Fatal Obligation Page 19

  In the other direction, a small town rested beside a river. Although bigger, the town didn’t seem any more appealing than the village.

  “I’m not a sailor.”

  “You sure look like a sailor,” insisted the guard. “Transients are discouraged from visiting the city.”

  “Why?” inquired the Legionary.

  “We don’t allow vagrants or beggars into the city during funerals. Most of the businesses are closed and the citizens, craftsmen, and artists are afraid of thieves.”

  “Where is your officer?” inquired Alerio.

  In all cases when dealing with soldiers or Legionaries on guard duty, it was best to speak with an officer or an NCO. Guards were given instructions and they followed them. If Alerio wanted to argue his case, only a man senior to the duty sentry could change the orders.

  “You can speak with my Lochias, but he’ll tell you the same thing.”

  “And where do I find the Duty NCO?” inquired Alerio.

  The soldier smiled and used his spear to point at a fort located in the center of the olive and fruit trees. Positioned about half way to Sicyon, it was designed to defend the city from attack by sea or land. And to be a way station for anyone seeking to reach the city.

  “I get it,” Alerio acknowledged. He changed tactics and asked. “When is the changing of the guard?”

  “When is the changing of the guard,” the sentry called to another one resting in the shade of a warehouse.

  “Too long,” the soldier replied.

  The sentry tilted his head and started to say something.

  “I know, too long,” Alerio said holding up a hand to cut the soldier off before he could repeat the obvious. “I’ll wait over there.”

  “Wait anywhere you like,” the sentry agreed as he lowered his spear. Then, he said. “Just don’t try for the gates. Or maybe you should. I haven’t had any target practice lately.”

  Alerio walked to the wall of the warehouse and dropped the satchels then placed the bundle on top of them.

  “Are either of you any good with the spear?” he called to the other warehouse and the two sentries. “I hear Greeks are good while holding one but weak when throwing.”

  “What did you say?” one demanded.

  “I was just curious if you could hit a target with that spear?” the Legionary questioned. “Say, for instance, the olive tree third in from the front.”

  Olive tree branches weren’t heavy unless weighed down with fruit. These were not. And the limbs grew high up leaving a tall expanse of bark. Yet, arching a spear up and through two trees so the shaft came down and struck the trunk of the third was a difficult throw.

  “What are you saying?” one asked.

  Alerio stepped out of the shadows and pulled his coin pouch off his hip. Opening it, he extracted two silver coins. They caught the afternoon sunlight and the reflection made the coins flash. Both soldiers gawked at the silver.

  “No. That’s not reward enough for such a feat,” the Legionary professed. After dropping the coins into the pouch, he pulled out two gold coins. Again, the sunlight’s gleam drew the sentries’ eyes to the coins. “Now, these are coins worthy of a Greek champion.”

  “We can’t match that bet,” one of the sentries exclaimed.

  Alerio held the coins at arm’s length in the direction of Sicyon. While the soldiers were deciding, sailors, fishermen, and merchandise porters wandered over.

  “You want us to let you go to the fort,” guessed a soldier. “We’ll get our heads handed to us by our Lochias.”

  “I can assure you that once your Sergeant reads my letter of introduction, you will not be in any trouble,” Alerio explained. “But let’s make this fair. Both of you throw. If either sticks his spear in the tree, I’ll have to do it with both of mine. If both of you are successful, I’ll match you two to one.”

  “And if you don’t win?”

  “You’ll each receive a gold coin and I’ll wait for the changing of the guard.”

  “You there. Go to the supply room and bring back four spears,” one of the soldiers instructed a porter. “Be sure they’re straight.”

  When the man returned the soldiers took the first pick. After selecting the straightest spears, they stepped back and began unstrapping their armor. Alerio reached with both hands. Taking the last two, he held the spears over his head. At first rocking them and then twirling the shafts, he located the balance points.

  “Ready to lose your coins?” challenged a sentry.

  “Just a second,” the Legionary said as he leaned the weapons against the warehouse.

  Alerio lifted off his petasos and the sentries noted the scar on the crown of the stranger’s head. When he pulled off the washed-out woolen shirt, they began to worry.

  His right shoulder had double tracks of scars and both forearms displayed marks from blades. When he turned around to lay his hat and shirt on the bundle, they saw a long scar on the back of his left arm and the angry kisses from a whip crossing his back.

  “Now, I’m ready,” announced the battle-scarred Legionary.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Corporal Alerio Sisera of the Republic’s Legion and an emissary for Senator Spurius Carvilius Maximus.”

  “Why didn’t you say that before?” asked one of the sentries.

  “Do you have the authority to authenticate my credentials?”

  “No. We don’t.”

  “Then let’s gamble for it. Please begin.”

  The first soldier shifted to his right then a little to his left. Once he had a sight between the rows of olive trees, he drew back and released. The spear climbed higher into the air than where the branches of the two orchard rows met. Tipping over, the spearhead entered the branches of the second tree, dropped through the limbs, and pierced the trunk of the third tree.

  “You might as well hand over the coins, Corporal,” the soldier advised. “I’ve as good as won.”

  “Let your partner earn his coin,” Alerio suggested.

  The second soldier tried the same approach. His spear passed over the low limbs, climbed to the top of the second tree, and fell into the leafy vegetation. Everyone waited for it to come down. It didn’t. A closer inspection showed the shaft trapped between branches.

  “You still have to make two stick in the trunk,” sneered the soldier who missed. “Two firm strikes.”

  Among the spectators, odds were placed and coins collected as they bet on the outcome.

  “What are my odds?” Alerio inquired.

  An old fisherman watching over the two piles leaned down and did a quick count.

  “Twenty to one against you, young fellow.”

  The Legionary grabbed two silvers from his pouch and placed them on the smallest pile. That encouraged more betting, all of it against him. They wanted a piece of the pot with the silver.

  Alerio hoisted the two spears to his shoulders and lined up so the three tree trunks were directly in front of him.

  “What are you going to do?” shouted a soldier. “Throw the spear through the first two trees?”

  The Legionary spread his feet, bent his knees, and dropped to a half squat. Then he rocked his torso to the right while pulling his left shoulder back. Quicker than a handclap, Alerio swung his body to the left while twisting from the waist. His left shoulder and arm snapped forward releasing the spear. Using torque from the throw, he reversed the process. Swinging far to the right he uncoiled, using the momentum to drive his right shoulder and arm forward. He released the spear, brought his feet together, and spun around.

  “How did I do?” Alerio inquired while walking back to the fisherman.

  Two men ran to the third olive tree.

  “Both spearheads are through the bark and set firm,” they reported. Then one of them moved to the second tree. “His spears grazed the bark on both sides of this tree.”

  The soldiers stomped to their armor and began strapping it on.

  “There’s your answer,” the fi
sherman offered. He scooped up the piles of coins and divided them into three segments. “Here’s your share, Latian.”

  “Who did you bet on, old man?” Alerio asked.

  The fisherman laughed and scooped up his share of the winnings.

  “Once I saw the battle wounds, I put it all on you. Lochias Temno, Third Phalanx of the Sicyon army. When it was an army of real Hoplites,” the old fisherman answered. “And, thank you.”

  “Sergeant Temno, from one veteran to another, I’m glad to have added to your purse.”

  “That’s not what I was thanking you for. It was aimed at you putting Abantidas’ thugs in their place.”

  “I don’t know who Abantidas is,” Alerio informed him. Then a thought occurred to the Legionary. “Who gets the other share of the winnings.”

  “My son. He rows a fishing boat out of Likoporia. If you do have dealings with Abantidas, guard your back from the knife blade.”

  “That bad?”

  “You better go while there’s a crowd here,” the old Hoplite NCO advised. “We’ll make sure the ‘soldiers’ don’t go back on their word.”

  Alerio went to his bundle and pulled out a clean tunic. After slipping in on, he placed the Petasos on his head and picked up the rest of his gear. While he strolled up the road to the fort, the hairs on the back of his neck bristled. Although tempted, he didn’t glance back.

  Act 7

  Chapter 30 – Funeral Day

  “You made it this far. Now let’s see if you can find your way back to the beach,” the Lochias suggested.

  Long before Alerio arrived, the Sergeant had marched out of the stone fort and taken a position in the center of the road. Off to the side, five soldiers waited to see if their NCO needed reinforcements.

  “Sergeant. I’m a representative for Spurius Carvilius Maximus of the Republic,” Alerio stated. “I’ve come to Sicyon to purchase art for my patron. Is this how you treat your customers?”

  “Which Republic? Half of Greece, at present, claims to be a republic or a democracy. Although that changes frequently. But you look like a common sailor, not an art merchant,” the NCO observed. “Can you prove your assertion?”

  Alerio reached into a pouch and pulled out a rolled, sealed parchment. Other than the travel orders, no one had asked to see the Senator’s other letter. This one, according to Belen, served as his introduction to the brothers, Cleinias and Prophantus.

  “And you are Centurion Sisera?”

  The title rocked Alerio. He wasn’t an officer according to his military records or the Legion rosters. Then a thought occurred to him. The Senator’s Greek secretary may have issued the rank to facilitate the negotiations. If the brothers were class conscious, making a deal would be easier for a Legion officer than a Corporal.

  “That’s right, Sergeant,” Alerio replied accepting the temporary title. “If you’ll stand aside, I’d like to conclude some business before sunset. It’s been a long trip from the Capital.”

  “You mean Rome,” the Lochias sneered. He followed the statement by spitting a glob of mucus at the Legionary’s feet. “You Latians talk as if your precious capital is the only seat of government in the world.”

  There were many ways to react to the intentional slight. Draw the hunting knife and cut the Sergeant’s throat. Or, point out the population of the Capital exceeded Sicyon by a multiple of five. That, at least, would back up the argument about the Sergeant being no more than a militia NCO. Then there was the military equivalent of who owned the most sheep. It started with a question about how many battles the opposing soldier had fought in or if he had ever seen combat. None advanced Alerio’s cause. He settled on a non-confrontational response.

  Looking down at the glob, Alerio cocked his head to the side as if studying the spittle.

  “Lochias. I’d suggest two scoops of honey heavily salted,” he commented while looking up from the wet glob at his feet to the Sergeant’s face. “and a half a mug of white vinegar before turning in this evening.”

  “What are you talking about?” demanded the Sergeant.

  From the corner of his eye, Alerio noticed the five soldiers brace at the raised voice of their NCO. With them in mind, the Legionary spoke louder.

  “Your phlegm humor is corrupted,” Alerio lied. He had no idea what he was talking about. “Do you have night sweats? Bad dreams? Suffer from tossing and turning? Waking in the middle of the night to empty your bladder?”

  “Every once in a while,” the Lochias admitted. “Is that bad?”

  “When did you last see a Physician?”

  “A year ago, when I fell and bruised my ribs.”

  “The ribs wrap around the lungs. Who have you been close with?” Alerio asked. A quick glance at the soldiers as if searching for a sick one, caused them to back away. “Don’t answer. We’ll know when they begin to show signs. Right now, we’ve got to get you to a doctor. Are you able to walk?”

  “But. But I feel fine,” reported the Sergeant.

  “Of course, you do. Until you spit up the first mouthful of lung blood. Then it’s too late,” Alerio informed him. “Come, there’s not a moment to spare. I’ll escort you to the city.”

  Grabbing the Sergeant’s arm, Alerio guided him away from the soldiers and the fort. While they walked in the direction of the city, he reassured the NCO that he would be fine after treatment. During the march up the twisting road, Alerio asked directions to the largest temple in Sicyon. As the Legionary explained, he wanted to make an offering for the Lochias’ early recovery.

  ***

  “The Lochias requires a physician,” Alerio shouted to the guards before they reached the gates.

  “What’s wrong with the Sergeant,” one asked.

  “Are you a surgeon?” Alerio inquired.

  “No,” admitted the soldier.

  “Then perhaps you should escort the Lochias to one. Instead of asking about things you don’t understand.”

  One of the guards left with the NCO. While the other soldier watched them, Alerio strolled through the gates unchallenged. He quickly walked down the central boulevard of Sicyon to put distance between him and the distracted guard.

  It wasn’t difficult to locate the agora, it occupied an entire block of the city at the intersection of two boulevards. A few blocks later, he arrived at his destination. Stones columns rose to support a slate roof on the large building. Broad steps, leading to a porch, wrapped around the main structure. Alerio climbed the steps, crossed the porch, and entered the Temple of Artemis.

  “Do you seek a blessing for your hunt,” asked a young priest. “Or, do you seek guidance for more delicate matters. Such as the state of your bride or maybe the wish for a son. The Goddess Artemis, sister to Apollo, is benevolent to her worshipers.”

  “I’m sure she is,” Alerio agreed. He passed a coin to the priest. “I’m here to deposit a large sum. Is a temple administrator available?”

  “Presbyteros Ploutos has just returned from the funeral. Please bask in the beauty of our Goddess while you wait.”

  The priest scurried to a door off the hall and vanished from view. Alerio moved deeper into the temple until he passed through an opening in a cloth screen. Then he stopped and gawked.

  If the Goddess moved or even talked, Alerio wouldn’t have been surprised. Pure white marble, smoother than the stature of Zeus at Kassiopi, reflected the light of a hundred beeswax candles. Rather than a statue cut from granite, she appeared to be the Goddess herself turned to stone.

  “The Goddess Artemis is a wonder to behold.”

  Turning, Alerio found an older priest draped in a gold trimmed robe standing beside him. His eyes were not on the Legionary but on the gleaming statue.

  “Elder Ploutos?”

  The priest hesitated. Then as if struggling to take his eyes off the Goddess, his head turned to Alerio.

  “I am Presbyteros Ploutos, the Temple of Artemis’ administrator. What can I do for you?”

  “My patron Spurius Carvilius
Maximus has directed me to purchase artwork,” Alerio replied. “I’ve come a long way carrying a heavy load.”

  “Very wise to come to the temple. A letter of credit is easier to guard than bags of coins,” Ploutos reflected. “Let us retire to my sanctuary and we’ll complete the transaction.”

  Both the Legionary and the priest paused to gaze once more at the Goddess. Then they turned away, strolled back through the screen, and crossed the room to Ploutos’ office.

  ***

  Alerio left the temple with the letter of credit tucked inside his tunic. Relieved of protecting the gold in the saddlebags, he strolled casually. Low buildings of stones and clay bricks sat next to two-story structures that combined stone, brick, and wood. The recommendation from the Presbyteros for an inn took him in the direction of the agora. As he crossed the intersection of the two boulevards, the smell of roasting lamb guided him off the boulevard to a food stall.

  “Lamb on a stick with those vegetables,” he ordered pointing out onions, small tomatoes, and a few other items.

  The vendor cut palm-sized pieces of meat and skewered them on a stick alternating the lamb with the vegetables. At another stall, he purchased a mug of wine then went looking for a place to sit. It was early evening and he was surprised to see a crowd of men at the only area suitable for sitting.

  Bleachers of wood and stone formed a semicircle off to the side of the agora. Climbing to the top tier, Alerio put down the food and beverage then dumped the bundle next to his dinner. With the ends of the stick in his fingers, he happily bit off pieces and chewed contentedly. As he ate, Alerio listened to the conversations of the men sitting on the lower benches.

  “Timocleides was a good man.”

  “Truly, a faithful servant to the citizens of Sicyon.”

  “To have his thread cut by Atropos while he worked at his desk was a blessing.”

  “He wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.”

  “We will remember him and pray that Thanatos speeds Timocleides’ spirit to Hades.”