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Tingling as if a snake slithered down his spine, caused Alerio to stiffen. The warning sensation, honed over years of combat, alerted him to trouble.

  “Those factions against getting Agron trained properly,” he inquired, “is one of them King Pleuratus?”

  “I’ll let the Queen’s brother answer that,” Epulon said pushing the question aside. “He should be along shortly after we beach.”

  “Will Agron’s uncle know the inclination of the King?”

  “He should,” Epulon told Alerio. “Admiral Driton is the commander of the Taulantii fleet. From what I hear, he has spies in the court of every Illyrian King.”

  ***

  The keel of the Queen’s raider ground into the sand. Men jumped down, placed their palms on the hull, bent their backs, and shoved it up and out of the water.

  “They don’t park stern first,” Hektor observed.

  “I guess without the ram out front, the Illyrian warships can go to ground in either direction,” Alerio responded.

  “Is there an advantage to that?” Hektor asked.

  “Only if they’re being chased to shore by a Republic warship,” Alerio described. “While the Legion vessel would waste moments backstroking to shore, the Illyrian raider could beach, and the crew be in battle lines before the Marines reach land.”

  Hektor went to collect their bundles, and Epulon took his place at the rail.

  “Thank you for the ride, Captain,” Alerio offered. “And the information.”

  “The outcome is important,” Epulon replied, “and the result depends on you surviving. The Cleric of the Snake says you are a great fighter.”

  “Over a lot of years and even more battles,” Alerio asserted, “I’ve found ways to stay alive.”

  Epulon let his eyes roam from Alerio’s hat to his hobnailed boots.

  “Personally, I can’t see what the Cleric sees in you.”

  Hektor dropped the bundles containing their gear beside Alerio’s leg. Then the youth jumped to the ground, turned around, and held out his arms.

  “That’s all right,” Alerio comforted the pirate Captain while tossing one of the bundles to Hektor, “the Cleric is blind.”

  He threw the other bundle and jumped from the liburnian.

  “Where to now, sir?” Hektor inquired.

  Alerio glanced at the nearest village. There was no one coming to greet them from that location. But movement at a group of fishing huts caught his eyes. Scanning from the village to the huts, he watched three men march from between fishing nets.

  “Weapons, sir?” Hector inquired. He squatted, pulled his medical kit from one bundle, and placed a hand on the other package. “Or will you stay with the gladius?”

  The men carried far more muscles than men who rowed out to sea and cast nets all day. That work left fishermen sunburned, and the diet of fish made them sinewy with little bulk. The trio shuffling through the sand had thick thighs and wide shoulders. Their physical development resulted from marching long distances and practicing with a shield and a spear.

  “Captain Epulon, what’s the fine for dueling on the beach?” Alerio called to the raider ship.

  “No fine for fighting anywhere.”

  “And the punishment for killing a man in a fight?”

  “This is Illyria,” Epulon noted. “The worst case is relatives of the dead man coming for revenge.”

  “And the penalty for crippling a man?”

  “If he’s alive, the family will expect him to extract his own revenge.”

  “What are you thinking, sir?” Hektor whispered.

  The three stopped two body lengths away.

  “I think this is a test,” Alerio replied. He untied his sword belt and let it drop to the sand. “Throw the matched set of blades when I move. Let’s see if they’ll be satisfied with a little show.”

  Hektor reached out and scooped the belt with the gladius and Legion dagger to his side. Then he peeled back a fold and placed both hands in the bundle.

  “Ready, sir,” he exclaimed.

  “Gentlemen, good day to you,” Alerio greeted the three soldiers. “Would one of you be Admiral Driton?”

  “What are you doing on my beach?” the biggest one challenged.

  “We don’t like it when Latians wash up on our shore,” the smallest bellowed.

  Alerio placed them in order of which one was more dangerous. The smaller because he was already hyped for a fight and the hilt on his sica was rubbed smooth from use. Next came the big one. It would take warmup strikes and punches before he committed himself to the fight. But when he did, it would take a lot to bring him down.

  “How about you?” Alerio asked the third man.

  “I don’t like you,” he blurted.

  The unimaginative response put him at the bottom of the list.

  “Hektor, the little one,” Alerio said to the side. Then, he squared his shoulders and addressed the third man. “I meant are you, Admiral Driton?”

  The three exchanged glances. Maybe they questioned how the stranger knew the Navarch was involved. Or, the thugs thought it odd the man assumed one of them was the Admiral. But neither choice mattered. Alerio Sisera sprinted at the smaller man. Lowering a shoulder, he rammed the man, pushed through, and tossed him to the ground. The other two turned to their fallen comrade and offered their hands to help him up.

  “Get away from me,” he stammered while vaulting to his feet. “Get him.”

  The three pivoted to face Alerio.

  ***

  A pair of sharp blades whistled and spun over the heads of the assailants. The whoop-whoop sounds caused them to duck. With little momentum, the weapons flew above them, then fell just beyond. Despite the rotation, the Latian snatched the hilts of the swords out of the air.

  Only when the swords were stationary and pointed in their direction did the trio see the blades. On average, a sica blade measured thirteen inches. The Latian held a pair of sica swords seven inches longer than average.

  “That’s the free show,” the stranger stated. “Stepping forward for more fun has a price. Are you ready to pay it?”

  In a bar fight, if they knew they were up against a swordsman, they would call in more of their unit. But they knew the Latian was a swordsman before they started. But he’d been unarmed a moment ago.

  “He dropped his sword belt,” the dullard mumbled. “Where did he get the blades?”

  “Don’t worry about his blades,” the short man ordered. He pulled his sica and reminded the other two. “We have blades, as well.”

  A knifeman will draw his blade without looking at the sheath. The short man did. But he needed to check and see if his men also pull their sicas. In the beat where the leader looked to the side and the big man glanced down to the grip of his knife, the Latian jumped forward.

  The pommel of the right sword hammered into the big man’s forehead. And a swipe with the left blade forced the other two to move away. After dropping the big man to the beach, the swordsman hopped back two paces.

  “The price goes up from here,” he warned.

  The short assailant crouched and etched the air with his blade. From any of the positions, he could stab or slash. All it would take was a quick shuffle forward and...

  Flying above the knife, the toes of the hobnailed boot hooked behind his shoulder and spun him to the side. Anticipating the arrival of a steel tip, the soldier danced away from the path of the sword. The move saved the knifeman but put him out of striking distance.

  ***

  Alerio swung the sword but turned the blade at the last moment. The steel smacked the slow soldier in the side of his head. He crumpled to the beach, ending up draped over the legs of the big man. Left with one adversary, the Legion officer shuffled sideways to line up with the short soldier.

  “Your two friends are going to wake up with headaches,” Alerio commented. Then he shouted. “Hektor. Which is easier to stitch up, an arm or a shoulder wound?”

  “The arm is messier and takes longer to stitch.
But after treatment he can hold it immobilized and sleep with it,” the Greek replied. “The shoulder is quick to treat. Unless you cut him to the bone. In any case, he’ll sleeps sitting up for a month. Shoulder wounds are painful, and the patient can’t get comfortable laying down.”

  The soldier rushed at Alerio. Sica extended, he drove for the Legionary’s gut. One sword came up while the other chopped downward. They caught the man’s sica in a scissor’s movement. The short blade snapped in half.

  “Your arm or your shoulder?” Alerio asked the man holding the broken knife.

  “Look, Latian, I was just supposed to find out if you could fight,” he explained.

  He took a step backward.

  “I know that,” Alerio acknowledged. He mimicked the step except he moved forward. “Your arm or your shoulder?”

  “But you’ve proven yourself,” the man pleaded.

  “You see, I’m not just a good fighter,” Alerio stated while keeping pace with the retreating soldier. “I’m a man who demands retribution for those who offend me. Arm or shoulder?”

  “Epulon, get him off me,” the short assailant begged.

  “I’m not sending any of my crew into that meat grinder,” the pirate Captain responded. “Maybe you should run.”

  As if the idea was a new concept, the soldier paused. He took a breath, spun from Alerio, and sprinted away.

  “Hektor, pack these but not too deep,” Alerio instructed.

  He dropped the matched set of swords and picked up his weapons belt. While strapping it on, he peered up at Epulon.

  “Is that the best you have?” he asked.

  “Probably not. But to be honest, he’s usually a dangerous man.”

  “I figured,” Alerio stated. “Now what?”

  Epulon pointed in the direction of the village. Six men, including the knifeman, strutted from between houses.

  “Is this another test?” Alerio questioned. “Or is one of them Admiral Driton?”

  “The Navarch is the tall man in the front,” Epulon responded. Then he shouted to his crew. “Launch us. It’s time we reported to our Admiral.”

  The Boria slid off the beach, splashed into the swells, and headed for deep water.

  ***

  The six stopped four paces from Alerio, and the man at the head of the group raised his hands to show they were empty.

  “I am Admiral Driton, and you must be Legionary Alerio Sisera,” the Navarch announced. “Welcome to Lezhë.”

  “That man owes me blood,” Alerio barked. He indicated the short knifeman.

  The Admiral rocked back on his heels as if punched.

  “It was just a test,” he informed Alerio. “And I might add you passed…”

  “Do you think this is a game? He pulled a knife on me with the intention of slicing open my stomach and spilling my guts on the sand.”

  “Let me understand. You want to continue the fight with Sergeant Gezim?” Driton questioned. “But you have your man bandaging the heads of the other two soldiers and giving them herbs.”

  “Hektor, what are you doing?”

  “Sir, head injuries usually cause dizziness and vomiting,” the medic reported. “I’m giving them spearmint to settle their stomachs and apple vinegar with honey to help with the wooziness. Should I stop?”

  “No, you’re doing fine,” Alerio replied. He faced the Admiral. “Those men stood and fought. Not well but they fell in combat. Your Sergeant Gezim ran. For that alone, I want him to bleed.”

  At the insult, the short man marched to the front. Using the end of the broken blade, he sliced deeply into his forearm.

  “Satisfied?” Gezim sneered.

  Alerio cocked his head to the side, smiled at the drops of blood dripping from the wound, and called to Hektor.

  “Bring your kit,” he directed. “I’ll speak with the Admiral while you stitch up his Sergeant.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You aren’t just a Legion infantryman, are you?” Driton inquired.

  “No, sir,” Alerio stated. “But for the purposes of this mission, that’s all I am. A hardnosed Legion weapon’s instructor.”

  At the description, the Illyrian Sergeant nodded his head before closing his eyes against the pain.

  “The vinegar only burns for a few moments,” Hektor assured Gezim. “I like to clean a wound before stitching it closed. It prevents the rot.”

  Chapter 5 – Reasons for Arguing

  The two-story stone and lumber building sat back from the coast at the halfway point between the beach and the Drin River. It wasn’t the only building with a second story in the town, but it was the only one with a tower on the roof. Three men stood at rails on a platform, peering off into the distance.

  “We keep an eye on the shoreline and the river, both upstream and downstream,” Admiral Driton explained.

  The watchers knew when the Boria hit the beach. Alerio was tempted to bring it up, but the test of his martial skills told him why he wasn’t met by Driton when he landed. Instead of questioning the Admiral, he probed, “I thought you were friendly with your neighbors.”

  “We are for the most. But ever since King Pleuratus began adding raider ships and increasing his army, we’ve grown cautious.”

  A watcher lifted a flag and waved it. Across the river, and high on a hill, another flag signaled a reply.

  “You communicate with soldiers in the fort,” Alerio noted.

  “The Taulantii was once the most powerful tribe in Illyria,” Driton boasted. “Now, we guard what we have and remain vigil for invasion. Especially from the north.”

  “Are Ardiaeins assembling at the boarder?” Alerio inquired.

  Driton and Sisera marched through the town while Hektor, his three patients, and the Navarch’s entourage followed. The Admiral glanced back to be sure none of his people were close.

  “Pleuratus has his troops on the Dardani border chasing bandits,” Driton informed Alerio. “But, in three days, he could bring them from the west and be on my doorstep. So, we keep watch and remain ready to defend our property.”

  “I thought the whole purpose of the Agron mission was to maintain cordial relations between your tribes,” Alerio submitted. “You make it sound adversarial.”

  “Shkodër is only twenty-two miles from here,” Driton responded while pushing open the door to the building. “My sister can only do so much. The rest is up to me and my King.”

  They entered a large room and Alerio smiled. Military headquarters were the same everywhere he went. Clerks at desks scratched ink on scrolls, then passed them to another clerk to make more marks. Junior officers jumped to their feet when the Admiral entered.

  “We’ll have lunch and discuss getting us to Shkodër,” Driton directed. Responding to waves for his attention, the Navarch pointed Alerio to a door at the back of the room. “Go through there and stack your equipment out of the way. I’ll meet you in the dining room when I’ve finished with these issues.”

  “I understand, sir,” Alerio replied.

  He and Hektor walked through the busy administration area. On the far side of the doorway, they saw a table with place settings. Alerio guided Hektor to a side wall where they dropped the bundles.

  “Good throw back on the beach,” Alerio complimented the youth. “You didn’t hit any of the soldiers in the back of the head or me in the chest.”

  “It’s because you suggested I throw axes with both hands at the range,” Hektor responded. “Before that, neither sword would have reached you. Colonel Sisera, do you mind if I make a couple of observations.”

  “You’re the only confidante I have in the vicinity,” Alerio told him. “I would hope you’d speak your mind.”

  “For a tribe that is simply holding their territory, the Taulantii seem to be very organized,” the youth asserted. “The other room is not full of scribes doing an accounting of the harvest, sir.”

  “I caught that,” Alerio remarked. “Keep your eyes and ears open. What else?”


  “Why did you want the Sergeant to bleed?” Hektor inquired. “The fight was over, and you had won.”

  “The Illyrians are warriors,” Alerio replied. “To prevent them from trying me again, they need to know there is a cost for challenging me. They still might, but they’ll think twice before acting on the impulse. Besides, the Admiral had to take us seriously for whatever reason.”

  “You don’t think he’s earnest about getting Agron trained?”

  “I think he wants Agron on the throne,” Alerio surmised. “If not, then why the elaborate scheme. But I question if we’re part of his plan. We may have been dumped on him by his sister and the Cleric.”

  “From what I’ve heard, Queen Jeta sounds capable,” Hektor commented.

  “I was thinking along the same lines,” Alerio agreed. “Except, formidable was the word that came to me.”

  They left the bundles against the wall and walked to a table holding a carafe of wine, a pitcher of beer, and a collection of pretty glass cups.

  “Fresh off an Egyptian transport,” Hektor suggested while picking up a cup and admiring the workmanship.

  He poured wine for Alerio and a glass of beer for himself.

  “The vino is from the Isle of Rhodes, if memory serves me,” Alerio declared after a sip. “Probably taken off an unfortunate Athenian trader.”

  “You’re wrong about the source,” Navarch Driton corrected. He strutted through the doorway. “The Isle of Rhodes wine came off a Qart Hadasht merchant ship. My raiders were very proud of themselves when they presented the casks to me.”

  Alerio lifted the glass in salute but held the vessel aloft. Peering at the cup, he inquired, “Is King Pleuratus adding to his army and fleet because he’s aggressive? Or, is he responding to your actions?”

  “An excellent observation,” Driton allowed. A junior officer reached for the carafe and a glass. Moments later, he handed the Admiral the beverage. “Let me shortcut that for you, Sisera. I could put my nephew on the throne. But that would mean war and blood feuds. My King and I much prefer a peaceful transition.”

  “If there’s contention between your people, how am I supposed to go from here to there and complete the mission?” Alerio questioned. “Won’t I be seen as an agent of Taulantii?”