Clay Warrior Stories Boxset 2 Page 5

  “What Tribune?” demanded Peregrinus.

  “Before you brought out the wagons and burned them, a Tribune rode in,” explained Alerio. “He seemed older but I wouldn’t trust him. He left two wounded cavalrymen in his dust. Sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to speak out of line.”

  “All this time, there was another staff officer in the camp?” Peregrinus growled. “Excuse me Lance Corporal Sisera. I have a pair of cōleī to kick.”

  “Yes, sir, I understand completely,” Alerio said.

  But the words were spoken to the Tribune’s back. The young nobleman was stalking towards the gate with his shoulder set hard and his fist balled up.

  ***

  The group came close enough for Alerio to recognize Sergeant Meleager and Centurion Seneca. Around them were over a hundred men with another seventy or so carrying about thirty-five wounded.

  “Report, Sisera,” Meleager demanded as he stepped away from the formation.

  They were separated as the units marched by. Once the last Legionary had passed, Alerio stepped across to his Sergeant.

  “The gate is secure, Sergeant,” Alerio stated while holding out his arms to indicate the Legionaries, the open gate, and the burned wagons.

  As an experienced NCO, Meleager had a sharp eye for details. The first thing he noticed was the dried blood on Sisera and his squad. While the rest of the detail had a few traces, it was obvious Seventh Squad had done some hard fighting.

  “Explain those,” Meleager stated while pointing at the burned wagons.

  “The ground was too hard, and we didn’t have time to dig. So, Tribune Peregrinus burned them,” Alerio explained. “It worked as you can see, no tribesmen breached our gate defenses.”

  “The young Tribune?” asked the Sergeant.

  “He’s been running the camp single handedly,” Alerio said. “From what I can see and the response from inside, he’s done a good job organizing the returning Legionaries.”

  “Alright, let me see about getting your detail relieved,” the Sergeant said as he turned towards the gate.

  Suddenly, two columns of Legionaries appeared. At first glance, there seemed to be two full Centuries stacked, loaded down with gear, and ready to march. Behind them, two raised voices quarreled.

  “I’m taking the Centuries and going to get help,” a man exclaimed. “As the Senior Tribune, it’s my decision.”

  “You can’t take healthy Legionaries out of the camp,” Tribune Peregrinus argued back. “We have too many wounded. I need those men to guard the camp.”

  The two noblemen walked through the gate. One leading a horse and Peregrinus walking along looking up at a taller and older Tribune.

  “Look Peregrinus, you are a nice lad, but I know what I’m doing,” the other Tribune said with a condescending tone. “You can stay here and play Legionary. As for me, I’m marching out of here right now.”

  “I will not allow it,” Peregrinus insisted.

  “Who is going to stop me? You?” the Tribune challenged then he shouted. “Centuries, stand by. Forward march.”

  The Centuries stomped once and took two steps. Centurion Seneca appeared behind the two Tribunes.

  “Centuries, halt!” shouted the Senior Centurion. “Sorry sirs. But marching out at dusk into enemy held territory is suicide. I cannot allow it.”

  “And who are you?” asked the Tribune.

  “I’m senior Centurion Seneca formerly of the Forty-Seventh Century,” he explained.

  “Formerly? What does that mean?” asked the Tribune sourly.

  “It means I’ve assumed the responsibility as Senior Centurion of the Legion,” Seneca stated. “And for your information, I’ve polled the Legion and, in the absence of a staff officer, we’ve elected a temporary commander.”

  “I am the senior staff officer,” the Tribune insisted. “As such, I am marching out of here with these Legionaries.”

  “No, sir. Not without the authority of the camp commander,” stated Seneca.

  “And who would that be?” demanded the Tribune.

  “Tribune Peregrinus. Based on his heroic efforts to care for our wounded and to see to the comfort of his Legionaries, the Centuries have voted him our Commander,” Seneca announced. Then the old Centurion turned to Peregrinus and asked, “Orders, sir?”

  “Stand these Centuries down and organize a relief for the gate detail,” Peregrinus directed. “We’ll need to go over each Century for fitness and set a guard rotation. There’s a town of rebels a mile from here and a force of mounted Insubri nearby.”

  Before anyone could react, the older Tribune leaped on his horse and kneed it into a gallop. The move so shocked everyone that they stood watching as he rode down the bank of the Tiber river. At the foothills south of Volsinii, fifteen Insubri ponies raced onto the riverbank and the Tribune was hacked from his horse.

  “Nearer than he thought,” Drustanus whispered.

  “Senior Centurion Seneca. I believe we’ll need to rethink our guard strength,” Peregrinus pondered. “What does the Legion call a situation like this?”

  “A siege, Tribune,” Seneca replied.

  Act 2

  Chapter 9 – The Better Pantry

  Alerio and Seventh Squad were huddled around their campfire. Since their relief, the sun had set, the stars vanished behind heavy clouds, and the temperature dropped. The entire squad was tired and cold. There was a bright spot, the hot food.

  “Why are we out here when it’s going to snow?” inquired Cimon as he broke off a piece of bread and dipped it in his bowl of stew. After chewing off the tasty piece, he declared. “This stew is almost as good as mine.”

  “We’ve served together for five years, Cimon,” observed Drustanus. “And never have you made anything as delicious as the stew from the General’s cook.”

  “Well, the cook has a pantry with better supplies,” protested Cimon. “What do you expect me to do with cornmeal, salt, flour and the occasional piece of greasy meat and a few wilted vegetables. Tell you what. The next time it’s my day to cook, use my iron pan and see what you can make.”

  “I don’t cook. I hunt and trade for the squad’s wine,” explained Drustanus.

  He reached down and refilled his clay mug from the squad’s pitcher.

  “Then don’t compare my cooking with the General’s guy,” Cimon complained.

  “I didn’t. It was you who compared your cooking to the stew,” Drustanus protested.

  “No. You said my cooking was not as good as the staff’s cook,” Cimon declared.

  The rest of the squad shook their heads as if they’d heard the conversation many times before. Alerio reached out and grabbed the vino pitcher. After refilling his mug, he leaned over and refilled Cimon’s.

  “Do you think it’s going to snow?” Alerio asked in an attempt to change the subject.

  Drustanus shielded his eyes with his hand, turned to look over their tent, and away from the fire.

  “The clouds are fat and it’s cold enough,” he said while looking up at the dark sky. “And it smells like snow.”

  “I already told you it was going to snow,” offered Cimon.

  “You said. Why are we out here when it’s going to snow?” Drustanus added. “If you’re done in, then turn in.”

  “I wasn’t talking about sleeping. I meant why is the Legion out here in the early spring?” Cimon asked.

  “A friend of mine with the wagon drivers said General Gurges thought the Legion could take Volsinii in a day. Then spend a day sacking the town, shackling slaves, and putting rebel leaders up on the wood,” explained Drustanus. “The wagons were ordered not to unpack all the gear. The plan was for us to break camp and march south on day five. Didn’t work out for us, did it?”

  “Five days would have been good for me. After this, I’m headed for my father’s farm before reporting back to the Southern Legion,” Alerio explained. “But why march in the early spring? Why not wait for summer?”

  “The General’s term is up in
a week,” Cimon said bending towards the fire and dropping his voice. “He couldn’t lead a Legion when his term as Consul is up. No Generalship, no Legion, and no glory. So, here we are waiting for it to snow with a busted Legion.”

  “And Insubri warriors lounging on our doorstep,” added Drustanus.

  A sharp cry of pain came from down the road. The anguished scream carried from the medic’s tent. It traveled along the clear path between the neat rows of Legionary tents before reaching Seventh Squad’s camp.

  “That’s a hand,” proclaimed Cimon. “If the medics had taken anything bigger, the scream would have been longer. Anybody disagree?”

  “Not me. Besides, I’m too tired to walk down and ask the medic,” another member of the Seventh declared. “Keep your coin.”

  “Lads, if you don’t bet you can’t make extra coin,” Cimon advised. “Probably a right hand. Some cūlus of a mounted Insubri rode by, swung his long sword, and chopped into a Legionary’s wrist. That’s a medical discharge with no pension.”

  “Mounted barbarians are frightening,” the squad member commented as he poked at the campfire.

  “Unless you have a squad leader with a long swinging mentula,” Drustanus declared while glaring across the campfire at Alerio.

  “Animals are afraid of flames. One time on my father’s farm a field caught fire. Every animal nearby ran just from the smell of the smoke,” Alerio said in his defense. “I figured the ponies were half wild so they would bolt from the smoke and sight of the flames.”

  “And if they hadn’t?” inquired Drustanus.

  Another yell came from the medic’s tent. This one, a high pitched and prolonged scream.

  “If the ponies hadn’t panicked, there wouldn’t be enough left of me for the medics to saw on,” admitted Alerio.

  “That’s a leg,” Cimon announced. He held up his mug of watered vino and used it to point down the road in the direction of the medic’s tent. “For sure, a leg. Anyone disagree?”

  ***

  Alerio was curled up in a blanket with his armor, gladius and most of his personal gear at his head. Surprisingly, the goatskin of the ten-man tent kept the cold air out. Unfortunately, the ground where the eight Legionaries slept held the cold. Anything soft they owned was spread out under a second blanket to provide a little insulation.

  “Lance Corporal. Sisera. Wake up,” Cimon whispered as he shook Alerio’s foot.

  “What? Is it my watch?” Alerio asked as he shielded his eyes from the lantern’s light.

  “No. Meleager wants to see you,” Cimon explained. “He said to leave your armor but get dressed. Oh, and I suggest you take your cloak. It’s starting to snow and it’s cold.”

  “On the way,” Alerio promised as he slipped out from under the blanket.

  Thankfully his tunic and wool trousers were warm from his body’s heat. After getting dressed, strapping on his gladius and securing the long knife with the black and yellow hilt to the small of his back, Alerio wrapped the cloak around his shoulders and tossed back the tent flap.

  “Good morning, Lance Corporal,” Meleager greeted him.

  “Just a moment Sergeant. Cimon, how many turns?” Alerio asked his Left Pivot while glancing down at the squad’s hourglass.

  “Four turns, the sand is about to run out,” Cimon announced. “Drustanus is on perimeter duty. I’ll collect him once I wake our camp guard. Run along with the Sergeant and tend your NCO business. We have this under control.”

  “What can I do for you, Sergeant?” Alerio asked as he turned to face Meleager.

  “Walk with me, Sisera,” the Century’s Sergeant ordered.

  ***

  They left Seventh Squad’s area and Meleager guided them towards the center of the Legion camp. As they strolled along the road, the Sergeant glanced around at the squad tents lining the road. If any neglected to have a guard by their campfire, he would roust the entire squad and have them all stand guard until sunrise. Theft was rare but he’d seen squads fight each other over missing gear more than once. Satisfied the squad areas were secure, he turned and studied the crescent shaped scar on Alerio’s head.

  Lance Corporal Sisera had arrived as Centurion Seneca gathered a Century from Central Legion to fill out Gurges Legion. A senior Tribune’s recommendation spoke highly of the weapon’s instructor, so they’d given Sisera Seventh Squad. From watching the young NCO and based on reports, he had done a good job.

  “While I was touring the perimeter, I had a chance to speak with Private Drustanus. Were you a Raider with the Eastern Legion?” Meleager inquired but continued without a pause. “He also told me about the smoke and fire pony trick. He promised not to try it. You?”

  “I don’t believe I’d do it again,” Alerio assured him.

  “No. Were you with the Raiders?” Meleager corrected.

  As an experienced Sergeant of a Century, Meleager often tested his Legionaries to see if they were paying attention. Plus, it was interesting to hear which question they chose to answer. Sisera addressed the inquiry concerning his squad. It was what the Sergeant wanted to hear. If he hadn’t been on loan from the Southern Legion, he would promote Sisera to Corporal.

  “I was with the Raiders,” Alerio confirmed. “Why the early morning stroll? Is something wrong? Can I help?”

  The Sergeant looked between the snowflakes and peered at the Lance Corporal. Is he waiting to see which question I answer? Deciding he wasn’t being tested, Meleager exhaled creating a cloud with his breath.

  “We’re surrounded by barbarians and half the Legion is wounded or dead. Coronel Pholus is dead, and General Gurges awaits the arrival of Morta,” Meleager stated grimly. “So, in reply to your question, a lot is wrong. Can you help? That’s up to Tribune Peregrinus and Centurion Seneca.”

  ***

  As they progressed down the road, Alerio saw a large tent on the same camp square as the staff and command tents and the General’s quarters. Two men stood outside with their heads tilted up letting snow hit and melt on their faces. A large fire burned behind a covered wagon and four braziers cast light on the entrance to the tent.

  A medic pushed aside the tent flap with his shoulder. He emerged sideways and as he straightened, Alerio could see a large pan clutched in his hands.

  “Barrel and wagon,” the medic ordered.

  One of the snow gazers walked over to a barrel and lifted the lid. While a dark liquid from the pan was emptied into the container, the man carrying the lid went to the wagon and tossed back the goatskin cover.

  After pouring out the liquid, the medic walked to the wagon and swung the pan as a farmer would while spreading seed. An object flew out of the pan and sailed into the bed of the wagon. Before the man could pull the cover back into place, Alerio and Sergeant Meleager came close enough to see details.

  All three men wore blood stained leather aprons. Alerio hadn’t seen so much blood since he gutted a deer after a successful hunt. In the wagon were arms, legs, hands and the bodies of dead Legionaries. The medics had been busy amputating limbs left hanging by bad sword strokes or pony hooves. In the coming days, the medics would remove other limbs as wounds festered. In a way, taking off a hand, a leg or an arm was better for a Legionary’s health. Although maimed, the hot iron sealed the sawcut and prevented the rot.

  “They’ll use the blood in the barrel to consecrate the burial sites,” Meleager observed then he guided Alerio away from the medical tent. “The command tent is over there.”

  Alerio turned away from the medical tent and shuddered. Hacking off a limb with a gladius may be harsh, but it was done in the heat of battle. Surgeons achieved the same result but they did it in a slow deliberate manner. There was one commonality, both actions were accompanied by screaming and bleeding.

  Chapter 10 – Command and Control

  Generals lived far differently than the average Legion squad. Alerio felt the warmth as soon as he and the Optio stepped into the command tent. A bowl on a side table held grapes, pomegranates, and
apples. The fruit left sitting there so anyone on the staff could choose one and eat it. On another side table, cheese and olive bowls were separated by little pieces of toasted bread. Alerio’s mouth watered and his stomach growled. Cimon called it, the General’s cook had the better pantry.

  Centurion Seneca, three other Centurions, and a heavily bandaged Tribune stood around a map. The map covered the surface of a large table occupying the space between the end tables with the ornate rations.

  “Meleager, you have a shadow?” Seneca asked looking up from the map. All the officers’ eyes lifted. The Centurions nodded at the Sergeant and Alerio while the Tribune scowled.

  “Lance Corporal Sisera was a Raider with the Eastern Legion,” the Sergeant stated. “I thought he might have a suggestion or two about our situation.”

  “A Legionary?” growled the Tribune. “Sergeant if you please, remove him. We are the command staff and do not consult with common soldiers. What’s next? We ask the Centuries to vote on the Legion’s attack plan?”

  Alerio’s mind drifted as he prepared to turn around. Maybe the Legion wouldn’t be in this situation if the Centuries, or at least the Centurions, had been asked to vote on the ill-fated assault plan. One thing disappointed him about being dismissed so abruptly. He hadn’t had an opportunity to liberate an apple, or two. Or maybe five, so each member of Seventh Squad could have a half an apple.

  “I’d best go check on the guard rotation,” Alerio said to Meleager. Then he saluted Seneca. “Sir, by your leave?”

  The old Centurion had a sour look on his face as if he’d eaten some bad pig.

  “Dismissed, Lance Corporal,” Seneca replied.

  Alerio pushed aside the flap of the command tent and stepped into the cold night air. Wrapping the cloak tighter to keep out the blowing snow, he shivered and headed for the squad area.

  ***

  Shortly after Alerio left, Tribune Peregrinus, a doctor, and an older man pushed through an inside flap. As they stepped from the General’s sleeping quarters, all the officers and the Sergeant looked over.