Abject Authority (Clay Warrior Stories Book 19) Read online

  Three days later, the messenger returned with a letter. Written on the back of the parchment were five words.

  ‘The scarred Lictor is in route’

  Crassus bundled up the letter and threw it across the room.

  “I have eleven Lictors at my disposal and a Legion,” he roared. “What good will another bodyguard do?”

  His chief of staff walked to the discarded letter and read the words. Then he pondered, “What does Praetor Blasio have in mind?”

  Chapter 2 - Via Salaria

  The gate sentry glanced at the sun and judged his shift to be half over. It meant another long, chilly afternoon of pacing from gate post to gate post. Then his eyes caught movement down the trail.

  “What have we here?” he asked.

  The stockade sat a mile from a crossroads. Most merchants and travelers used the throughfare of the Via Salaria to head south to Rome. Or they journeyed west to reach Umbria or the Sabine regions and beyond those the coast of the Adriatic sea. Few travelers journeyed north along the Tiber River to the city of Orvieto and deeper into Etruscan territory.

  Civilian visitors, unless part of a supply convoy, were rare on the wagon trail leading to the Legion fort. One man on a horse cart offered a novelty for the bored sentry.

  “Stop right there,” the Legionary ordered as the wagon approached. “What’s your business?”

  “Dried and salt packed tuna and swordfish from the Adriatic Sea,” the driver replied. When the Legionary shuffled his feet and frowned, the peddler advised. “Now if your Centuries don’t want the opportunity, I can push onto Orvieto. I’m sure there are some rich men there who would enjoy dining on fish steaks.”

  “Orvieto is fifty miles up the Tiber,” the sentry countered.

  “That it is. But the fish are dried, packed in salt, and will keep,” the seller remarked. Then he creased his eyebrows and inquired. “Or are you reminding me of the distance as a bargaining point? Possibly, to lower my prices. Very shrewd of you.”

  The gate sentry had no intention of bargaining. He mentioned the distance to the city on the plateau as a common sense response. However, being identified as a man who could barter felt good.

  “What’s it worth to you if I allow you in?” the sentry inquired.

  Before the vendor replied, the Sergeant of the Guard marched to the gate.

  “Allow who in?” he asked.

  “Optio, I was bargaining with the fish seller for a couple of tuna steaks,” the sentry reported. “One for you and one for me.”

  “You forgot the Centurion,” the NCO said. Then to the vendor. “It’ll cost you three fish steaks to sell in my stockade.”

  The peddler touched the brim of his felt petasos in salute and snapped the reins.

  “Sounds reasonable,” he allowed as the horse and cart rolled through the gate.

  Neither the sentry nor his NCO questioned why a fish seller from the Adriatic coast would bypass other forts and towns to reach their stockade. And they failed to note the horse wasn’t a draft animal, but a stallion barely held in check by a tight hold on the reins.

  “Good call,” the NCO complimented the sentry. “Most guards would have let him in without extracting a toll.”

  “Gee, Optio, I might have a future in business,” the Legionary suggested.

  “Don’t get a big head,” the Sergeant of the Guard warned. “I’ll keep your fish in the salt until you get off duty.”

  ***

  Alerio Sisera guided Phobos across the drill field towards a spot where his cart was visible to anyone leaving the barracks.

  “A few years ago, you would have bitten the Optio,” Alerio said to the horse. “I guess we’ve both matured and settled…”

  The stallion reared up as they passed the animal pens. Inside the fence, cavalry mounts either shied away or issued a challenge to the stallion.

  “He’s fatigued and irritable from the trail,” Alerio told a few passing Legionaries. “I guess the mounts frightened him.”

  “You should brush him to calm his nerves,” a cavalryman recommended, “or he’ll be on edge all evening.”

  “An excellent idea,” Alerio responded while guiding the wagon around. “Can you send a stableman over with a bucket of water and some straw?”

  “What do I look like,” the man shot back, “your servant?”

  Alerio had forgotten he was undercover and not traveling as a Colonel of the Legion. After positioning the cart, he climbed down and limped around to unharnessed Phobos.

  “That’s not a wagon horse,” a youth observed.

  He was dirty in the way an animal handler got soiled. Mud and other substances clung to his feet and lower legs while saliva and straw dust coated his upper body.

  “Like me, he was once a war horse,” Alerio told him. “I’ll trade you a fish steak for some water and straw.”

  “What’s a fish steak?”

  “You’ve had mountain bass,” Alerio offered. The youth shook his head in the affirmative. “It’s like a section of the bass only as big as your face.”

  “For that, I’ll bring him a bag of grain to go with the straw and water,” the young stableman promised.

  Alerio pulled a wineskin from under the cart’s bench, strolled to the back of the wagon, and untied a tarp. He tossed back the cover exposing layers of salt and fish.

  Lifting his arms, he announced, “Fish, fresh from the sea. And sea salt as sweet as honey. Fish steaks, fresh from the sea. Come, and get them.”

  ***

  During the afternoon, off duty Legionaries stopped by, bought steaks, and left. And while the load of fish and salt vanished, several Legionaries hung around the cart.

  “It seems very peaceful here,” Alerio mentioned while passing around a wineskin. “Not that I’m complaining. Years ago, our Legion got stomped by the Etruscans in this district.”

  “You were at Orvieto?” one asked.

  “Back then we called it Volsinii, and yes I was with Gurges Legion when we were broken,” Alerio replied. “But now, it’s a wonder you don’t die of boredom.”

  “Oh, we have some action,” one informed Alerio. “Just two weeks ago, one of our auxiliary patrols had a tussle with some of the Bronze Man’s gang.”

  Another grasped the wineskin and shook it as if strangling someone.

  “At least we assumed they were in his crew,” he whined. “Turned out, they were three Etruscan brothers returning from a hunt.”

  “Their father and the tribe’s headman are coming to speak with the Tribune in the morning,” the first Legionary stated. “That’s going to be a messy meeting.”

  “Who is this Bronze Man and how did the brother’s get mistaken for members of his gang?” Alerio questioned.

  A veteran Optio pushed to the front and took the wineskin.

  “The Bronze Man wears a Greek helmet and a chest piece both made from bronze,” he explained. “But that’s not where he gets the name. Every time he robs a Roman citizen, he leaves a quarter of a piece of a bronze coin.”

  “They say, the Bronze Man is never really seen when seen, never found when found, and never caught when caught,” an infantryman volunteered. “It’s why the brothers were executed. The Optio thought they were sneaking back across the border.”

  “Why would the patrol expect the gang to cross the border?” Alerio asked.

  “Because, the Bronze Man boasts that Roman citizens fear Etruscan warriors,” the NCO replied. “It’s only logical that he and his brigands would flee home after the murdering and pillaging.”

  “Have you encountered gang members in the area before?” Alerio asked. “Or found their trails?”

  “No. But the mountains are big and it’s easy to lose them in the valleys up there,” the Optio pointed to the peaks rising to the northeast of the fort.

  “Never really seen when seen, never found when found, and never caught when caught,” the infantryman repeated.

  “Keep the wineskin,” Alerio told the group. “I’ve
got to go and have a talk with your Tribune.”

  “Are you sure a staff officer will want to talk with a fish seller?”

  “He will,” Alerio said as he went to the cart’s bench, reached under it, and pulled out a wrapped object. “What’s his name?”

  “His name is Miratoris. For all the good it’ll do you,” the Sergeant commented.

  Alerio smiled at the NCO, rested the wrapped object on his shoulder, and limped to the headquarters building.

  ***

  Inside the administration office, Alerio looked over the staff until he located a Senior Centurion.

  “I’ll speak with Tribune Miratoris,” he announced.

  “Tell me fish seller,” the senior combat officer inquired, “why would my staff officer want to speak with you?”

  “Tell him, Praetor Blasio sends his regards.”

  The fish seller was Latin, and most likely a citizen. He had those going for him. But the real reason the Senior Centurion carried the message back to the Tribune’s office was the mention of a Praetor of Rome. Few men would chance the punishment that came with casually throwing around the name of a chief magistrate.

  “Wait right there,” the combat officer ordered.

  “Yes, sir,” Alerio confirmed.

  After years of trudging over rough ground, the Senior Centurion didn’t so much march as he swayed. The same stiff kneed gait that took him down the hallway, brought him back moments later.

  “Tribune Miratoris will see you,” he declared. “Do you need me to hold that until you’re done?”

  The Centurion pointed to the wrapped object resting on Alerio’s shoulder.

  “No, thank you, Centurion,” Alerio replied.

  He limped across the office floor and the combat officer noticed.

  “Legion injury?” he asked.

  Alerio stopped, glanced down at the knee brace, and nodded.

  “An Iberian spear in Sicilia,” Alerio lied.

  “That’ll do it,” the Senior Centurion acknowledged. “I caught an arrow in my hip a few years back. Still hurts in wet weather.”

  “That’ll do it,” Alerio observed before continuing down the hallway.

  ***

  “You better have a good reason for mentioning Praetor Cornelius Blasio,” a middle-aged staff officer threatened.

  Based on the Tribune’s age and location, he was either the youngest son of a wealthy family or a career military man. In one case, the patriarch parked him in a garrison command until the family required his presence at home. If career, he was waiting for an assignment to a Consul’s Legion where he could earn glory and advancement. Neither scenario addressed the staff officer’s competence.

  “I need four things,” Alerio instructed while he untied the bindings on the object he carried.

  “You didn’t answer my question,” Miratoris countered.

  “Tribune, you didn’t ask a question,” Alerio remarked. “Just as I didn’t ask one.”

  In Alerio’s experience, weak staff officers became unhinged when corrected. He didn’t have to, but he couldn’t resist poking at the Tribune to evaluate the man.

  “You’re right, I didn’t ask a question,” Miratoris confirmed. “And you aren’t a fish peddler, are you?”

  “No, sir,” Alerio said as he stripped the fur wrap from a double-bladed ax. He placed the ax on the Tribune’s desk.

  Miratoris reached out and with reverence traced the gold and silver inlays on the ax heads.

  “You’re a Lictor from Rome,” he guessed.

  “All enforcers are from Rome,” Alerio told him. “No matter the chief magistrate we’re assigned to, our authority comes from the Senate.”

  “I’ve seen Consul processions. The head Lictor carried an ax bundled with a ring of birch rods. It was over five feet long and tied with strips of red leather. This is a little less imposing.”

  “Can you imagine a field investigator lugging around a ceremonial fasces?” Alerio asked. “This double blade is less intrusive. But it still symbolizes my Lictor’s authority to enforce the law and punish the guilty.”

  “Why bring it to me?”

  “As I stated, I require four things,” Alerio responded. “I need information on the latest victims of the Bronze Man. A letter to Proconsul Crassus stating that I left the ax with you. And your assurance that the ax will be protected.”

  “You’re here to stop the Bronze Man,” Miratoris commented. “How can you do that when others have failed?”

  “I’ll start with the bronze coins he’s leaving with the victims,” Alerio answered. “And because I’m unknown to the citizens in this area and the Sabine tribesmen, I can move around without drawing attention to myself.”

  “What’s the fourth thing you need?”

  “A bed for the night,” Alerio replied. “I’ve been on the road for five days sleeping on the ground. I’m sick of being cold and feeling rocks in my spine when I roll over.”

  “You’ll of course join me for dinner?”

  “I’m afraid Tribune that would ruin the surprise.”

  “What surprise?”

  “The one for the Bronze Man when I run my blade through his heart,” Alerio told the staff officer. “Until then, I’m just a Legion veteran with a bad knee looking for work.”

  “What else do you need?”

  “Sir, I need you to loudly throw me out of your office,” Alerio said. “Maybe with a mention that you don’t care how many Naval Crown medals I have.”

  “Do you have a Naval Crown?”

  “Two, actually,” Alerio answered.

  The staff officer wrote on a piece of parchment then waved it in the air to dry the ink. While Alerio reviewed the letter, Miratoris jotted down on another piece the names and villas of the latest victims. Alerio rolled both and put them under his shirt.

  “Now, sir.”

  “Get out of my office,” the Tribune shouted. “I don’t care how many times you led attacks on enemy ships-of-war. I don’t have anything for a cripple. Get out of my office. And I want you off my post first thing in the morning.”

  Alerio saluted and dropped his shoulders in resignation. He marched out of the Tribune’s office and into the chest of the Senior Centurion.

  “Don’t you worry about him, sir,” the combat officer assured his Tribune, “I know how to manage his kind.”

  With gentle pressure on the small of Alerio’s back, he guided them out of the administration office. Outside the headquarters building, they turned in the direction of the Senior Centurion’s quarters.

  The peddler might have to leave in the morning. But the senior combat officer wasn’t about to let a decorated veteran sleep outside in the dirt on a cold night.

  Chapter 3 – Pieces of Coins

  At mid-morning, Alerio nudged Phobos over the top of a long steep grade. Under the horse’s hooves, the well-traveled dirt track of the Via Salaria transitioned to stone pavers. Along with the road improvements, a town appeared where the trail split.

  Alerio reined in Phobos and scanned the ancient structures.

  “What village is this?” he asked an old Sabine man sitting beside the road.

  “It’s Pallatium,” the oldster replied. “Forty miles from the Latian Capital. And eight from Rieti.”

  “Seems like a nice place.”

  “It was,” the old man griped.

  “Was?” Alerio asked. “What happened?”

  “Your General Dentatus happened,” the man replied. “Twenty-two years ago, he marched his Legions through here, and the place hasn’t been the same.”

  “I think that’s called progress?” Alerio teased.

  “Call it what you want,” the Sabine scolded. “Everyone is rushing to Rome for who knows what. Or their dashing off to Rieti. In my day, we backpacked salt from the marshes at Ostia and sold it here in the market. These days, you Latians run salt carts right by here without stopping.”

  “You could always move,” Alerio suggested.

  “P
allatium has been here for hundreds of years and I for seventy of them,” the man explained. “I only hope I die before the town does.”

  “I hope you get your wish,” Alerio said as he urged the stallion forward.

  Then he caught himself and wondered if wishing death on the old Sabine was a good thing or a bad thing. He’d have to trust the Goddess Nenia to make the judgement.

  At a creek, he dismounted, brushed Phobos, and allowed the horse to graze. Looking around, Alerio could see old foundations and rotten boards on the outskirts of the village. From the placement of the ruins, he could tell this spot of civilization along the salt trail was vanishing little by little.

  ***

  The hub of Rieti came into view shortly after midday. Behind the government and commercial buildings and the residential structures, cultivated fields spread to the north. The entire area reflected an abundance of timber and agricultural wealth. Some fields were brown after the harvest, while others displayed winter grain, greens, and root crops. The produce stretched from one side of the valley to the other. It was good land and Alerio grew a little jealous of the rich soil.

  He located a café and dismounted.

  “I’m looking for the Suasus farm,” he mentioned to the waiter as he sat at a table.

  “Oh, the Suasus estate, such a tragedy,” the server told him. He dropped his head in reverence for a heartbeat but brightened quickly. “Take the center road for three miles and turn left. Three miles on, you’ll find a road to the farm. Today, we have lamb and vegetable stew.”

  The jump from commiseration to business wasn’t lost on the Lictor. Apparently, the Sabines weren’t terribly enamored with their Roman neighbors.

  ***

  After the meal, Alerio took the Viale Emilio Maraini out of Rieti. At the three-mile marker, he guided Phobos onto a wagon track. As he rode, he admired the farmland. Now he could see the richness of the soil that made the abundance in the valley possible. As the son of a farmer, he was envious. But the rough surface of the trail in the middle of such prosperity annoyed him. Then he recalled the murder of the Suasus child and replaced the criticism with analytical thinking.