Neptune's Fury Page 7

  “After we burn that abomination of a boat,” Pannacci threatened. Using the knife, he pointed down at the keel and developing hull in the channel. “Once the flames have purified the Umbria dignity, the Republic’s desire for Stifone will cool with the ashes.”

  “Can I ask you something?” Alerio inquired.

  “A dead man should be granted a final request.”

  “What will Nardi Cocceia say when you tell him, the coins he spent on this project have gone up in smoke?”

  “The administrator is wealthy and can survive the loss,” Pannacci assured the Legion officer. “In time, he will accept the fact that Umbria’s future does not lay with the Republic.”

  Alerio had assumed this attack was purely revenge. But the addition of a political message changed his understanding of the situation.

  ***

  On the boatyard level, carpenters and apprentices stowed tools. Some climbed ramps up and out of the work canal while others walked directly to their camps. In the thin forest, fires flared to life at campsites. Happy at the end of the work day, some of the apprentices began to sing.

  To the triad of Umbrian deities

  Patre, Marte, and Vofione

  Every prayer from every station

  Enough to bless

  Everyone in the Umbria nation

  Alerio’s mouth began moving but he didn’t allow any sound to escape. When Pannacci turned from looking over the edge, he noted the moving lips.

  “What are you saying?” he demanded.

  “Let each give to their means, to the priest to buy the beasts and,” Alerio mumbled so low that the inexperienced war leader leaned forward. ”the duty of the slaughter.”

  Alerio’s head racked back then shot forward. Not expecting to be assaulted by a man bound and guarded, Pannacci’s neck wobbled like a loose rope, snapping his head from side to side. The unexpected violence from Alerio’s headbutt wiped Pannacci’s mind and the war leader went comatose.

  From below, the apprentices sang as they cleaned up after another hard day.

  Every man must offer

  And in return receive

  As the gods perceive

  Their just needs

  The three Umbria warriors were singing to each other and not looking at their hostage. But the noise from their leader crashing to the ground snapped them out of the song.

  “Three red boars, at the small fountains will be cut,” Alerio sang while he dropped to his backside. Once on the ground, he rolled onto the small of his back, jerked his arms with the loose binding from under his butt, and brought them to his chest. “Upon the ground, spills their blood and guts.”

  The Umbria warriors hesitated while determining who was more important, their leader or the prisoner. They decided when one dropped to check on Pannacci and the other two raised their spears, hunched their shoulders, and stalked towards the man sitting in the grass.

  Accept our offerings Patre

  Everyone beseeches you

  For a slice of sacrificial meat, creativity

  And unique to each, prosperity

  Alerio rolled forward onto his knees and lifted his arms. The two spears drew close as if to intimidate the helpless man.

  To the nobleman prosperity means

  coins of gold

  To the Craftsman it lays in parity

  To the Freeman finding a betrothed

  To the Servant helpings of casserole

  And to the lowly Apprentice

  Our journeymen are so stern

  We strive to survive by uniformity

  It’s the extent of our prosperity

  May the God Patre take pity

  Twisting to face the closest spear, Alerio held his hands up and out while he sang.

  “Let each give to their means, to the priest to buy the beasts and,” he swung both arms out allowing them to fall on either side of the spear’s head. “the duty of the slaughter. Every man must offer.”

  The bindings were sliced by the blades of the spear freeing their captive’s arms. Stabbing forward and through the target as they had been taught, the Umbrians went for the kill. But their hostage, instead of falling backward, tucked his shoulders and rolled forward. The man’s body and the spear tips passed each other by the width of a few fingers.

  “And in return receive, as the gods perceive,” Alerio crooned while leaping from the ground and onto one of the spearmen. “their just needs.”

  He raised an elbow and hammered the warrior in the back of his neck. Although not a killing blow, the strike caused a spasm to roll down the man’s spine.

  “Three black cows, at the Tesenaca gate will be cut,” Alerio sang. He planted his feet, rotated his hips, and pulled. The spearman arched back, slid over Alerio’s hip, flipped, and sprawled on the grass. After executing a quick Legion stomp, the infantry officer snatched the spear from the grass and stepped back three paces. Resetting his feet, he brought the shaft to a guard position. “Upon the ground, spills their blood and guts.”

  With one down and unarmed, the kneeling spearman beside Pannacci rose and raced to join the other warrior. Where they had held a prisoner at spear tips, they now faced off against him.

  “You’ll not make it off this terrace alive,” one of the Umbria warriors threatened.

  “Do you see me running?” Alerio asked before resuming the song. “Accept our offerings Marte. Everyone beseeches you.”

  For a slice of sacrificial meat, position

  And unique to each, ambition

  Below, shouting rose from the tree line when five men bearing torches ran onto the shipyard. They hoisted the burning limbs, drew back, and flung them at the partially constructed trireme. Flipping and snapping flames as they flew across the distance, the torches were an exact match to the activities of Alerio’s panicking stomach. It overturned and burned as well.

  “To the nobleman ambition means a victorious stand. To the Craftsman recognition,” Alerio mumbled when the five burning torches vanished inside the oak walls of the hull. All his bravado and chancy strategies had come to nothing. In frustration, he began to twirl the spear shaft. “To the Freeman some farmland. To the Servant a dry divan.”

  The Legion infantry officer rushed forward. He smashed one warrior’s spear shaft off line, bent at the knees, and allowed the rotation of his shaft to carry the oak wood into the other man’s spear. Not just the spear but into the man’s forward hand. Three fingers broke under the impact and the rotation stopped.

  “And to the lowly Apprentice, our daily goals are given,” Alerio warbled while reversing the pull and thrusting the butt of his spear into the other Umbrian’s head. “We just want to go fish-in. It’s the extent of our ambition. May the Goddess Marte take pity.”

  With one warrior out cold, their war leader sitting crossed legged on the ground staring off into space, and another nursing broken fingers, Alerio could have called for the final spearmen to surrender.

  He could have but, behind the Centurion’s eyes, visions of his mission going up in flames burned and the fire flowed from his mind, down both arms, to the shaft gripped tightly in his hands.

  “Let each give to their means. To the priest to buy the beasts and,” Alerio stepped forward. With the shaft extended, it appeared as if he offered to duel with the last Umbrian. “the duty of the slaughter.”

  Every man must offer

  And in return receive

  As the gods perceive

  Their just needs

  It wasn’t a duel or even a fair fight.

  “Three white faced oxen, at the Vehiia gate will be cut,” Alerio crooned. While the words came out no rougher than before, the side to side strikes of his spear were harder and firmer. The Umbrian held on, unable to attack, only to defend against the angry onslaught. “Upon the ground, spills their blood and guts.”

  Alerio had enough. He pulled the spear tip across the side of the spearman’s neck. “Accept our offerings Vofione.”

  The artery spewed a river of bloo
d but Alerio missed the red deluge. His anger hotter and a deeper red than the blood.

  “Everyone beseeches you, for a slice of sacrificial meat, deflection,” he sang while stabbing the man with the broken fingers. Then, the Legion officer ran the shaft through the chest of the unconscious Umbria warrior. “And unique to each, protection.”

  Drawing the Golden Valley dagger from the small of his back, Alerio walked to Pannacci. Reaching down, he hooked the man’s arm, and jerked him to his feet. Then he shook the Umbria war leader to get him focused.

  “You are new at this and not very good at leadership,” Alerio offered while using the tip of the dagger to point out the three dead men. Then, he began to sing while staring into Pannacci’s eyes. “To the nobleman protection means, an oaken spear. To the Craftsman perfection. To the Freeman a good year. To the Servant nothing to fear.”

  At that line, Alerio rested the dagger’s blade along the ridge of Pannacci’s nose.

  “And to the lowly Apprentice, our daily goals are directions,” he sang. “We just want to pass inspection. It’s the extent of our protection. May the God Vofione take pity.”

  “I am going to blind you before throwing you off the terrace,” Alerio warned. “If the fall doesn’t kill you, you’ll have a few moments to ponder that your future does not lay…Oh wait. You don’t have a future. Because when I climb down, I’ll finish the job.”

  “At least we burned the traitor’s boat,” Pannacci whined. “You’ll not have Stifone.”

  Alerio turned away from the war leader and glanced down to the burning warship. Except there was no bright flame coming from the channel. In the closing darkness, he could make out seven men battling five shapes. There was little doubt the cohesion of the seven was from Legion training.

  “Fortūna smiles on you, War Leader,” Alerio informed him.

  “What?” Pannacci asked.

  But he didn’t receive an answer. Alerio lifted the knife then kicked Pannacci over the cliff.

  “To the triad of Umbrian deities, Patre, Marte, and Vofione,” Alerio sang as he walked to the pine tree ladder. “Every prayer from every station. Enough to bless, everyone in the Umbria nation.”

  Chapter 12 - It’s Our Trade, but Still Murder

  “We had men stationed as fire watchers, with buckets of water in the construction trench,” Cata Pous explained. “They put the torches out almost as soon as they landed in the hull.”

  “A militia patrol spotted the five strangers walking through the workmen’s camps,” Sergeant Adamo Florian added. “Tite had the patrol follow them and sent one man back to collect me and Corporal Humi.”

  “Their take down was efficient,” Alerio complimented while nodding to Lieutenant Roscini and Tesserarius Humi. His gesture acknowledged their leadership and the skill of the militia when attacking the arsonists. Then the Centurion focused on Florian. “Almost Legion tactics.”

  “The militia are learning,” the Optio replied. He puffed up a little at the recognition of his part in teaching the Umbrians how to fight in a line.

  Alerio extended a leg and, with the toe of his boot, nudged Pannacci. The body, crumbled at the base of the cliff, moved as if it was a sack of grain. Lifting briefly on the Centurion’s boot, the body settled back into the relaxed pose when the toe was removed.

  “And that is a Legion tactic, as well,” Alerio commented. The infantry officer referred to the blood stain at Pannacci’s groin. “One crisp, targeted thrust. Your work?”

  “It’s the prescribed ninth strike of spear drills. And smartly delivered,” Florian confirmed. “But none of the militiamen have owned up to the killing.”

  “You don’t think it was over exuberance?” Alerio questioned.

  “You mean like one of the militiamen got carried away and practiced on a comatose body?” Florian answered. “No sir. The defensive wounds on the hands tell a different tale.”

  Alerio bent a knee, gripped both of Pannacci’s wrists, and twisted them until dead man’s palms were visible.

  “Deep cuts, both ways, along the length of the hands,” Alerio described. He stood and gestured at the dead scattered on the ground. “Pannacci didn’t have a chance to release the spear head before he died. It was a quick, in and out, thrust. Your men did good work, Optio.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  The seven militiamen and Tite Roscini glanced at each other. Centurion Sisera’s impersonal analysis of the deaths was harsh. Tite and his seven men were relieved to have survived the fighting. But having the Legion officer lump Pannacci’s death into the battle and equate an intentional killing to quality spear work, sat uncomfortably with the farmer.

  “I’ll open an investigation into the murder, sir,” Corporal Humi volunteered. “I’ll get you answers, Centurion.”

  “That won’t be necessary, Tesserarius Humi. Lieutenant Roscini, have your men bury the bodies and mark the graves. Then set your guard and release the rest of your men,” Alerio instructed. “Optio Florian, walk with me.”

  ***

  The Legion officer and NCO strolled away from the base of the hill. Once through the sparse forest and the workmen’s camps, they jumped down to the sand bar.

  “Do you think someone wanted to keep Pannacci quiet, sir?” Florian offered.

  Their boots crunched on the gravel and stone. Instinctively, they fell into a marching pace and matched steps.

  “I don’t know,” Alerio replied. “I’m confident it wasn’t suicide.”

  “I know Legionaries who are more beast than men, sir,” Florian added. “Not one of them is crazy enough to stab themselves through their cōleī to reach their guts.”

  “But somebody did kill Pannacci,” Alerio pointed out. “And as much as I appreciate your quality spear training and Humi’s offer to investigate, I can’t allow any disruption in the operation to find out why.”

  “You might have been right in the first place, sir,” Florian said.

  “Right. How?”

  “Over exuberance. Maybe one of the militiamen saw Pannacci move and stabbed him,” Florian suggested. “He might be embarrassed to admit it.”

  “Or, Pannacci knew about other threats and needed to be silenced,” Alerio commented. “I need to hold a surprise inspection.”

  They reached the end of the sand bar and climbed the river bank. At the first tier of Stifone, Alerio went to the militiamen’s quarters while Sergeant Florian took the stairs to the second level to keep watch.

  ***

  A cursory inspection of the barracks left Alerio with an appreciation for Tite Roscini. Tite had selected his seven militiamen from widespread clans. There was little chance of the militia bonding around old family feuds against any of the work crews. The selection also showed him Optio Florian’ worth as an NCO for appointing the farm boy as the unit’s Lieutenant.

  Centurion Sisera finished looking over the tribesmen’s gear and headed for the door. Only one family had two members in the militia. Considering the make-up of the unit, it puzzled Alerio why those two. He made a mental note to ask Tite about it later.

  Outside, Alerio signaled the Optio to join him. Before the Sergeant reached the stairs, a laborer jogging along the sand bar waved his arms to get the Centurion’s attention. He reached the river bank below the town and scrambled up.

  “Centurion Sisera, Master Pous needs you at the boatyard,” the young man said. “Right away.”

  Alerio waved Optio Florian off and headed down to the sandbar.

  ***

  “I decided not to install the primary hypozomata,” Cata Pous informed Alerio. “And it’s a good thing I didn’t.”

  Jutting above the boat trench, two segments of the keel bent inward and curved towards midship as they rose into the air. Being one hundred and thirty feet apart, there was no chance the graceful arches would meet over the trireme.

  “The hypozomata is the rope that maintains tension between the fore keel and the stern,” Alerio reported. Then he assured the ship builder. “I
paid attention when you told me about it.”

  Cata didn’t reply. He silently handed Alerio a three-foot length of cord. It was as thick as a woman’s wrist and composed of twisted fibers. The boat builder, Tesserarius Humi, and two militiamen stood looking at the Legion officer as he studied the section of hypozomata cable.

  “That is an impressive piece of rope. But it looks like someone used a hammer and an anvil to work on your primary hypozomata,” Alerio observed. One end of the line had been neatly cut by a sharp blade while the other end showed signs of abuse by a blunt tool. He studied the hacked, pulled, and smashed fibers. “Did you have a metal worker separate this section?”

  “Centurion, the piece you’re holding is not our primary rope,” Cata answered. “I wanted to save the primary so I had the laborers unpack the secondary hypozomata. And that is what they found.”

  “A piece of rope?” Alerio questioned.

  “Pieces of rope,” the boat builder corrected. “Someone pounded the line with a hammer. They created several ruined areas like the one on that piece. After we cut away the smashed and frayed parts, we won’t have enough fibers left to reweave the lines into a single rope. At least not one long enough to serve as a hypozomata.”

  “But you have the primary?” Alerio questioned.

  “We do and it’s fine,” Cata assured him. “And in a few weeks, we can make a second cable. But someone didn’t want us to have a spare. If we get much further in the building process and something happens to the primary hypozomata, we’d need to stop construction.”

  “Pannacci and his men wanted the warship destroyed,” Alerio suggested. “Who wants us delayed?”

  “I don’t know, Centurion,” admitted the ship builder. “That’s the reason I sent for you.”

  “Sir, we can begin interrogating the work crews,” Corporal Humi suggested. The Legion NCO smacked a fist into his open palm creating a sound resembling meat being tenderized. “I’ll find out who did the damage.”

  “Of that, I have no doubt, Corporal,” Alerio assured Humi. “But I’d rather not break the workers’ spirit over a rope. We’ll find a different way to uncover the culprit.”