Uncertain Honor Read online

  ***

  Phobos trotted down the center of the road avoiding the deeper ruts. Suddenly, a man waving a blade leaped in front of the beast. In surprise, the horse stopped.

  “What do we have here?” Calpar exclaimed when he noticed the saddle was empty. “Where’s your rider?”

  He sheathed the gladius and grabbed the reins. Not caring a drop of sweat about the rider, Calpar moved beside the mount and leaped at the saddle. That’s when Calpar found himself stretched out in midair as the horse reared up and hopped away.

  The Centurion dropped and his body smacked into the trail. Even while he bounced, the Legion officer held the reins for a heartbeat. That was before the hoofs came down.

  Calpar let go and rolled away. And rolled again as Phobos sought to trample him. Once off the trail, the Centurion jumped to his feet and waved his arms attempting to frighten the crazy horse. It worked. The steed did a half turn before prancing off into the dark.

  “You’re touched by Manea,” Calpar called after the horse.

  “Do you really think my horse is touched by the Goddess of Chaos?” a voice in the dark inquired. “I rather think of him as being blessed by the God of Fear.”

  “What are you?” the Centurion questioned.

  “I may be the ghost of a Senior Tribune that was burned in a supply tent,” Alerio got out before Calpar drew his gladius. In addition to the longer weapon, the zing of his dagger coming out of its sheath followed. Alerio acknowledged the actions. “Oh good, it seems you brought your blades. As have I.”

  Alerio pulled his gladius with his left hand and the Legion dagger with his right. He held them up against the stars in the sky for Calpar to see both blades and both of his hands.

  ***

  There were good reasons why sane men didn’t battle in the dark. It was nearly impossible to separate friend from foe, although that had no bearing on the current disagreement. Darkness meant, however, there was an inability to distinguish gray from gray. That did have significance as Calpar circled to get the Senior Tribune’s arms illuminated in the moonlight. To the Centurion’s delight, Alerio gave way and faced the moon. Taking advantage, Calpar tucked his arms, hiding them and his blades in the gray shadow of his body.

  “You wouldn’t come after Lucius Longus like this,” Calpar offered.

  “No, I wouldn’t,” Alerio admitted. “Him, I’ll crush in the Senate and in business when I get back to the Capital. It’s funny, isn’t it.”

  “What is?” Calpar asked while studying his opponent’s guard position.

  Normally fighters put the bigger blades in their right hands. A Legion forced Legionaries to hold their gladii in the right hand so their shields, on the left arm, fit into the maniple line. And for experienced swordfighters, the daggers were held in the weaker hand. Yet, the Senior Tribune had relinquished his advantage by placing the short blade in his right hand.

  “It’s humorous that Consul Longus was afraid I’d ruin his reputation. Before the supply tent, I never would have considered it,” Alerio explained. He began rocking from side to side. First the two gladii blades were tip to tip. After the swing, the dagger was pointed at the Centurion’s gladius, making for a bad mismatch. “Now, unlike what I am about to do to you, I’ll butcher him slowly. But first, I have a promise to keep.”

  Centurion Calpar felt the rhythm of his foe. The prominent swaying flashed an opening every time the Tribune rocked to the left. In those moments, Sisera’s sword was the farthest away, leaving only the dagger to defend against the longer gladius.

  Calpar’s blade shot straight for Alerio’s face. Before the tip reached flesh, Alerio’s dagger caught the blade on its hilt and pressed it upward. As the blades crossed, the Senior Tribune ducked below the steel and stepped forward with his left foot. The point of Alerio’s out-of-place gladius swung inward, lined up with Calpar’s underarm, before plunging into the Centurion’s chest.

  “In the dark, I couldn’t see your weapons. That’s why I kept my thighs and belly in motion, and my blades out as targets,” Alerio lectured as he pressed his blade deeper into Calpar’s chest. The Centurion gagged on blood flooding into his mouth from a severed gullet. When at last he shivered from the Goddess Nenia’s touch, Alerio let the soulless body fall away. And lastly, he offered. “You should have settled for wounding my leg, instead of going for a quick kill.”

  ***

  The guard on the gate of Longus Legion North lowered his spear.

  “State your business?” he questioned the rider who appeared out of the darkness.

  Without speaking, the stranger circled the horse just shy of the gate. As he turned, he shoved a body off the horse’s hindquarters before galloping away.

  “Sergeant of the Guard,” the sentry shouted as he ran to the man in Legion armor lying in the road. When he rolled Centurion Calpar over, he gasped and added. “First Century to the main gate. First Century to the main gate.”

  The Legionary would suffer a long day of questioning by the First Century’s Corporal and his own Centurion. But no matter how hard they pressed him the sentry couldn’t recall any details about the rider or the horse.

  ***

  The Battle Commander for Longus Legion North woke up late. He supposed he should go out to the Legion and make an appearance. But his quarters in Kelibia were more comfortable. Besides, downstairs, Colonel Haedulus had squads of his First Century. In a town filled with noble ranks, only Battle Commanders and Consuls had bodyguards. And the Colonel liked showing his off.

  “Optio Donatas. What’s on my schedule today,” he called down the stairs.

  “Sir, you have lunch with Consul Longus,” the NCO of First Century North reported. “Should I ready the detail?”

  “Yes, I’ll be down shortly.”

  Long moments later, the Battle Commander descended the steps and walked out of the villa to a courtyard. As he preferred, a full squad of armored Legionaries waited to escort him.

  “Let’s go, Sergeant,” the commander directed.

  “Detail, open the gates, and…”

  Two infantrymen opened the gates and were met by a double row of Legionaries.

  “What’s the meaning of this?” Colonel Haedulus demanded. “Do you know who I am? I am the Battle Commander for Longus Legion North.”

  A Senior Tribune from Regulus Legion West stepped from behind the wall of shields.

  “Not anymore,” he advised. “You are confined to quarters. As are any members of your First Century who are currently in Kelibia. They’re under suspicion for the murder of Centurion Calpar.”

  “What? Calpar is dead?” the Colonel blustered. “I demand to speak with Consul Longus.”

  “The Consul is packing in preparation for departure,” the flank officer informed him. “You might want to gather your possessions as you’ll be joining him.”

  Like Calpar, Haedulus had made money from the Legion. Unfortunately, the purses with the profits were in his tent at the Legion North headquarters.

  “But my personal items are at the Legion camp,” Haedulus pleaded.

  The Senior Tribune pulled a thin piece of wood from a pouch and read.

  “By order of Colonel Alerio Carvilius Sisera, all items within the stockade walls are the possessions of Regulus Legion North. At a later date, if any items are found to be of a personal nature, they will be shipped to the Central Legion for distribution. Cosigned by Marcus Atilius Regulus, Consul of the Republic by Decree of the Senate.”

  “Who in Hades does Sisera think he is?” the former Battle Commander of the North Legion inquired.

  While the Senior Tribune answered the Colonel, Optio Donatas went to a quiet corner of the courtyard to think and for some privacy while throwing up. He had reason to be ill as he had guided Senior Tribune Sisera into a trap yesterday. Now Sisera was his commanding officer. Donatas retched and while the content of his stomach came out, the fear lingered long after the spasms in his gut settled down.

  Chapter 23 – Regulus Legion
North

  A lone rider trotted up to the gate and reined in his horse. The sentry gawked in shock at seeing an unaccompanied and unfamiliar Battle Commander. Usually, Colonel’s traveled with a staff. Then he remembered himself and saluted.

  “May I direct you somewhere, sir,” the guard inquired.

  The spear, held in his right hand, angled off to the right, the butt end resting on the ground near the Legionary’s foot.

  “Where is the Centurions’ mess?” Alerio inquired.

  He had an idea based on the standard Legion camp. But the location of a corral near the commander’s area and rows of tents outside the stockade, had him worried about finding the mess before his command staff arrived.

  “Sir, it’s between second and third maniple, left flank,” the sentry reported.

  He pointed in the general direction.

  “Thank you,” Alerio said before adding. “If I ever enter the compound and you don’t challenge me with that spear, you will be digging latrines until this campaign is over. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir,” the Legionary replied.

  Alerio nudged Phobos across the ramp that bridged the defensive trench. As he rode, he scowled at the rubble thrown in the trench on either side of the ramp. Care of one’s area demonstrated pride and unit pride was a mark of discipline. And discipline won battles. The lack of it was not something Alerio wanted to entertain.

  At a large tent, he guided Phobos to a post. Spying five men sitting beside the tent, he waved to them.

  “One of you fetch a bucket of water and some oats for my horse,” he instructed while dismounting. None of the five moved or acknowledged him. “Hello. Are you sons of Harpocrates?”

  Three glanced in his direction after being questioned about the God of Silence, Secrets, and Confidentiality. The other two intentionally looked in the other direction. Alerio located a barrel of water and a bucket. After giving Phobos a drink, he patted the horse’s neck.

  “I’ll feed you later,” Alerio promised. “Right now, I have to go and win a popularity contest.”

  He dropped the bucket beside the barrel and pushed aside the flap and entered the tent.

  ***

  Alerio stood for a moment, allowing his eyes to adjust. Not that it was very dark inside. On a bright day, light came through the goatskin material. The adjustment was to see through the smoke hanging in the air. On each table, candles burned throwing off smoke. The flames and formal settings helped create an atmosphere that aided the combat officers in mentally separating from the heavy infantrymen they commanded. Although there were thirty-six Centuries of Legionaries and a corresponding number of Centurions, the officer’s mess reserved a few spots for visitors.

  “Sir, will you be joining us?” a Mess NCO inquired.

  “No, I need to address the Centurions,” Alerio replied. “Who is the highest-ranking officer in the mess?”

  “Senior Centurion Griffinus Agoston has honored us today,” the man stated. “Would you like me to introduce you to the mess, Colonel?”

  “Not right now. It won’t mean anything,” Alerio declined. “Just point me to Agoston.”

  The Legion’s top combat officer occupied the center seat at a table for five. On either side of him were older and obviously veteran Centurions.

  “Senior Centurion, I hate to interrupt your lunch,” Alerio apologized.

  “Sir, my Colonel is in Kelibia,” Agoston advised when he saw the Battle Commander’s shoulder scarf. “And so are the Legion’s Senior Tribunes.”

  “I know where they are. It’s you I wanted to see,” Alerio told him. He pulled a scroll out of a pouch and offered it to Agoston.

  The Senior Centurion wiped his hands on a cloth, took the scroll and, while chewing, read the content. He stopped chewing halfway through the document.

  “Clear the tent of messmen and servants. I don’t want anyone except line officers in the mess,” he ordered. One of the veteran Centurions got different instructions. “Run over to the maniples and have our malingering Centurions get over here, double time.”

  While the one combat officer left, the other four herded the messmen out and blocked the entrances.

  “We’ll have most of the Centurions of our infantry here shortly, sir,” Agoston promised. “Can I assume, we are your first stop?”

  “That’s correct Senior Centurion,” Alerio allowed. “When I was a Centurion, the worst thing was to get news secondhand. It helps with morale when Legionaries have gossip items before the cavalry, the light infantry, and the supply men.”

  “Isn’t that the truth,” Agoston acknowledged.

  Combat officers, young, experienced, and veterans came into the mess tent. Upon arriving, each called out, “you wanted to see me, Senior Centurion.”

  “Take a seat, Centurion,” Agoston replied every time.

  Alerio watched to see if his chief combat officer had the respect of his line officers. From the snappy greetings, and willingness to report, the officer corps of the Legion’s heavy infantry seemed to be in a good state.

  “We have six others out on patrols, sir. But the rest are here,” Agoston informed Alerio. “If you please, I would like to interduce you.”

  “Be my guest,” Alerio responded.

  “Attention in the mess,” the Legion’s senior combat officer announced. He unrolled the scroll and scanned the message to refresh his memory. “By proxy, the Senate of Rome has elevated Alerio Carvilius Sisera to Colonel of the Legions. Furthermore, the Legion formally known as Longus Legion North is now designated Regulus Legion North under the command of Colonel Sisera. Signed by Marcus Atilius Regulus, Consul of the Republic and General of the Punic Expedition.”

  Alerio started to step up next to the Senior Centurion but Agoston held out a hand to stop him.

  “That’s the official proclamation. Let me add a few words of my own,” he stated with a nod to Alerio. “As a Senior Tribune, Sisera joined the fighting on the beach to secure the landing. His actions saved countless infantrymen’s lives. In short, gentlemen, our new Battle Commander is a warrior. Let’s welcome Colonel Alerio Sisera.”

  Applause and cheers filled the tent. To Alerio, it was another sign that he could count on his combat leaders.

  “I apologize for invading your mess,” Alerio stated. More cheers rose from the line officers at the acknowledgement of their right to a private area. Centurions were a mixture of noblemen who couldn’t afford or didn’t want staff jobs and infantrymen who came up through the ranks. For them, becoming a combat officer was as high as their social class would allow. As a result of the mingling between Plebeians and Patricians, infantry Centurions formed bonds only they understood. Alerio gave them a moment to settle before continuing. “We are not a garrison in a province or one of the Legions stationed around the Republic. We are in enemy territory with one goal and that is to take the Qart Hadasht Capital and stop the war.”

  Watching closely, Alerio was pleased to see fists punching the air and other signs of agreement.

  “And the key to accomplishing that task sits in this tent,” Alerio told them. “The gladii and shields of my heavy infantrymen need to be directed. Not so much by venturesome fanatics and daredevils, but by natural leaders of a steady and reliable spirit. Are you those leaders?”

  Cheers came from the officers along with shouts of affirmation.

  “I will leave you to the job of getting the Legion ready for the fighting ahead,” Alerio concluded. “I thank you for your time and look forward to an invitation to come back and share a meal with the Centurions of Regulus Legion North. Rah.”

  Amid a roar from the combat officers, Alerio pulled Agoston in close.

  “I have a problem and a question,” Alerio mentioned.

  “What do you need, sir?” the Senior Centurion asked.

  “I need the current First Century broken up and the veterans distributed to the third maniple,” Alerio explained. “And I want to know what the Legionaries need to be in top form.”

>   “Under Calpar, who you’ve probably heard is dead, the First Century acted like street thugs,” Agoston advised. “I’ve wanted to break up that gang since we were in training. But command forbade it.”

  “Not anymore. I need them moved out before my command staff arrives,” Alerio said giving the officer permission to act. “Now, what do you need?”

  “Replacement gear and better rations,” the Senior Centurion answered.

  Alerio’s breath caught in his throat. While the supply depot in Kelibia expanded, the Legionaries at the North Legion were underfed and working with damaged equipment? It didn’t make sense unless someone was cheating the Legion, creating artificial excess, and selling it to the expedition. He had dealt with war profiteering before. But what insanity caused men to short-change the very infantry needed to keep them safe while in hostile territory?

  “Greed knows no bounds,” Alerio professed before revealing his plan. “The day after tomorrow, we are moving this camp to the far side of the lake. To celebrate the move, the Legion’s grain wagons will be filled, sacrificial meat passed out, and craftsmen on hand to fix, repair, and replace gear. The next day, we’ll hold games and the day after, Legion wide maneuvers to assess our readiness.”

  “You don’t waste daylight, do you, sir?” Agoston suggested.

  “Is that a complaint, Senior Centurion?” Alerio asked.

  “Just the opposite Colonel,” Agoston avowed. In a loud voice that filled the mess ten, he exclaimed to the line officers. “It’s good to be back in a marching Legion.”

  His declaration wasn’t lost on the combat officers. They left the tent with their heads held high and a spring in their steps. With the core of his Legion on his side, Alerio went to Phobos and mounted. He still had to win the confidence of the rest of Legion North’s fighting units.

  ***

  Almost the opposite of the infantry officers, cavalrymen were all from the same social class. Uniformly Patricians, they were sons of families who could afford a horse, tack, and the weapons required by a mounted Legionary. Not surprising, the cavalry area reflected the wealth of the riders.