“No. He was still greatly outnumbered and Brennus had the advantage of fighting from entrenched positions around the city,” Alerio explained. “However, a Senone engineer discovered the hidden path. They picked their best assault warriors and on the night of the full moon, the Senones retraced the courier’s footsteps. Moving slowly, the movement did not alert the sentries. Cautiously, they stepped and did not alert the guard dogs.”

  “Then the courier is the man who saved the Republic but lost Rome,” Hektor declared.

  “In the moonlight, the few Legionaries on guard duty did not look down,” Alerio stated. “Why should they? Below was nothing but an almost sheer cliff. And so, the fate of the Republic rested on the narrow-hidden ledge. Then while Senior Tribune Marcus Manlius did his nightly patrol of the perimeter, the Holy Geese from the Temple of Juno exploded in a warning. Manlius sent guards to raise the Centuries, drew his gladius, and met the Senone assault team at the head of the path. With his courage and his blade, he saved the Republic.”

  “But what of the Battle Commander?” Hektor whined.

  He wants an infantry ending, Alerio thought. Then the reality hit him. Hektor Nicanor needed an infantry ending to the story to satisfy his young adventurous heart.

  “The Senators, Legionaries, citizens, and priests on the hill had run out of food,” Alerio continued. “But they held the high ground and because they stopped the assaults, the Senators were able to negotiate with Brennus from a position of power. Not much, mind you. The Senone Chieftain demanded weights of gold to leave the city.”

  “They paid and he left,” Hektor whined. “Not much of a story.”

  “Wait, my young friend,” Alerio cautioned. “While slaves loaded gold onto Senone scales, a few Senators complained about the lopsided balance. One announced, your scales are rigged, and we are paying too much. Brennus pulled his sword and flung it on the scales further tipping the weight in his favor. When another Senator complained, Brennus exclaimed, woe to the vanquished.”

  “They ransomed the city back,” Hektor observed. “Did the Senones take their gold and leave?”

  The trail leveled out and the riding became easier. Without the hard clomp of a climbing horse, Hektor nodded off for a moment. When he looked up, Alerio continued.

  “They would have,” Alerio replied. “But Colonel Camillus marched into the city with his Legion of veteran infantrymen, experienced Centurions, and hardened NCOs. After a several tough skirmishes, Camillus reached the place where the gold was being exchanged. From the back of his horse, the Battle Commander declared the negotiation deal void and announced to his fellow Romans, we will win back our city through steel, not by gold.”

  “And they fought street to street,” Hektor shrieked.

  He tossed a fist into the air as if he had been on the combat line. The move twisted his hip which twisted his injured leg and his exuberance ended in a moan.

  “Brennus took his Senone army away as fast as they could run,” Alerio stated. “Since then, the Legion has improved our training of new recruits and the city walls are higher. No army has gotten close to capturing the Capital for over a hundred years.”

  Hektor nodded but didn’t comment. His clenched teeth prevented a reply.

  ***

  The two rode the high flat trail throughout the early morning. Pines and cedars blocked the ground level view, leaving only the higher elevations visible. Enclosed in the forest, it came as a surprise when they travelled between a pair of steep hills and descended into a broad mountain plain.

  Crops covered the center, but the sides and lower foothills lacked the familiar evergreen trees. A mile from the gap, they had a better view of the plain. To the north, where the valley narrowed, they spied signs of civilization. Smoke rose from structures on a knoll. As they got closer, a stockade fort and other buildings became clear as did donkey pens and horse corrals.

  “Muğla?” Hektor inquired.

  “There is nothing else around here,” Alerio pointed out. He indicated some small farmhouses and dispersed tradesmen shops. “At least nothing large enough to house a barracks and administration offices.”

  “I need to rest,” Hektor volunteered.

  He slumped in the saddle and his hands shook from fighting the pain.

  “Right here? Or can you hold out until we reach the town?” Alerio questioned.

  “I can wait,” Hektor replied. “I have to.”

  “Because you want to be an infantryman?” Alerio asked.

  “Because my Master is going to Muğla,” Hektor corrected.

  There was always a dedicated Legionary in every Century who would never quit, even when injured, if his Optio or Centurion were still on their feet. Smart leaders knew to spare the infantryman mundane tasks until that commitment could be harnessed for when it was needed.

  Alerio straightened his back and scanned the area around them. His eyes settled on a patch of green grass and trees surrounding a pond.

  “Let’s have a look at that body of water,” he announced. “I believe the animals need watering.”

  “If you insist, sir,” Hektor stated.

  Although delivered in a flat tone, his voice revealed the relief he felt at getting off the horse.

  Alerio did not set up a full camp. But he did take out bread, cheese, and wine. After placing the meal next to Hektor, the Tribune rubbed down the horses and the donkey and allowed them to drink before joining the youth.

  “The animals did not need tending,” Hektor offered. “The ride hasn’t been that hard.”

  “In the Legion we learn to take care of our equipment,” Alerio informed him. “Hence when the fighting starts, the equipment is prepared to take care of us.”

  Absentmindedly, Alerio drew is gladius and began running a stone down the blade. He may not have intended it, but the sharpening action proved his point about preparation.

  In the warmth of the sun and with the soft rhythmic scraping of the stone on steel, Hektor fell into a deep sleep. As the youth breathed easily, Alerio pondered the happenings over the last day. He came ashore seeking a path to recognition as a diplomat. Becoming a target of an assassination was not something he planned on or instigated. In Alerio’s experience, the most difficult planning was for unknown situations. And the events since he arrived at Akyaka certainly fit the description. So far, his only strategy had been to run away and, so far, it had kept him alive.

  “Hee-haw, hee-haw,” the braying of donkeys came from behind him.

  Having sat facing the backtrail, Alerio raised up and turned to locate the source.

  “Are you going to use that blade?” a guardsman inquired.

  Two members of Rhodes’ Mercenary Corps held spears leveled at Alerio’s face.

  “Because if you are,” the other guard suggested, “do it so we can kill you and get on with our day.”

  Behind the pair, a long caravan of donkeys and handlers stretched back towards the city of Muğla. Following the strings of pack animals, three rigs of two-wheeled horse carts and trail guards created the rest of the convoy.

  “Are you heading for Akyaka?” Alerio asked.

  “Your blade,” one repeated. He added a nudged on Alerio’s shoulder with the spear’s tip.

  His legs and groin were too close to the sharp gladius. And the guard’s body partially blocked his partner’s view of their suspect. But it wasn’t Alerio’s job to teach tactics to the mercenaries of Rhodes.

  “I am Alerio Sisera, a Military Observer from Rome,” he explained while he slid the blade into the sheath. “What is your destination?”

  “The caravan is headed west,” the guardsman replied, “through the mountains to our fort at Denizli.”

  “Take me to the trail master,” Alerio instructed. “The convoy has two new passengers.”

  Chapter 9 – Spears and Tin

  The caravan traveled southeast along the base of the mountain. By early afternoon, Arman, the trail master, strutted from the front string to the back. While he petted and talked to specific donkeys, he didn’t converse with any of the handlers or guards. At the back, he spun, and looked towards the head of the moving caravan.

  “Rest period. Water them and check the loads,” Arman ordered. He glanced up at Alerio and advised. “The next section is steep. If you want to save the horse, you should walk.”

  After the comment, Arman gazed up the length of the donkey strings for a moment. Then, he moved towards the front. At selected pack animals, he tugged on the ropes to be sure the bindings were tight. Loose tiedowns allowed loads to shift, rubbing sore spots on the donkeys’ backs.

  “I understand Arman patrolling the caravan while it moved. That is his job,” Hektor offered from the back of a horse cart. He scooted to a sitting position before questioning. “But why did he do it just before a break in the march? He could have easily stood in one place and let the animals pass him by.”

  Hektor regarded Alerio, waiting for a remark. When no reply came, the youth tossed his arms up as if surrendering to the mystery of the trail master. Only when he settled down, did Alerio answer.

  “I can tell more about Legionaries by observing them walking than I can when I am standing still. I imagine Arman feels the same about his livestock,” Alerio suggested. He brought the horse to a halt when the cart stopped. “Men act differently when under scrutiny. If it’s true for animals, I suppose Arman wanted to see the donkeys in their natural motion.”

  A short while later, the reason for the rest became apparent. Where the trail had been mostly flat, the heading due east took them off the plain and up a steep track.

  “Give me the reins for the horse and the donkey,” Hektor instructed. “If I am going to ride in a cart, at least I can make myself useful.”

  Alerio handed him the lines. Unhindered by the mount and the pack animal, he fast walked up the slope and onward to the front of the caravan.

  ***

  “How long have you been a trail master?” Alerio asked when he reached the Arman.

  “Long before I had this job,” Arman responded, “I guided tin caravans from Mesopotamia.”

  Alerio waited for more details, but the manager of the convoy did not expand on the topic.

  “You aren’t very talkative, are you?” Alerio inquired.

  “Nope,” the trail master admitted.

  Slowing his paced, Alerio allowed the donkeys to move past him. The twenty-five pack animals were divided into strings of five. One donkey hauled feed, a spear, shield, and the personal belongings for a guard and a handler. The other four donkeys in the grouping carried large sacks of grain, dried fish, cloth, tools, and assorted hardgoods needed for the mines.

  The horse wranglers had been eager to tell him about the cargo. What they couldn’t tell him was why the guards were walking next to the handlers at the head of each string.

  With an eye towards security, Alerio envisioned an attack on the caravan. Although not his job, it was second nature for a Tribune to plan a defense. The guards were spread apart by strings of five donkeys, putting the one at the rear two hundred feet from the guard at the front. He tried to visualize another defensive formation when a donkey brayed.

  Hew-haw noises rolled up and down the line of the caravan. Donkeys were social creatures and voiced their state of mind to friends or just uttered general complaints as they walked. But the hew-haw that interrupted Alerio’s thoughts was neither. It was a cry of pain.

  A quick scan helped him locate the distraught animal. In addition to the intense braying, the donkey slung its back from side to side and bucked. In a sprint, Alerio reached the donkey before a handler. The cargo load flopped under loose ties, threatening to unbalance the surefooted beast.

  Two hundred and fifty pounds of hurt and angry donkey yanked the line to the one in front and the line to the one behind. Those two reacted violently and began to kick and hew-haw. The chaos would soon spread to the other two in the string, and possibly to the rest of the donkeys in that section of the caravan.

  Alerio pulled a length of black silk from a pouch and unspooled it as he ran. Hesitating for a moment to time his jump, the Tribune leaped at the donkey’s neck. He landed besides the muscular shoulders as the head swung away from him. Before it swung back and hammered Alerio to the ground and under the thrashing hoofs, he wrapped the silk around the donkey’s head and over its eyes.

  He held the silk with one hand, pulled the Legion dagger with the other, and slashed the rope ties. A shudder rolled through the animal’s body as it froze in the sudden darkness. Before the beast overcame the fright, the offending load tumbled to the ground. The donkey stepped away from the weight of the cargo and stood still.

  “Easy there,” Alerio encouraged. He searched the donkey’s back and saw two red and raw spots. The load had not been tightened down to prevent rubbing.

  “Get away from her,” the handler screamed as he ran at the donkey.

  With a herding club raised over his head, there was no doubt the handler planned to use it on the animal. He never made it. Alerio lifted his leg, planted his foot in the man’s chest, and kicked him off the trail.

  “It’s alright,” Alerio cooed to the donkey. “I’m going to remove the blindfold. You just stand easy.”

  “What are you doing?” the nearest caravan guard bellowed.

  He grabbed a spear from a donkey pack. In a half step, the guardsman’s arm stretched back, and he stopped. The spear had gotten hung up in the luggage. He went back to free his weapon.

  “First you were to be beaten,” Alerio stated in a smoothing voice to the donkey, “and now me. Stay right there.”

  With a twist of his wrist, Alerio pulled the silk off her head. Large brown eyes peered at him suspiciously, but the donkey remain stationary.

  Not so the guard. With his spear free, he charged down the string, aiming the spear at Alerio.

  There were three modes of fighting with a spear. Throw it, which took the most skill. Use the shaft to hold your foe at a distance by parring and slashing which took slightly less skill. Or, close the distance rapidly and run your shaft through the opponent’s chest. A beginner’s tactic taught to any idiot who could hold a spear.

  “Didn’t your mother warn you about running with sharp objects,” Alerio spoke loudly while slipping the Legion dagger into its sheath.

  The tip of the spear came within an arm’s reach and Alerio used a hand to slap the edge of the spearhead. The blade lurched off to the side. With the tip out of the way, Alerio lifted a foot and smashed it down on the shaft. The spearhead buried itself in the soil. Holding tight and still driving forward, the caravan guard made an inexperienced infantryman’s mistake. He held on and jolted to a stop when the spear tip finally hit hard ground. Alerio’s elbow smacked into the side of the man’s head, dropping the guard to the trail.

  “Run with sharp objects and you might get hurt,” Alerio informed him.

  Angry voices came from up and down the trail as other guards grabbed shields and spears. Alerio responded by drawing his dagger and gladius.

  “I tried to make this bloodless,” he shouted. “There is still an opportunity to be friends.”

  Two caravan guards came at him. One from behind and the other from the front. Except, they were at uneven distances and not coordinating their assault.

  “Come up here,” Alerio informed the guard on the ground.

  He grabbed the man by the shoulder, yanked him to his feet, and rested the gladius against the guard’s neck.

  “I hope you are popular,” Alerio remarked. “Or owe someone a lot of money. Because if they don’t want to save you, then why should I?”

  The two soldiers of the Rhodian Mercenary Corps shuffled forward. Neither paying attention to the other one’s moves.

  Alerio chuckled. It wasn’t that the situation wasn’t dire. Or that he might get killed. The reason for the humor had to do with the weak response from the mercenaries. Several people in Rhodes had bragged about their efficiency and how the Mercenary Corps protected Rhodes’ inland territory. If these three were typical, the Corps was surviving on reputation and would crumble at the first test.

  The soldiers moved until both faced him with one on his left and the other on his right. They eyed the men with the gladius at his throat but did not stand down.

  “It appears no one likes you,” Alerio suggested to the guard.

  Then the voice of the trail master roared, “Stop this. Stop this or I will see you all fired and shipped out of Rhodian territory.”

  Arman went to the donkey, inspected the wounds, and glared at the handler. The man dropped the club and backed away.

  “Leave, now,” Arman threatened. “Leave before I put her load on you. And beat you all the way to Kale.”

  “Where is Kale?” Alerio asked the guard. He lifted the blade so the man could talk.

  “Thirty more miles,” the guard replied. “It’s the waystation halfway to Denizli.”

  “Put away those spears,” Arman ordered. “We have cargo scattered all over the trail. If you want to fight you should volunteer for the tin caravan to Bolvadin and face the Seleucid bandits.”

  The words might as well have been accompanied by thunder from the God Jupiter. Both soldiers tossed aside their spears and began collecting packages of cargo.

  “Go on, you might as well help,” Alerio told his prisoner.

  While the three unpacked and restacked the load, Arman opened a sack of balm. With two fingers, he spread the ointment on the donkey’s wounds.

  “Those three were shaking in their boots when you mentioned Bolvadin,” Alerio commented. “Can you tell me why?”

  “I owe you for calming this old girl down,” the trail master remarked. He smeared the greasy salve over the second raw spot. “Let me finish treating her and getting the caravan moving, then we can talk.”

  Assuming he would face repercussions from the fight, Alerio went to alert Hektor. As he strolled to the horse cart, the dismissed handler peered from down the trail, spit in Alerio’s direction, and continued walking.