thousand mercenaries bore down on the Legionaries.

  Chapter 28 – Let Momentum

  Major Vinzenz lifted his helmet allowing air to flow around and cool his head. The brash Captain ruined a strong Company of Noricum warriors, and the senior officer was steamed. He might have punished the Company commander, but the Celtic warriors had already begun ignoring the man’s orders. The Captain would be lucky to run a herd of goats when he returned to Noricum.

  “Fall back and regroup,” he ordered the second Company commander and several Iberian Lieutenants.

  When the Celts stepped away from the fighting the Iberians followed.

  “The Legionaries are exhausted,” Vinzenz declared as he strolled to the front of the mixed unit. “And they are weighed down with dead and injured. One coordinated attack and their formation will break.”

  Helmets nodded in agreement, but no one cheered. The Major knew that without the heart, the head could go logical and cause hesitation.

  “Is there a strong Iberian soldier who speaks my tongue?” Vinzenz asked.

  An infantryman pushed his way to the front of his formation.

  “I speak your language,” he stated.

  “Come out here and stand by my side,” the Major offered. “We are going to destroy the Republic force. What do you Iberians want in order to help us?”

  “We lead the assault,” the infantryman bragged. “You Noricums are loud and arrogant. But Iberians are fighters.”

  Major Vinzenz grabbed the infantryman’s arm and raised it into the air.

  “Tell them, the Iberians will spearhead the assault,” he ordered.

  Then the rumbling reached them and Vinzenz dropped the arm. Once General Hanno arrived, he would decide on the order of the assault. With the unbalanced forces, momentum was not an issue.

  ***

  Centurion Pashalis recognized the signs of a stampede. Knowing the marching sandals were not Legionaries coming to save them, he directed.

  “Step back, step back to the tree line,” he instructed.

  They could not fight a superior force in the open and retreat. He hoped some of his men could escape the battle by dodging through the trees. And maybe, just maybe, a few would make it back to the warships.

  Qart Hadasht mercenaries poured into the open field. Every time Centurion Pashalis faced off against them, he marveled at the different cultures, shapes, and colors of the Empire soldiers. And with three thousand plus warriors there was a great deal of diversity.

  Exhaling, Pashalis prepared to order his formation to dissolve and make a disorganized dash for the ships. It was better to run before the enemy began their attack than afterward.

  “Second Maniple,” he began…

  From behind Centurion Pashalis, a gruff voice, so ragged it almost hurt his ears, sang out.

  “Legion, halt! Standby, steady the cavalry, bring up the bolt throwers,” Tribune Sisera chanted while indicating areas with his arms. “Spare none of the Qart Hadasht cattle. And if they run, cut their legs, and watch them bleed. Legion, stand by.”

  The threat of a full Legion joining the battle was hard to imagine. Both Centurion Pashalis and General Hanno would not have believed it. Except for the voice and the Tribune standing boldly at the edge of the tree line.

  Pashalis recognized an overdressed Tribune Sisera. The Empire General only saw a red cape blowing in the midday wind, ceremonial armor with silver trim, a helmet with a bright horsehair comb, and a Legion officer oozing confidence.

  “Empire commander, do you surrender?” Alerio shouted the question across the field. “I will allow you a moment to reflect on your life and the lives of your men.”

  Shields became visible in the trees to either side of Tribune Sisera. It appeared as if sixteen ranks of Legionaries were shifting forward in anticipation of a fight.

  “Step back,” Pashalis instructed his formation. “Look sharp. The Legion is watching. Smartly, now.”

  “Which Legion is that sir?” a Tesserarius near the senior Centurion asked.

  “The one keeping a horde of warriors off your neck,” Pashalis replied. Then he called out. “Keep your spacing and adjust those lines.”

  The wounded and the dead were carried between the ghost Legion’s shields. Once out of sight of the mercenaries, Centurion Siglum and his porters helped the wounded and carried the dead. They were pushed and encouraged by injured combat officers and NCOs. But soon, healthy Legionaries joined them in the flight through the trees.

  Pashalis was the last to leave the field. He turned about and saluted Alerio.

  “How long can you hold them, Tribune Sisera?” he asked.

  “Hopefully long enough for you to reach and board the warships,” Alerio replied.

  “We will hold a ship for you,” Pashalis offered.

  “No, Centurion,” Alerio instructed. “Get my Centuries off the beach, away from Sardinia, and take them home.”

  “Tribune Alerio Carvilius Sisera,” Pashalis said while lifting an arm in salute. “It has been a pleasure, sir.”

  “Rah,” Alerio replied as he returned the salute.

  Pashalis marched into the woods and noticed the sixteen shields hanging from branches. Behind him, Tribune Sisera added to his one-man performance.

  “Steady the ballistae,” Alerio ordered over his shoulder. “I do not want any premature discharges.”

  To emphasize his warning, Alerio lowered his gladius and pointed at the mercenary line. As if they had been targeted by a bolt thrower, the Empire soldiers separated to create a lane for the bolt.

  ***

  Centurion Pashalis caught up to a group stumbling under the weight of two injured Legionaries.

  “Tribune Sisera has sacrificed himself so you could escape,” Pashalis informed them. “Do not make his death meaningless. Move your feet, Legionaries.”

  He wanted to stay and shepherd them to the beach. But his responsibility was to Second Maniple, so he forged ahead of the stragglers.

  Two of the five warships had loaded infantrymen, pushed off, and were rowing for the mouth of the bay. Another over filled its deck and oarsmen pushed the vessel into the water.

  Files of Legionaries loaded the wounded as they arrived. Everyone was panicked and hustling to board the last two warships. Everyone except for sixteen men.

  The two squads from the Fourteenth Century, the ones Alerio borrowed, rested on their shields behind Sors' Talisman.

  It was not that they were leaning and motionless while other scurried around. The two squads had worked hard to hang the shields in the trees to fool the Qart Hadasht. Or them occupying a position behind the warship or even the four javelins each Legionary had stuck in the sand for easy access. What puzzled the Centurion? The sixteen men were naked.

  The last of the stragglers appeared from the trees as the fourth warship launched. Behind the slower Legionaries, the trees shook from soldiers colliding with the trunks as they careened down to the beach.

  “Sir, you should get on board,” a Decanus suggested.

  He also was nude and unarmored.

  “What about your squads?” Pashalis inquired.

  “Sir, our job is not done,” the other squad leader told him.

  “When will it be?” Pashalis questioned.

  The wounded being carried groaned in pain and the Legionaries carrying them gasped for air. They jogged through the sand and behind them a line of mercenaries broke from the greenery.

  “Just what is your job?” the senior Centurion demanded.

  The two squad leaders pointed out the one hundred o
arsmen standing on the beach waiting to launch Sors' Talisman.

  “Tribune Sisera said if any of those oarsmen so much as gets a scratch,” one Decanus answered. “He will find us in Hades and have us on latrine duty for eternity.”

  “Can he do that, sir?” the other squad leader asked.

  “I just watched the Tribune stop an army,” Pashalis stated. “I imagine there isn’t much Death Caller can’t accomplish. Carry on.”

  “Yes, sir,” the Decani acknowledged. Then to their squads, they ordered. “Javelins. And make them count.”

  The sixteen picked up their shields but didn’t strap them to their arms. Holding them loose, they snatched their first javelin from the sand.

  ***

  Centurion Pashalis stood at the stern peaking between shields. He watched the last of the men from the battle at Tharros struggle to reach the ramp.

  “Third Principale, hold,” the first deck officer encouraged. “Hold.”

  His words were meant to calm the nervous deck officer standing on the beach. Stretched out around the keel, the launch crew of unarmed rowers vibrated with nervous energy. They were overly ready to push their warship into the surf, scamper aboard, and be gone.

  “Hold, hold,” the Third Principale repeated.

  Screaming across the sand, mercenaries came, threatening to disrupt the launch process. Pashalis concentrated on the advancing Qart Hadasht soldiers and pondered if Sisera’s ploy would work.

  “Throw, throw one,” came from the beach below.

  Sixteen Legion javelins soared through the air. They impacted. Two landed in the sand. But fourteen javelins punched fourteen mercenaries out of the mad scramble to reach and capture a Republic warship.

  “Throw, throw two,” the naked squad leaders shouted.

  Two more flights arched up and over. As men were swept off their feet by the sharp barbed points, the other flight of javelins dropped in creating more havoc. But there were additional mercenaries coming from the trees. The beach was filling with loud, vocal Qart Hadasht warriors.

  “Third Principale, get us wet,” the senior deck officer shouted to be heard over the screaming soldiers.

  After giving the order, First Principale Dormivi ducked behind the infantry shields station at the stern of the warship.

  “Push, push,” the third deck officer yelled down the port side and again down the starboard side. “Push, push.”

  The last Legionary up dove onto the deck and the ramp was shoved away from the hull. As the vessel slid across the sand, spears arched, and arrows ran straight from the mass of Empire warriors.

  The naked sixteen infantrymen stepped into ankle deep water and used their shields to protect the oarsmen. Then, Sors' Talisman dipped at the bow, leveled, and oars splashed into the water. The one hundred men of the launch crew scrambled up the sides and ran for their oar stations. Once his team was up, the Third Principale climbed to the top deck. That left sixteen unarmored Legionaries on the beach.

  “Throw, throw one,” the Decani ordered.

  Sixteen iron tips found flesh and sixteen mercenaries fell to the beach.

  “Swim,” the sixteen naked Legionaries bellowed at the same time.

  They shook the shields off their arms. But held on to them as they ran into the surf.

  Flights of spears and arrows followed their progress. But as the Legionaries splashed into thigh high water, they released their Legion shields and hooked leather straps around their necks. Dragging the wooden scutums behind, they used the shields to protect their backs. All Legionaries were trained to swim. But not always while towing shields peppered with spears and arrows. Despite the drag, the sixteen stroked and kicked away from the beach.

  Cheering broke out among the infantrymen, sailors, and oarsmen when the two squads climbed on board. Everyone celebrated the sixteen heroic men who defended the oarsmen. Everyone rejoiced except for Legion Centurion Pashalis and Ship's Centurion Naulum.

  Silently, they watched the coast of Tharros as the warship rowed for the mouth of the bay. They were the only two searching the shoreline for signs of Tribune Alerio Sisera.

  Act 8

  Chapter 29 – Skills and Luck

  As a weapon’s instructor, Alerio prided himself on the ability to read his opponents. The skill served him well in training groups of Legionaries and in combat situations. At the present, he only needed to judge one man’s attitude.

  When the Qart Hadasht General rapped his knuckles on his chin, Alerio recognized it as a man attempting to knock doubt out of his mind. And that doubt would concern the imaginary Legion behind the staff officer.

  “I said to hold,” Alerio shouted to his right. Then he took a step in that direction and said. “I will not abide by disobedience.”

  In sham outrage, the Legion Tribune stalked into the woods. Behind him, the General made his decision.

  “Attack, attack,” he ordered. “Go, go.”

  Three thousand warriors surged across the field. The fastest and bravest threw themselves against the Legion shields at the edge of the tree line. To their surprise, the shields tumbled to the ground along with the first wave. The only danger to the first rank of warriors was getting kicked or stomped by the second wave.

  While the mercenaries smiled at being alive, they cursed at being fooled. Not too far in front of them, Alerio Sisera ran. His red cape flapping behind him and the comb on his helmet wobbling from side to side. The manner of dress and his rapid pace gave Alerio the appearance of a big red hawk.

  He was halfway to the beach and escape when a group of Empire soldiers met him on the trail. Only two kinds of units would be out alone in the forest. A trusted team given the duty to flank the battle or they were foul ups, hiding in the woods and avoiding the fight.

  As a youth at his father’s farm, Alerio spent his evenings training with a pair of practice gladii. Between sessions on the training post, he sat on a stone wall and watched the birds return to their nests at sunset. During those rest periods, Alerio learned a few things about the language of birds.

  “Chirp, chirp,” he made the sounds as sharp and piercing as possible.

  Alerio knew it as an avian call of danger. The soldiers might not have recognized the meaning, but their nerves registered menace. They hesitated, gawked, and stared at the Legion staff officer.

  Bent forward and flapping his arms, Alerio raced down a side trail.

  “Chirp, chirp,” he screamed again.

  The stunned soldiers were too shocked to pursue or they feared an encounter with a mad Legion officer. In either case, Alerio had the path to himself. Unfortunately, the trail took Alerio away from the beach and the Republic warships.

  ***

  A long way down the path, Alerio stopped, checked to be sure he was alone, then stepped off the trail. He scooped leaves out of a hollow, slid off his helmet and dropped it into the depression. Following, he deposited his armor and armored skirt. Next, he cut slices from his bright red cape. Strips of material were useful as rope if he needed ties of some kind.

  “I am sorry, Lady Carvilius,” he stated before dropping the rest of the expensive gift from his adopted mother onto the discarded armor.

  Then he kicked leaves over the decorative gear and jogged back to the trail.

  “In hindsight,” Alerio sighed. “Senior Tribune Vergilius was right. A staff officer must dress the part if he wants to get respect. Especially the respect of a Qart Hadasht General.”

  Once on the trail, he fell into the rhythm of a Legion jog. Although he traveled north, soon he needed to angle right and circle the bay before heading south towards the coast. But first, he had to steal a Qart Hadasht horse while avoiding enemy patrols.

  ***

  There was no magic or special power or blessings from Prometheus. The idea of stealing from the staff, or even that the headquarters was close, had less to do with the God of Forethought and more to do with logic.

  The Empire infantry came from an area north of the bay. As Alerio had
not seen any quartermasters or servants at the battle site, they must be where the infantry staged before the attack.

  Picking his way through the woods, then into a section of swamp, and back onto firm soil, Alerio reached the northern area of the bay. From there, the smell of smoke guided him to the supply camp.

  The good news was all the horses were stabled in the same corral. The bad was the mounts were attended to by a handful of grooms. Realizing a daylight raid gave his presence away and assured a chase, he eased back into the woods to wait for nightfall.

  ***

  The fires cooled and the night breezes blew away the final wisps of smoke. A few sentries sauntered between staff tents, but they seemed uninterested in exploring beyond the headquarters’ sleeping area. It seemed as if the sentries belonged to a different military force.

  Further emphasizing the disparity of the Empire army, just before nightfall, several infantry units returned from the fort. They spread out into isolated bivouac spaces. Between Companies of different origins, there seemed to be animosity which showed itself by the wide strips of land between the units.

  Although all citizens of the Republic, theft in the Legion did occur. To prevent robbery between squads, posted guards at each tent stood vigil overnight. But during the daylight, Legionaries freely mixed with other Centuries. Regional pride led to competition but that was the extent of tension between Legion Centuries.

  Observing the behavior of the Qart Hadasht units, Alerio could not imagine working through the cultural divisions and mistrust that created the camps sleeping arrangements. On the other hand, the lanes separating mercenary camps allowed him to stroll unchallenged to the backside of the corral.

  ***

  The box frame fence with the crossed-pole filler came apart easily. A cut at the corners of the top log, a slice at each end of the cross poles and soon Alerio had a stack of fence rails set off to the side. He snuck through the hole in the fence and walked up to the horses. There he began eliminating possible mounts.

  One shivered under his touch, another shied away, but one stood still while tossing its head in Alerio’s direction. After tying three sections of robe material together, he dropped the makeshift rope over the horse’s neck. Gently, Alerio led the mount out of the corral.