Death Caller (Clay Warrior Stories Book 13) Read online

  “Camp stew?” Alerio asked.

  Civi reined in, slid off the saddle, and slowly dropped to the ground.

  “Food? I can take it or leave it,” he answered. Bending down, Civi rubbed his legs. “But if you have a pair of young knees around, I’ll take those.”

  “Are you going to be able to complete the funeral procession?” Alerio questioned while handing the former Optio a bowl of stew.

  There were three things you could count on when dealing with a long-time infantryman. Complaints about his knees or hips, his gracious acceptance of any offer of food, and his sense of duty that will drive him to complete any task required of him.

  For those reasons, Alerio Sisera did not asked about the mask or permission to fill the bowl. Both actions were guaranteed by the Legion NCO’s personality.

  “I will not miss sending the son of my General off with the proper portion of tears and wailing,” Civi declared. “Or the proper helping of vino and beef when he returns from the dead.”

  “Let’s not get ahead of my rebirth,” Alerio warned. “The funeral procession might not turn out to be as premature as you think.”

  “You could be more confident of your success, if you would let me in on your plan,” Civi complained. “I can’t help you, sir, if I don’t know your tactics.”

  “For your own safety,” Alerio assured him, “it is best if you don’t know.”

  “I got the mask for you,” Civi pointed out.

  “The what?” Alerio questioned. He walked to the horse and lifted a bag from a rear horn on the saddle. The outline of a death mask was pressed against the material. “Optio Affatus, I have no idea what you are talking about.”

  ***

  A group of drunk, loud guests staggered down the steps. A carriage rolled up in front of the Chronicles Humanum Inn and the intoxicated men weaved a path to it.

  “Thank you. Thank you for coming,” Thomasious Harricus called from the porch. “And please, come again.”

  Once the party made it into the carriage, the driver snapped his whip and the horses stepped off. Before the lantern hanging from the rear of the transport was fully visible, a man standing in shadows spoke.

  “They must have had some juicy gossip for you to allow them to stay so late,” the veiled man observed.

  Thomasious grabbed his chest in fright and stumbled back. Then he bent forward attempting to see into the shadows.

  “Say that again,” the proprietor of the inn demanded. “Or begone with you, specter.”

  “You could offer a ghoul a drink,” Alerio teased. He stepped out of the darkness. “I need a favor innkeeper.”

  When Thomasious did not reply, Alerio took his arm and walked him off the porch and into the great room.

  “Now I know you aren’t a spirit,” the innkeeper declared.

  “Because you can see me clearly?” Alerio inquired.

  “No. Because you asked for a favor,” Thomasious explained. “I can’t imagine, even you, would make the long journey from Hades just to pester me with a request.”

  “It’s good to see you too, Master Harricus,” Alerio stated.

  “How is it that you are alive?” Thomasious asked.

  “The Qart Hadasht General only brought one army,” Alerio remarked. “Plus, I am fast when I am scared.”

  “But you arrived almost two weeks after the fleet,” the innkeeper pointed out. “Obviously, you are not that fast. But you did return home, and I can’t wait for the Clay Ear to announce it.”

  “That is why I came to see you,” Alerio disclosed. “Things are going to happen in the next two days, and it would be best for me, and the Carvilius Maximus households, if I was still dead.”

  “Can I surmise, if a rumor got out that you survived Sardinia,” Thomasious projected, “you could be implicated in some nefarious actions?”

  “To be blunt, yes,” Alerio confirmed. “But there is something else, Master Harricus.”

  “You have cut the legs out from under the best story I’ve had in years,” Thomasious complained. “Why not ask for another favor?”

  “This one is easier,” Alerio promised. “I need a horse.”

  ***

  On the streets, the city guardsmen passed and Alerio slipped from the shadows. To be questioned by the guard at this point would get him recognized, ruin his plans, and spoil the purpose of the funeral feast. For his ploy to succeed, he needed everyone associated with his adopted parent’s household to be seen at the event by important citizens.

  Several blocks and dark alleys later, Alerio scurried across one of the main boulevards. Once out of sight from the throughfare, he jogged along a stone wall until reaching a gate. From behind his back, Alerio pulled the ally of the Golden Valley dagger and pounded on the gate’s door.

  “We open at daybreak,” a voice whispered from inside.

  Alerio chuckled. Most managers and owners of businesses, if disturbed in the middle of the night, would raise a fuss. Not so the Golden Valley Trading House. They believed in low tones and privacy, especially in the quiet stillness before dawn.

  “Have you no hospitality for an ally?” Alerio inquired.

  The gate opened and he slipped through and into a lantern’s light. Then he stopped. The tip of a sword floated a hand’s width from his nose.

  “That’s new,” Alerio observed while extending a hand with the ally dagger.

  “We are practicing long blades this week,” Favus explained. The manager of the Golden Valley Trading House used an arm to push aside the blade and take the dagger. “I had thought to hire a weapon’s instructor for my apprentices. But the best sword teacher in the Republic died. Would you know anything about that?”

  “I know he needs to remain dead,” Alerio stated. “And he needs a place to stay, and information.”

  “Maybe a shave and your hair trimmed?” Favus inquired while directing Alerio towards the building.

  “The unkept traveler look, unfortunately, remains for now,” Alerio replied

  “If you stay here,” Favus informed him. “I require your services.”

  “Odd that you phrased it that way,” Alerio countered. “I was thinking the same thing.”

  ***

  Late the next morning, steel clashed and feet shuffled on gravel. Hidden from curious eyes behind the walls of the Golden Valley Trading House, Alerio and an apprentice assassin sparred.

  “If you stop there,” Alerio instructed. He rested the tip of the sword on a young girl’s collar bone. “Your opponent simply leans forward, and in a flick of the wrist, you are mortally wounded.”

  “But that is wasted energy and additional movement,” Ephyra suggested.

  “I know they teach short blade work and stealth at the Golden Valley,” Alerio began to explain.

  The apprentice’s eyes flickered to the manager.

  “It is allowed, Ephyra,” Favus relayed to his student. “Tribune Sisera is the only person who, during the testing, stopped to instruct the younger students. It would be wise to heed his words.”

  She bowed her head and waited for Alerio to continue.

  “A sword’s blade is an extension of your fingers,” he described. “Unlike your fist which mimics the close in fighting of a dagger. You can duck a hammer fist or lean away from a jab with a short blade. But for long blades, if you retreat just to arm’s length, you are still within range of a sword.”

  Ephyra made a fist with her left hand and performed quick cuts in the air. Then she opened her right hand and did the same drill.

  “I can feel the length,” she conveyed. “And I can imagine the distance. Thank you, Master.”

  Favus strolled over from where he had watched his two students learn tips on sword work from Tribune Sisera.

  “Run along and do your chores,” he ordered the youths. Then to Alerio, he said. “I know you are not hiding here because you have no place to go.”

  “You are correct,” Alerio said as he handed the sword to the manager. “I need informati
on on the Fetial Priest’s quarters at the Temple of Jupiter. And a way into Fetial Mattia’s apartment.”

  “Do you want to fulfill the rumor of your death?” Favus questioned. “Because you did not ask about a way out.”

  “I do have an escape route in mind,” Alerio responded. “But I am open to suggestions.”

  “How much time do I have to think on it?” Favus asked.

  “The funeral procession is tomorrow,” Alerio responded, “on the Ides of May.”

  ***

  Deep in the night, a wagon rolled slowly up Capitoline Hill. The driver urged the horses to keep moving on the steepest part of the road and the passenger held on as the angle changed. At the crest, the road leveled, and the transport rolled easily between the platform at the top of Tarpeian Rock and the driveway to the Temple of Juno. A short way down the road, the wagon passed the Shrine of Minerva. Near the middle of the mount it rolled to a stop at the entrance to the Temple of Jupiter.

  “What have you got?” the sentry asked.

  A Temple Guard leaped into the bed and threw back the cover. Then he moved between the cargo items rocking barrels, pushing on amphorae, and tipping boxes.

  “Who ordered this?” the sentry inquired.

  “A donor and admirer of Jupiter,” the driver replied. “It is cargo from the Golden Valley Trading House for the clerics.”

  “Lucky priests,” the Temple Guard remarked. Then to the driver before stepping down, he instructed. “The load is fine. Take it to the refectory.”

  As the wagon pulled away from the gate, the guard commented to the sentry, “everything from the Golden Valley Trading House is exquisite. But way too expensive for me.”

  “You could always become a priest,” the sentry teased.

  “Not me,” the Temple Guard pushed back. “I’m happy carrying a spear for a living.”

  “Still,” the sentry countered, “some good cheese and expensive vino sound good.”

  The wagon rolled through the complex until reaching the dining hall. At an attached building, the driver eased the transport to a stop.

  “Help me unload first,” the driver said to the passenger.

  He took a lantern from the rear of the wagon leaving the cargo bed in moon shadows. Once the lantern was placed over the doorway to the storage building, the two men met at the back of the wagon and started to remove items.

  “Are you going to be long?” a Temple Guard asked as he walked out of the night.

  “Just a few more items,” the driver assured him.

  “We want delivery vehicles to be gone before early risers come to worship,” the guard warned. “Hurry it up.”

  “Certainly,” the driver acknowledged as he slid a crate to the tailgate.

  The men lifted the container. While they carried it to the storeroom, the guard continued his rounds.

  Only half the cargo had been stacked in the storage building when the moonlight that guided them across the city faded with the setting of Luna. On his way to the rear of the wagon, the driver leaned over the sideboard and rapped on a box.

  In the dark of the night, the top of the box opened, and two youths climbed out. One lifted a section of rope from the floor while the other dropped the sides and flattened the box until it blended with the bed of the wagon.

  “Go now. I’ll take care of the rest,” the driver whispered. “Success on your mission, Tribune Sisera.”

  “I will take care of Ephyra,” Alerio promised.

  “My apprentice is a master at stealth,” Favus told him. “It is not her I am worried about.”

  Alerio followed the young girl into a row of hedges. Once they vanished, Favus and his male apprentice finished unloading.

  Empty, the wagon rolled from the refectory to the gate of the Jupiter complex.

  “Looks good,” the guard announced from the back of the wagon. “Move along.”

  Two men rode the wagon onto the Temple grounds, and two rode it out. In the dark, neither the sentry nor the Temple Guard noticed the size difference. Favus’ other apprentice matched Alerio’s height by sitting on boards and that was enough to fool Temple security.

  The freight wagon would be back at the Golden Valley Trading House before dawn. Favus hoped Ephyra had Tribune Sisera sequestered long before sunrise.

  To Alerio’s displeasure and discomfort, she had.

  Chapter 34 – Funeral Procession

  The sun climbed into the sky and the shadows from the temples shrunk. Senator Maximus’ social standing required the funeral of his son to be a spectacle. To that end, twelve men clustered at the bottom of the travertine steps. When Senator Spurius Maximus emerged from the Senate Building, the twelve men wailed and extended their arms overhead. Flexing their fingers while waving their limbs as if they were in pain, they gave the impression of the damned rising from the depths of Tartarus.

  “I feel the anguish of each of you,” Maximus exclaimed, his voice breaking with emotion. He stopped, glanced back, and watched the doors of the Senate Building.

  Senators, wealthy solicitors, and secretaries filed out of the building and onto the porch. They wanted to witness the start of the funeral procession. After the initial speech, most would head home to their villas. But a few would tag along with the procession to hear the elegies and lend emotional support to the grieving father.

  “My son is gone,” Maximus stated. Moaning from the twelve men of the procession accompanied the statement. “He died on a foreign shore, far from those who loved him. Separated even from his beloved Legion comrades. Alone, save for the enemy and their blades that attacked in unfathomable numbers. Although no one witnessed his final battle, anyone familiar with my son knows he fought until the end.”

  The dozen men cried out in pain as if they were suffering death by a thousand cuts. Maximus paused to allow the emotional tide to wash over him. Once he gathered his composure, he continued.

  “My son passed from earth with no coins for the ferryman,” the Senator declared. “Today, I will walk the forum and beseech the Gods to aid my son in crossing the river Styx. And plead for their help in guiding him to the Elysian Fields.”

  The twelve screamed in frustration as if they were the ones denied access to a hero’s paradise. The clamor faded and Spurius Maximus raised his face and hands to the sky.

  “I will not allow my son to become a homeless spirit, spreading illness and bad luck among the citizens,” he promised. “Instead, by every way possible, I will see him in Hades as a benefactor to all who call his name.”

  The dozen cried out as if entreating the dead son to come to their aid.

  “My son was a hero in life as he will be in death,” Maximus swore. Muffled cheers rose from the twelve. Almost as if they felt grateful but were too heartbroken to be joyous. The Senator lowered his arms and pointed at the dozen men of the chorus. Then he looked down and acknowledged them. “I require voices to chant to the Gods about my son and let them know of his value.”

  The dozen men groaned in sadness.

  “And who can I count on to represent a hero?” the Senator questioned.

  The men in the procession bowed their heads and lowered one of their arms. Twelve hands remained in the air, undoubtably volunteering for the challenge.

  Spurius Maximus accepted the help by saying “It is right and just that the best person to speak on my son’s behalf is himself. And, praise be, I see Alerio Carvilius Sisera in each of your faces.”

  Twelve wax masks with the likeness of Alerio elevated to peer at the grieving father. Behind the masks, the men wailed in grief for the dead man whose face they wore.

  Maximus marched down the steps and his strides were matched by the dozen mask wearers as he headed towards the forum. Falling in behind the funeral procession, friends of the Senator and curiosity seekers followed. To the rear of them, Belen, the Senator’s secretary, and an animal handler with a donkey, brought up the rear. A wooden structure rested on the animal’s back and from it hung dozens of wineskins. The
vino was a prerequisite as participating in a funeral procession was thirsty work.

  ***

  Alerio shivered. Not because the weather was unnecessarily cold, but the enclosure held dampness. And no warmth from sunlight reached the inside of the cistern.

  A splash in the reservoir water alerted him to movement.

  “Tribune, are you ready?” Ephyra inquired.

  Her voice pitched low. The tone prevented echoes in the enclosed space.

  “I’m ready to get out of the water,” he whispered in the dark.

  “Then I am sorry to disappoint you,” the apprentice assassin apologized.

  A pluck of water sounded which confused Alerio. Following the noise, the cistern grew quiet until Ephyra resurfaced. He recognized the noise of water running off her.

  “Follow me,” she instructed. “It’s a tight fit but I think you will fit.”

  “Not to be ungrateful,” Alerio remarked. “But you aren’t the one who will get stuck under the water and drown. Can’t we leave the way we came in?”

  “You can,” the young assassin agreed. “The exit is just above the courtyard of the Temple Guard’s barracks. The choice is yours, Tribune.”

  “I get your point,” Alerio caved. “How small is the pipe?”

  “Keep your arms extended and you should be fine,” she described. “I’ve removed the screen to the channel. Are you ready?”

  “Yes,” he said without enthusiasm.

  They ducked underwater and followed the sloping bottom of the tank. At the wall, Alerio located a circular opening in time to feel Ephyra vanish into the tube. With his hands, he measured the gap.

  ‘I always assumed my end would be from a well-placed blade, Goddess Nenia,’ Alerio prayed. ‘If this is my end, please, oh please, come for me quickly.’

  Then he put his palms together, pushed off the bottom, kicked, and squeezed his way into the water pipe.

  ***

  The funeral procession gathered around the Comitium. One of the masked men climbed to the podium, crossed it, and stopped beside a decorative column with bronze fins jutting from the pillar.