Tribune's Oath (Clay Warrior Stories Book 17) Page 8

  In response to Regulus’ oath given during a time of crisis, the Goddess of Victory joined the discussions. Along for his own caustic reasons, Mercery, the Trickster God, also inserted himself into the negotiations.

  Blowing directly into the faces of the Legion team, the flying dust forced them to squint or to look away from their Empire counterparts. Fatally, servants lowered the sides of the pavilion to block the windstorm. In doing so, they hide the Republic negotiators and observers from the Legion security detail.

  ***

  Moments before, the participants had strolled into the airy tent to face the opposition.

  “General Bostar, nice to see you again,” Ferenc greeted the Qart Hadasht officer with a salute. Holding out an arm, he indicated Triticeus. “This is my Senior Tribune and left flank commander. He’ll be helping me during the talks.”

  “And this is General Xanthippus, an adviser to my city,” Bostar introduced the Rank-Leader.

  Scowling at the Spartan, Ferenc commented, “I didn’t realize there were Spartan units in the Qart Hadasht army.”

  For several heartbeats, Xanthippus’ bland face considered the Legion Battle Commander.

  “There weren’t,” he stated after the long pause.

  Feeling tension in the pavilion, Senior Tribune Triticeus asked, “Can we offer you a libation?”

  “Wine for me,” Bostar ordered.

  “Water,” the Spartan Commander snapped.

  The four principals placed their helmets on the cloth covered table. Then with beverages in hand, they sat across from each other. No one spoke until the wind sent the tablecloth flapping over their mugs and helmets.

  “Drop the sides,” Ferenc instructed the servants. Remembering Regulus’ concern that the Qart Hadasht delegation wouldn’t feel comfortable close to the Legion line, he inquired. “If that’s alright with you, General Bostar?”

  Rather than Bostar, the Spartan replied, “It’s fine to drop the sides.”

  “Seal the tent against the weather,” Ferenc directed.

  The snapping of blowing tent material and the howling wind prevented coherent speech. All four negotiators sipped and waited for the sides to be lashed down.

  “That’s better,” Ferenc stated when the wind was sealed outside. “Now we can get started with…”

  The sica sliced the air in an even straight line. From the edge of the table, the blade cut Triticeus’ windpipe before severing Ferenc’s left carotid artery. While the Senior Tribune and the Battle Commander fell to the floor, their life and blood pumping from the wounds, the Spartan leaned back. He cleaned the blade on the tablecloth and stood. After examining the hilt to be sure it was spotless, he slid the long knife into a sheath beside his kopis. The Spartan sword had never left its scabbard.

  Even though the Junior Tribunes yelled out in horror and the Tribune from planning and strategy bellowed with rage, Xanthippus ignored them. Strolling to the back of the tent, the Tail-Leader addressed his NCO.

  “Rank-Leader. Signal the cavalry,” he directed, “and dispatch the Legion security detail. I don’t care about the junior staff officers.”

  “Yes sir,” the Spartan NCO replied. He raised an arm overhead and rotated the large bronze shield while ordering his Spartans. “Shields up. Draw. Charge.”

  The sun reflected off the bronze surface, flashed across the distance, and into the eyes of several mounted Spartans.

  “That’s the signal,” they reported to their sections.

  “Cavalry. Forward,” the Rank-Leader instructed.

  Two thousand horsemen jumped onto their saddles and nudged their mounts into motion. Soon, they were galloping towards the bloody negotiations tent and the Legion lines.

  ***

  The First Centurion of Legion East had survived plenty of battles. During season after season in marching Legions, his experience and responsibilities had expanded under different Consuls. Always a professional, he initially thought fire when the young staff officers ran from the tent.

  “Sir, what’s the matter?” he attempted to asked one of the fleeing noblemen.

  But panic blinded them to the duty of informing the combat officer. Rather, they sprinted for their horses. Still thinking it was a natural disaster caused by wind and fire, he stepped to the entrance of the pavilion.

  The Centurion’s Legion knowledge and battle reflexes failed him. From around the side of the tent, a kopis stabbed under his chest armor. Gutted by the blade, the veteran combat officer dropped to the ground holding his sliced abdomen.

  After stabbing the Legion officer, the Spartan finished racing around the tent. The sneak and stab cost him. Out of place, the Hoplite had to leap to get his shield in place at the Spartan wall.

  If he were alive, the First Centurion would have taken back his barb about a marathon. The security detail for the Qart Hadasht delegation was fast. Before the Legionaries knew they were under attack six infantrymen died on kopis blades. The rest of the veterans from First Century stumbled backwards using their scuta to ward off the other blades. Pursued every step by the soldiers of Sparta, it seemed hopeless.

  But then, the Spartans gained some combat knowledge about Legion veterans. It started with a single word issued by a Legion Decanus.

  “Brace,” the squad leader bellowed.

  From retreating targets, the Legion shields snapped into a solid wall of hardwood. And the kopides stopped doing damage to the infantrymen and began beating harmlessly on the scuta.

  “Advance.”

  Only training from a young age saved the twenty Spartans. They flexed rather than resisted. And yet, they had to jump back when the gladii stabbed from between the shields.

  “Advance.”

  The duty of the Rank-Leader and his Spartans was to take the Legion security detail out of the fight. When he realized his files were getting into a slug fest with veteran infantrymen, he ended it.

  “Fall back,” the Rank-Leader directed.

  The Legion Lance Corporal snorted and peered over his shield at the retreating Spartans. He wanted to go after them. He wanted payback for his dead Legionaries, the murder of his Centurion, and for the treachery inside the treaty tent. But the horizon boiled with dust from a wall of racing horseflesh and their riders.

  “Fall out,” the Decanus shouted, breaking the formation. “Now run. Run hard.”

  Chapter 9 – Rules of Fate

  Marcus Regulus screamed in frustration when the junior staff officers sprinted from the treaty pavilion. He understood immediately their panic had nothing to do with a fire or a failing tent. Teenagers would have fallen against each other laughing at a freak accident once safely outside. It was something more sinister that sent the young noblemen running from the pavilion.

  Before the Junior Tribunes mounted up, the First Centurion from Legion East died on a Qart Hadasht blade. As the officer fell, the rest of the Empire’s security detail attacked and killed six of his Legionaries. The broken negotiations and the unexpected attacks caused Marcus mental stress. It heightened as the surviving infantrymen scrambled away from the Noricum soldiers.

  To Marcus Regulus, the sight of his veterans taking flight crushed his soul. Sensation fled his limbs with each staggered step as they retreated. His throat went dry, and he couldn’t even moan in his agony.

  But then, the fourteen remaining Legionaries locked their shields together. A rush of adrenaline surged through Regulus when the shields hammered forward. The numbness faded and he began issuing orders.

  “Get me the Senior Centurion from Legion East,” Marcus ordered.

  In a matter of heartbeats, the Legion’s top combat officer rode up.

  “Sir, we have Empire cavalry heading our way,” he informed the General. “I’ve taken the liberty of deploying the first maniple to our combat line. I hope that meets your approval.”

  “On most days, I need you to help staff officers with administration work. Today, I don’t. You’re the new Battle Commander for Legion East,” Regulus in
formed him. “Appoint a left flank commander from your Tribunes and move your oldest Junior Tribute to the left maniple. Qart Hadasht didn’t break the treaty to further negotiations. They’ll be coming for us.”

  “I agree, sir,” the new Battle Commander acknowledged. “And they’ll come hard. You do remember, sir, you have a fourth Legion in reserve?”

  Marcus Regulus paused and wondered if Alerio Sisera had been in the tent, would the outcome be any different. Deciding it didn’t matter as the tent had little to do with the Punic army, he directed, “Send your youngest junior staff officers to Jellaz Hill.”

  “Is it that bad, General?”

  “That’s up to the Gods,” Marcus replied. “I just want the children out of here until it’s over.”

  As the new commander rode away, Marcus sent messengers to Legions West and South and a longer missive to Colonel Sisera at Legion North.

  ***

  The Qart Hadasht horseman reached the Legion defensive ranks. Rather than attempting to breach the lines, they pulled their mounts to the side and raced along the rows of shields. Besides the yelling which was unnerving, and the danger of a sudden attack from the proximity, the Empire cavalry hadn’t attempted to breach the Legion shields.

  Behind the combat rows, Centurions called for two javelins. A cry of ‘Rah’ echoed from the ranks of Legionaries at the command. Following the confirmation, first one than a second flight of javelins soared into the sky. When the barbed iron heads dropped, horsemen and their mounts fell. The volleys drove the cavalry back. The cheering of Legionaries followed the javelin attacks.

  “What’s the purpose of the hoard of riders?” General Regulus asked his staff.

  No one had an answer. Unfortunately, as the horsemen pulled back, Marcus Regulus received the answer. Two Legion officers appeared. They rode from among the horsemen and began parading back and forth in front of the Legion. However, the way Colonel Ferenc’s helmet and arms flopped it was obvious a dead man sat on a horse. The same was true for Senior Tribune Triticeus. Plus, each of their horses was led by another rider.

  The riders stopped pulling and let the horses for the Colonel and the Senior Tribune stand still.

  “Why an exhibition of the dead?” Marcus questioned.

  The ‘why’ shouldered aside horsemen as he rode to the front. Stopping just out of javelin range, he straightened his scarlet cloak. It flowed from his shoulders, down his back, and over the hindquarters of his horse. When he pivoted his head, a red and yellow crest flipped like the hair of a maiden flirting with a hero. The long crest cascaded from the top of the Greek helmet.

  “A Spartan,” several of the General’s staff uttered.

  “Be quiet,” his chief aide ordered.

  The Spartan Commander lifted his arms and indicated the propped-up corpses of Ferenc and Triticeus.

  “I walked into the Legion camp and took their lives,” the Spartan bellowed. He paused as men in the crowd of riders repeated his words. When they grew quiet, he continued. “I, personally, took the lives of two senior Republic officers.”

  Again, his speech got repeated by men placed there to be sure every horseman heard the Spartan’s brag.

  “And, I took their souls,” he announced.

  As if the words were a signal, the riders leading the dead men, resumed walking the bodies back and forth in front of the cavalrymen.

  The horsemen shouted war cries and the Legionaries yelled challenges. As quickly as he appeared, the Spartan turned his horse and trotted away. The bodies of Ferenc and Triticeus traveled in his wake. No doubt for display and bragging rights at other units of the Qart Hadasht army. As the Spartan rode away, the crest was visible bouncing and swaying from side to side as were the bodies of the Legion officers.

  “Because you need to convince your troops that you are invincible,” Regulus answered the question of why the Empire Commander displayed the dead officers. Then in an undignified outburst, he shouted. “We beat them before you, Spartan. And we’ll beat them with you.”

  Cheering from the defensive lines rose in response to the General’s assertion. Heartened by the infantry’s reaction, Marcus Regulus kicked his mount and raced to consult with his Battle Commanders for Legions South and West.

  ***

  Alerio unrolled a scroll and read a report. On the backside of the papyrus, the ink from an earlier scouting report had faded.

  “Tell me, Senior Centurion, if a Legion runs out of writing material and can’t keep records for the Senate,” he asked Griffinus Agoston, “is that a good enough reason to sail for home?”

  “Colonel, in years past, my commanders always said if there was no record, the event didn’t happen,” The top combat officer replied. “That went for accomplishments and punishments. But they never said anything about ending a mission for lack of paper.”

  “How about for lack of activity?” Alerio grumbled. He tossed the scroll onto the camp desk. “The supply route is safe. We haven’t had so much as a robbery by a band of thieves.”

  “Colonel, you need a good soak,” Agoston recommended. “We don’t have a proper bath. But there are two bodies of water an easy ride from here.”

  “Seeing as all Legionaries can swim,” Alerio stated while standing, “I believe we need to requalify Legion North in the swim or drown test. I volunteer to be the first in line for the examination.”

  “A truly brave gesture, Battle Commander,” the Senior Centurion acknowledged with a smile.

  “It’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make for the good of the men,” Alerio announced. Then he yelled to another room of the hill fort. “Hektor. Get my combat armor, three javelins, a spear, a scutum, and a mule. While you’re gathering, collect soap, some rags, and clean tunics for you and me. Then meet me at the corral.”

  “Is something wrong with the one you’re wearing, sir?” the boy inquired. “I can bring you a fresh tunic.”

  “Do as you’re told,” Alerio barked. To the duty infantryman at the door, he instructed. “Alert Centurion Pelle and the entire First Century. We’re riding to the west lake for a Legion swim test.”

  The Legionary left the doorway and ran to alert his officer and his Optio. He didn’t smile until he was out of sight of the Colonel and the Senior Centurion.

  ***

  Although soap was used in abundance later, the test was dangerous, grueling, and hated. Not just by weak swimmers but hated by everyone as they got their leather wet, their iron and steel damp, and their shields soaked. All of that required drying, waxing, and maintenance after the test.

  “They’re good swimmers,” Alerio remarked.

  “That they are, sir,” Pelle confirmed.

  The two officers floated in waist deep water while watching the latest group of swimmers.

  Out on the lake, six Legionaries in armor swam to where a pair of squad leaders were treading water. The infantrymen would swim around the unarmored Decani before heading back to shore. Forced to use powerful strokes to counter the weight of their armor, they also towed their scuta. But tied to each shield was a helmet, gladius, armored skirt, a spear, and three javelins. The pulling required them to swim fast to keep the shield from sinking below the surface. For slow Legionaries, the drag of the submerged scutum increased the difficulty.

  But after the test, there was fire for drying, grease and wax for polishing, and wine for drinking. Plus, soap to scrub the skin clean and an allotment of leisure time for a long soak.

  Alerio kicked and water exploded into the air.

  “I’ve never seen you swim with equipment, sir,” Hektor remarked. “Very impressive.”

  “Every Legionary can swim with his war gear,” Alerio told him. “How else could a Century cross a river or a lake to reach the enemy?”

  “But not every Colonel could have passed the test,” Pelle added.

  The one hundred and twenty men of the beefed up First Century tested, cleaned, then floated while drinking. As hard as the swim was, test day always ended in a celebr
ation.

  Feeling relaxed and comforted by the companionship of infantrymen, Alerio dunked under the surface and swam underwater. On the fourth stroke, his right arm stiffened, and he felt pressure on his right shoulder blade. The sensation announced the presence of the Goddess Nenia. Alerio came up quickly and peered at the bank. Men reclined or worked on their equipment while chatting in a casual manner.

  “Centurion Pelle, get half your Century dressed,” Alerio instructed. “And post guards.”

  “What is it, Colonel?” the Rabbit inquired.

  “Something is wrong,” Alerio told him. He didn’t admit it was a premonition delivered by the Goddess of Death. Instead, he said. “It’s just a feeling.”

  “Yes, sir,” the Rabbit stated. He waded to shore. On the bank, the First Centurion ordered six squads to gear up and spread out in a semi-circle.

  While the Legionaries hustled into defensive positions, Alerio pulled on his armor, tied the armor skirt around his waist, and dropped the straps to his gladius over his shoulder.

  “Get out your medical kit,” he instructed the boy.

  Hektor jogged to the mule and began undoing the knot securing the medic’s bag. Before he finished, Legionaries screamed.

  ***

  Galloping along the curve of the lake, horsemen lanced and slashed a pair of Legionaries at a position to the south. But even wounded, they did their job. Issuing cries of pain, the pair warned of the approaching danger. In response, undressed Legionaries snatched up shields, grabbed spears or gladii, and fell in on either side of Alerio. Further down the lakeside, Pelle set the center of another line away from the water. And the squads sent to stand sentry, consolidated inland.

  Two abreast, fifty Empire cavalrymen raced along the bank. But their route ended at a wall of thirty-five shields. Although the riders urged their mounts forward, the stack of scuta appeared to be the side of a building to the beasts. The horses veered away putting the cavalrymen sideways to the Legionaries.

  Veterans jumped from the end of the hasty formation and pulled five riders off their horses. With the way along the bank blocked, the Empire cavalrymen veered away only to face Centurion Pelle’s wall of hardwood. When the three groups of Legionaries ran inward, screaming, and jabbing with spears, the horsemen began to run in a circle. That’s when the second rank in each formation broke from the attack line and ran to stacks of drying javelins.