Uncertain Honor Read online

  “Consul Caedicius and Consul Longus are prepared to deliver their speeches,” Aquila warned. “And you, Senator Regulus and Senior Tribune Sisera, are holding up two of the most powerful men in the Republic.”

  “Take a few days to think about my offer,” Regulus informed Alerio. He gave the newlywed a gentle shove. “Let’s go listen to two of the biggest blowhards in the Republic.”

  As always, when politicians denigrated each other, Alerio felt uncomfortable about the disrespect. To hide his feelings, he saluted the proconsul and walked to the doorway. His Mothers latched onto his arms and marched him into the banquet room. As if he was an escaped prisoner, they escorted him to the head table where the beautiful Gabriella waited.

  An older man stood and waved with both hands to everyone in the room. Then he bowed and began his speech.

  “I, Quintus Caedicius, am pleased to be invited to speak at such an auspicious occasion,” the Consul stopped to clear his throat. He coughed and swallowed before continuing. “When I was a boy, life in the Republic was harder than it is today…”

  Alerio couldn’t help himself. Two thoughts occurred to him. The word blowhard and his answer for Proconsul Marcus Regulus.

  Chapter 2 – Ostia Naval Offices

  “Phobos is saddled and ready to ride, Senior Tribune,” Hektor announced.

  Alerio looked up from his breakfast, cast a smile across the table at Gabriella, and turned to the boy. Hektor held his arm in his hand and had a pained look on his face.

  “Trouble?” Alerio inquired.

  “No, sir, once we got a rope on him, Phobos came along quietly,” Hektor responded.

  Alerio stood and brushed a few creases from his expensive tunic. Next, he adjusted the shoulder scarf where his Legion medals were displayed along with the insignia of a senior tribune and the aide-de-camp badge.

  “How do I look?” he asked.

  “You need your gladius,” Hektor answered.

  “I was talking to the lady of the house,” Alerio remarked.

  “I don’t know what a senior tribune is supposed to look like,” Gabriella admitted. “But I would guess you’re just about right.”

  “Just about?” Alerio questioned.

  “Well, man of the villa, you do have your flaws,” she teased.

  “I’m about to face an entrenched enemy,” he exclaimed. “And my only weapon is how I present myself.”

  “If that’s your only weapon, husband,” Gabriella suggested, “follow Hektor’s advice and take your gladius.”

  “If there’s going to be a fight, Senior Tribune,” Hektor offered, “I’ll get my helmet and shield.”

  “This is not an enemy for hot steel,” Alerio explained. “Dueling with the Navy’s bureaucracy demands cold logic.”

  Alerio fingered the Helios pendant that hung around his neck. He allowed it to fall under the tunic, walked to Gabriella, gave her a kiss, and went to battle the Navy’s supply chain.

  ***

  Alerio rode to the Naval Headquarters, trotted by the buildings, and made a left at the end of the road. Once off the stone pavers and on the beach, he nudged the horse with a kick in the ribs.

  Phobos expanded his chest, reared back, and charged down the hard packed sand. Racing along the water’s edge, the horse swerved onto softer sand while careening around beached warships. After each hull, the stallion angled sharply back to the firmer surface and increased his pace. Sailors and oarsmen caught between their campsites and, the keels of their vessels, sprinted or dove out of the way. In several cases, Phobos headed towards a running man. Only Alerio’s hand on the reins prevented death or injury from the flying hoofs.

  While the horse got exercise, Alerio made a quick study of the warships on the shoreline. Most required all or part of their interior woodwork, oars, caulking, supplies, a commanding Centurion, his First, Second, and Third Principales, sailors, and oarsmen. From his rapid inspection, Alerio could tell the vessels had one thing in common. None were ready to join the fleet. And that was Proconsul Regulus’ challenge and now Senior Staff Officer Sisera’s task.

  “Enough mayhem for now, Phobos,” Alerio said to the horse. The stallion, named for the God of Fear, slowed to a walk, and snorted his displeasure at ending the run. “I have work to do. Let’s get me to the clerks and you to a corral.”

  Alerio would have been satisfied with a casual walk, giving him the opportunity to digest what he had seen. But Phobos decided, if he couldn’t gallop, he would trot. Although not as exhilarating as the ride away, the ride towards the Navy Headquarters was brisk and all too quick.

  ***

  People entered while speaking and others exited from various doors of the headquarters’ building. In all they created a cacophony of voices. Despite the busy atmosphere and noise, Alerio was only conscious of the clicks of his hobnailed boots on the veranda and his breathing. From the passageway, he pushed through a door and walked into an outer office.

  “Is this where I belong?” he inquired.

  An NCO at a desk looked up, spotted the scarf, and jumped to his feet.

  “Yes, Senior Tribune Sisera,” the Optio assured him. “Your office is down the hall next to the proconsul’s suite. But Senator Regulus is at the Capital for the Senate session.”

  “What’s on my plate for today?” Alerio questioned.

  “Excuse me, sir?” the Sergeant inquired. “I don’t understand.”

  “My calendar? You know, what are my duties?” Alerio responded. “What crisis demands my attention?”

  “There is no crisis that I know of Senior Tribune,” the NCO assured him. “Most senior staff officers have political letters to write and use the day to catch up on their correspondence with associates.”

  Immediately Alerio’s gut tightened. Apparently, Naval personnel had placed him in an administrative category and the clerks were prepared to go about their business as usual. And their usual was a machine functioning within mild parameters.

  Navy clerks worked at a slow pace like Archimedes' screw, where steady turning of the handle pumped just enough water to keep a bilge empty. Steady, however, did not work during a storm. Nor would the usual pace of the Navy supply system help build the fleet. In rough seas, the Archimedes' pump got overwhelmed, requiring extraordinary measures to keep the ship afloat. The usually mild functioning of the naval supply system at Ostia was about to enter a hurricane and get swamped, like the inventor’s pump.

  “Where is the busiest department in the facility?” Alerio asked.

  “I can arrange a tour, if you like, sir,” the Sergeant replied.

  “Optio, I do not require a tour for what I’m about to do,” Alerio informed him.

  “What are you going to do, sir?” the puzzled NCO asked.

  “Raise the storm warning flag,” Alerio responded. “Where will I find the most activity?”

  “That would be disbursement, Senior Tribune,” the Sergeant replied. “It’s located around the corner to your right. I can guide you.”

  “I’ll find it on my own,” Alerio assured the duty NCO.

  He turned about and walked from the outer office and back onto the veranda.

  ***

  The red tile roof over the passageway kept pedestrians dry in the rainy season and out of the hot sun in summer. On a mild day, the overhang blocked the soothing rays. Feeling a need for warmth, Alerio stepped onto the street and strolled to the corner of the building with his face turned towards the sun.

  “You might want to look down,” a voice warned.

  Pain shot up Alerio’s lower leg. Peering down, he looked for the blood that must accompany that much hurt. But there was no blood outside, only under the skin in the form of a deep bruise on his left shin.

  “What’s the purpose of these?” Alerio demanded.

  A brick wall almost knee height jutted from the veranda. Five feet from the walkway, the barrier ended. Another of the knee knockers had been constructed a couple of feet away. Together, the walls channeled any
one seeking to enter the building into a narrow file.

  “Those are there to remind ship’s officers of their place,” a Centurion replied.

  The line officer sat on the other wall with his legs extended, his eyes closed against the brightness, and his head tilted back.

  “You could have warned me sooner,” Alerio suggested.

  “I didn’t see you,” the officer said in his defense. “I had my eyes closed. By the time I heard the heavy tread of those infantry boots, it was too late.”

  “Can you tell me where I can find the Disbursement Department?” Alerio asked.

  The Centurion lifted an arm, extended his thumb, and jerked it in the direction of the doorway at the end of the short walls.

  “I didn’t catch your name,” Alerio pointed out.

  “Centurion Galo of the warship Philyra's Image,” the officer answered.

  “An interesting name,” Alerio noted. “A warship named after the Goddess of Perfume?”

  “No, no,” Galo protested while repositioning his butt for a more comfortable position. “She’s also the shape-shifting Goddess of Beauty and Prophecy. That describes my trireme and her ram. We forecast defeat for our enemies and look good while sinking them.”

  “Enjoy the sun,” Alerio offered before stepping over the wall.

  He was two paces from the door when Galo called over his shoulder, “And you enjoy the clerks.”

  The Centurion’s wish did not predict a happy outcome for Alerio’s visit to the department.

  ***

  Inside the building, Alerio stopped to take in the scene. A gaggle of ship’s officers crowded around a single desk. They all talked loudly to be heard over the other Centurions. Sitting calmly in the center of the raucous, a clerk wrote down notes and passed pieces of papyrus to selected officers.

  Alerio assumed the Centurions were yelling for whatever was written on the bit of reed paper. Yet, none left after receiving their note. They simply continued yelling for attention.

  On several occasions, while Alerio stood beside the doorway, another clerk came from a back room. He collected tablets from the desk clerk and dropped others on the tabletop, before vanishing through the interior door.

  Weary of watching the herd, Alerio marched by the desk, heading for the interior door.

  “Hey, you can’t go back there,” one of the ship’s officers told him. “You have to stand in line like the rest of us.”

  “That’s right,” the clerk echoed the Centurion’s statement. “You have to stand in line like the rest.”

  Alerio spun and his shoulder scarf jingled with his rank, position, and his medals. Two stood out to the ship’s officers. It wasn’t the crown of woven gold thread for Legion bravery that caught the eyes of the ship’s Centurions. It was the Naval Crowns. An award signifying the Legionary had been the first man to cross over and fight on the deck of an enemy ship. The staff officer they challenged had a pair of the medals.

  “I believe I can go anywhere in this building I want,” Alerio announced. He tapped the aide-de-camp badge and smiled. “But I am not above being convinced otherwise. Why shouldn’t I go back there?”

  “Our Tribune said…,” the clerk began.

  Suddenly, he realized the senior staff officer was grinning for no reason.

  “I’m sure whatever your Tribune said was interesting,” Alerio told him.

  The fake smile dropped and with a firm set of his jaw, Alerio pushed through the doorway to the interior of the building.

  ***

  There were five work areas scattered around a large room. Each appeared to be a station for the accounting of different items: one place for food and barrels, one for ropes and sail material, another with iron fittings, a space for pitch and caulking tools, and finally, an area specializing in wooden seats, oars, and decking boards. At each location, samples of those products were stacked and piled in columns near a worktable. The only problem Alerio could see, the stations were deserted.

  Eyeing a doorway to another room, Alerio strolled through the samples of supplies needed to outfit warships and stopped at an arched entrance. A fat Centurion and six clerks, sitting around his cluttered office, were laughing.

  “Care to let me in on the jest?” Alerio questioned.

  The supply officer examined Alerio for longer than was respectful. Finally, he waved a halfhearted salute in the staff officer’s direction.

  “Senior Tribune, welcome to disbursement,” the officer greeted Alerio. He didn’t stand. “We were just taking a break. Is there something I can help you with?”

  “You can start by telling me why you have six clerks in here,” Alerio questioned, “while there is only one serving the ship’s officers.”

  “We have limited supplies and too many ships to service,” the Centurion explained. “So, we appoint a clerk to spearhead a lottery and all the Centurions enter the drawing for different items. That way, each ship has an even chance of getting at least some of what they need.”

  “With that system, no warships are finished and ready for sea training,” Alerio pointed out. “They just sit on the beach unfinished while we wait for more unfinished ships to row in.”

  “It’s not my responsibility,” the supply officer protested. “Tribune Ninivita designed the system. If you want to change it, you should speak with him.”

  In a marching Legion, a Senior Tribune had the option of corporal punishment for any sign of disrespect. Alerio wasn’t sure if the supply Centurion had been disrespectful, although he certainly had not been deferential.

  “And where can I find the Tribune?” Alerio asked. Pointedly, he added. “Centurion.”

  Alerio wanted to call him Centurion-Fat-Body, but held back from belittling the supply officer in front of his staff.

  “Tribune Ninivita is at the Capital visiting Senators. He has a lot of well-connected friends,” the supply officer bragged. “I’m Centurion Illotus. And I’m in charge during his absence.”

  Thinly disguised in the speech was the ugly hint that Senior Tribune Sisera was an appointee filling an administrative slot before venturing into politics. The “well-connected friends” phrase would have struck fear in staff officers of that ilk. Not so in Alerio Sisera’s case.

  Alerio marched across the room and slammed the flat of his hands on the desktop. Illotus jerked back, his face displaying fear and surprise.

  “Here is what we are going to do,” Alerio instructed. “Draw one ship Centurion’s name and give him everything he needs to make his ship ready. Afterward, draw another and another until the supplies run out.”

  “What do we do then?” the supply officer inquired.

  “Clear the room,” Alerio ordered the clerks. When they hesitated, he yelled. “Get out.”

  The six clerks scampered from the office while Alerio slid around the desk. Looming over the Centurion, he locked eyes with the fat supply officer.

  “You will be out of supplies every day until the fleet is done,” he advised. “I want everything on the warships and nothing in the warehouses. No more piecemealing the gear. Get the supplies to where they’re needed.”

  “Sure thing, Senior Tribune, whatever you want,” the Centurion answered.

  Alerio felt as if the supply officer wasn’t committed to the new direction. He bemoaned the lack of a corporal punishment option while marching from the office.

  Alerio crossed the large room without making eye contact with the staff. In the outer office, Alerio stopped behind the desk and the single clerk.

  “We are changing the system. From now on, you will draw for everything you need,” Alerio announced to the ships’ officers. Leaning down to the clerk’s ear, he described the total resupply of one ship idea.

  “What do we do when everything is gone, sir?” the clerk inquired.

  “That will be up to your Tribune,” Alerio told him. “Wherever, he is.”

  Alerio marched to the front door and left the Distribution Department. Centurion Galo was still sit
ting in the sun with his eyes closed.

  “You said you command a trireme,” Alerio commented to the ship’s officer.

  “I do. The best three-banker in the fleet,” Galo replied. He rotated his head, opened his eyes, and swallowed hard. “Sir, I failed to notice your rank.”

  The Centurion pushed off the ground and saluted.

  “That’s rare,” Alerio said.

  “A rare what, Senior Tribune?” Galo inquired.

  “A rare salute in this place. I have an assignment for you and Philyra's Image.”

  “Unless it has to do with idling on the beach,” Galo informed Alerio, “there’s not much I or my ship can do for you, sir.”

  “But you’re here at the Distribution Department. Or rather you’re sitting outside the department,” Alerio observed. “Surely they have outfitted your vessel.”

  “No, sir. To quote Tribune Ninivita, the last boat we will equip is a messenger trireme,” Galo said with disgust at the insult to his warship. “I come here every day hoping for supplies. Once I have them, I’ll need oarsmen, sailors, and Legionaries. And, my Principales back.”

  “Where did your ship’s officers go?” Alerio asked.

  “The personnel office drafted them as instructors for oarsmen training.”

  “Come with me,” Alerio directed.

  He led the ship’s officer into the building, through the crowd of Centurions and the interior doorway. In the large room, he marched to the space with the oars, benches, and planks.

  “This is Centurion Galo,” Alerio told the clerk. “He is on an assignment for me. I need him off the beach and on his way by the day after tomorrow. Is that a problem?”

  “No, sir,” the clerk replied.

  After that station, Alerio escorted Galo to the other sections and repeated the speech. Finally, he guided the ship’s senior officer into Illotus’ office.

  “Galo is on a mission for me, and I need him launched,” Alerio declared. “But he need supplies before that happens. Am I clear?”

  “Tribune Ninivita has forbidden us from supplying three-bankers until the real warships are outfitted,” the supply officer enlightened Alerio. Centurion Illotus got a smug expression on his face and added. “You can’t expect me to go against standing orders.”