Legionary (17 page)

‘Must have missed that,’ Sura snorted, shovelling a handful of bread and goat’s cheese into his mouth and jabbing a thumb at one of his bruises. ‘The state of my face suggests otherwise.’

‘In that pit, he was like a bear until it was just the two of us left standing. Then when we were in the jail he was, I don’t know how to put it; it was as if he was there and not there at the same time? He cursed me to Hades at first but when he’d got that off his chest, he didn’t seem interested in breaking my neck…for once.’ Pavo shook his head. ‘This place is driving me nuts.’

Sura leaned back on his chair, bringing his hands round to the back of his head. ‘Well, you won’t notice then if I cheat you shamelessly at dice,’ he quizzed, cocking an eyebrow mischievously. ‘Will you?’

Pavo twisted his face into a mock scowl. ‘You dirty…’

With a bang, the mess hall door burst open; Centurion Gallus filled the doorframe and the fire danced as a cool gust whipped around the hall.

‘I need ten recruits,’ he barked. Pavo took a quick head count — exactly ten recruits present. Gallus continued; ‘And it looks like I’ve found them. Form ranks in the yard, full battle equipment.’

‘Sir,’ Pavo ventured, ‘what’s the situation?’

Gallus, halfway out the door, spun back, his eyes narrowed. ‘No time for questions, soldier — you’re needed. That’s all you need to know.’

With that, the door swung shut, the gust washing the sleep from the warm air of the room. Pavo looked around the sea of wide-eyed recruits. His mouth dried as he pondered his next move; so many faces, some friendly, others not so friendly. He shot up to his feet.

‘You heard the centurion, what are you waiting for?’ He croaked. All eyes fell upon him and at once he felt awash with redness. The silence hung around him like stinging nettles for just a moment that felt like days.

‘I’m with Pavo. Let’s move!’ Sura yelled, startling the recruits in to life. Pavo sighed, a warm wash of pride flooding his veins as each of the recruits nodded to him on their way out the door towards the barracks. With a slap on the back from Sura, he followed them out.

They scuttled across the deserted training yard and into the barracks, which were soon filled with a muddle of crashing and clattering armour as the ten recruits slung their gear on. Pavo fumbled at his helmet strap, his fingers feeling like bloated loaves of bread. A bead of sweat raced down his face as he saw the others ready and moving for the door.

‘Bugger it,’ he muttered, tucking the straps into the cheek guards. If Gallus noticed, he’d be in trouble, but if he was the last one to stagger out he’d look silly anyway. He rushed to join his colleagues, just as the recruit at the head of the group balked.

‘Stop, Gallus is outside. Form a line and march out.’

Pavo felt a wry grin ripple over his lips; a few months in these drafty barracks and they were all vying for the officer’s attention.

Outside in the yard, Centurion Gallus’ face betrayed nothing but determination. ‘We have a situation to the west,’ Gallus barked. ‘A band of Gothic raiders has been reported south of the river. They have pillaged and burnt a country villa belonging to the dux. I’m calling on recruits to deal with this because I don’t have enough legionaries left to call on. Centurion Brutus has ridden ahead with twenty men. We will be bringing up the rear, together with another ten men you would do well to learn from.’

‘How many Goths, sir?’ Pavo piped up, shuffling to stand as straight as possible.

Gallus glared at him, then eyed the other recruits carefully, raking his stubbled chin with his fingers, shaking his head. ‘Doesn’t matter. What matters is that we get enough of us out there to deal with this. There’s no time to lose.’

As he spoke, the steady crunching march of ten hardened legionaries echoed through the air. Pavo looked up to examine them, struck by their hulking frames. Was that what happened to you after a few tours of duty, he mused? The lead legionary of the ten looked familiar. Zosimus, the man who Pavo had crippled efficiently at
The Boar and Hollybush
two weeks previously. Zosimus’ eyes hovered on Pavo, a hint of puzzlement etched on his broad face, before he turned his eyes forward with a slight shake of the head.

Centurion Gallus turned once more to face the recruits. ‘We will be moving in to reinforce Centurion Brutus and his men, who I’m sure will have the situation under control by now. I’ll be leading these ten fine legionaries and my optio, Officer Felix, will be leading you. I expect you to do your legion proud.’ Gallus then turned to Felix and gave him a nod. ‘Form a column, marching at triple time.’

The countryside lay silent but for a whistling spring breeze. The sweet aroma of woodsmoke rolled across the meadows and cornfields from the smouldering remains of the nearby villa. Brutus gritted his teeth, his fists clenched as he scanned the emptiness around them. The legionary by his side shivered, yet the air was warm.

‘Bloody Vergilius!’ The centurion growled. ‘The whoreson never even visits the provinces he supposedly commands. Yet us lot are punted out because some bloody Goths have torched his bloody summer villa. Bloody sheep-shagger should be out here to deal with it himself!’

The corn rattled again, as if teasing the puzzled twenty. He turned, unnerved as the horses shuffled.

‘He can sense something,’ the rider whispered to his centurion while eyeing the swaying fields.

Brutus stroked his own mount, ‘Easy, boy.’

The wind died at that instant, and Brutus’ mount’s ears pricked up. He whipped his head up to see dark shapes rise from the crops along their flank. Leather cuirasses, conical helms, bows and longswords all around him.

His hand fell to his scabbard, but the roar to call his men to arms never came, as the sharp, cold punch of a Gothic arrow into the centre of his chest toppled him from his horse. Brutus felt his body crumple to the ground, and a sensation of at first warmth and then a trickling cold snaked through his limbs. As he lay prone, his fellow riders rallied in vain as the Goths picked them off like ripe fruit. One by one their bodies toppled around Brutus. Forty Goths, the estimate had been. He had seen at least a hundred in the instant before he fell. Shivering, he thought of the twenty Gallus had promised to send out behind them — half of them recruits, too. Only Mithras could save them now.

The fighting slowed and stopped and then the Goths closed in on him.
Have to get back, to warn the legion.
The words echoed in his head as the Gothic warriors glowered down on him, their leader raising his sword over Brutus’ chest. The centurion’s roar of defiance came out only as a gurgling whimper as he slipped into the blackness of death.

The quiet farmlands surrounding the Moesian highway lay dotted with slaves and workers, tilling the soils, tending the crops. Occasionally, the clop, clop of carts echoed along the flagstoned roads as the estate owners surveyed their progress. The land seemed to be at peace in this pleasant spring afternoon. And then a feint murmur grew into a rumble of hobnailed boots on flagstones. The workers stopped, heads appearing above corn stalks like wildlife, darting to find the source of the noise. Their eyes fixed on the tight bunch of legionaries haring along the road. This could only mean one thing. Trouble.

Gallus jogged at the head of the twenty. Chin up, he ploughed on, eyes scouring the fields for the tell-tale signs; a flash of armour or a cloud of smoke. Deep inside, he knew the ten veterans behind him would be needed, and the ten recruits behind them; well they would be spear fodder at best.

The iron shutters had fallen over him as soon as the report came in. The report of the raiders was fuzzy at best, coming from a hysterical local wine merchant. The merchant expected a decisive show of force. In truth, the XI Claudia had seriously lacked manpower for over a year now, and a sizeable portion of the experienced legionaries who remained had been pulled to the scenes of various Gothic incursions all along the banks of the Danubius over the last few days. Indeed, the merchant’s jaw had dropped in disbelief as he watched the straggle of twenty marching from the fort.

Some way down the road, Gallus’ nostrils flared as the fresh country air took on a distinct smoky haze. He slowed to a walk, raising his hand, eyeing the now deserted fields. The monotonous crunch died to a gentle padding. The column looked around uneasily. To the north, sleepy tendrils of smoke crept up from a sea of blackened stumps. Gallus grimaced; one less villa for Dux Vergilius; just how would the fat, incompetent bastard cope? He flicked up a hand.

‘Slow advance, ready shields.’

The corn crackled as they pushed through towards the smoky ruin, the stalks whipping them at face height. Every legionary footstep sounded foreign as they approached the grounds of the estate, until they broke clear into the villa grounds. Centurion Gallus raised his hand once more to indicate a full stop, and then proceeded alone.

The grass underfoot crunched, giving way to ash as he approached. Then his eyes fell on the carnage spread across the blackened earth. A scarlet tangle of bodies like a giant’s entrails snaked across the dirt. In the centre lay Brutus, eyes gazing heavenward and his teeth clenched in grim determination. Gallus stared through the scene as an echo of the pain he used to feel raked at his heart, but the steely coldness prevailed. His head dropped and the emptiness of the afternoon whistled around him.

‘Optio
,’
he called, his voice steady.

Felix padded up beside him, and then stopped dead at the sight.

‘We’re in way over our heads, Felix.’

‘How do we play it, sir?’ Felix replied, gulping.

‘Cool, Felix. If those whelps over there see this, we don’t stand a chance.’

With a grunt, Centurion Gallus pushed his shoulders back, and brought his head up. The gentle Moesian plain now felt like a predator’s lair, the bones of its last meal strewn across the ground. He considered his stance and facial expression before turning back to the column of twenty that now looked so vulnerable. They had to be protected, yet at the same time they had to be steeled for the reality of the situation. He grimaced in frustration — there was no way of sweetening the truth. But he would have to play it in some manner or their already questionable morale would disintegrate.

‘Centurion Brutus and his party have been slain by the invading Goths. They cannot be far from here. Before we return to honour the bodies of our dead, we must find them. Find them and
crush
them!’ He punched a fist into his palm.

Gallus glared at the soldiers without emotion; the veterans reflected the stony expression, but the recruits stood wide-eyed and pale, some craning to see over the centurion’s shoulder. Apart from Pavo; his face was wrinkled, eyes glassy and distant. The lad had indeed connected with the rough diamond Brutus, it seemed. The centurion’s eyes narrowed;
that’s what happens when you let personal feelings in
.

‘Form a column. Proceed at double time!’ He bellowed, burning with an itch for revenge.

A persistent, cool mist swirled across the ever-restless Danubius, blocking out the spring sunshine and encasing one tired old stone bridge in a damp chill. Two watchtowers stood on either side of the southern bridgehead, the wooden guardhouses on top splintered and rotten. One auxiliary manned each tower, cold and tired as they approached the end of their half-day stint. After their chat dried up, about two hours into the shift, only fear staved off the cold. The Gothic raids had spread along the frontier like wildfire, and the vastly depleted centuries of the V Macedonia legion had been pulled apart, century by century, to meet the threat. Thus, the fortlet fifty paces back into the mist lay absolutely empty apart from their two sleeping colleagues, when a fifty was the usual skeleton garrison. The four men stationed here were the wafer-thin link in the border system with the neighbouring XI Claudia.

Drusus, the auxiliary atop one of the towers glanced across at his equally isolated colleague, then busied himself poking the fire in the brazier, stamping his feet and blowing into his hands. Why in Hades was he out here? Then he remembered his little ones, at home with his wife, days away by cart. At least they were warm and safe and well fed every night. A job is a job, Drusus thought to himself, chuckling through chattering teeth.

The clatter of a plate falling from his colleague’s tower jolted his senses back to the cold, cruel present. The other auxiliary grinned by way of apology. Drusus turned back to the bridge with a shake of the head. But this time the blood stilled in his veins.

He gripped the edge of the watchtower, his eyes scraping at the mist. Every hair on the back of his neck stretched and shivered as the unmistakable rattle of horse hooves — thousands of them — dulled the roar of the river. He swapped a glance of terror with his colleague. There were no friendly crossings scheduled today — surely this was the next raid. He darted a glance to the fortlet — no time to get there, and no point. He closed his eyes, mouthing a prayer to Mithras.

A gruff Gothic voice broke through the fog. ‘
Ave
, good Romans!’

Drusus blinked open an eye, then shared a glance of confusion with his colleague.

‘Who goes there?’ The first guard called, feebly disguising the primal fear coursing through his veins.

Slowly the mist twisted, rippled and parted. Through the ghostly curtain, emerged a bustling but ordered column of Gothic horsemen; ten wide, and what was beginning to look like infinitely long, they poured slowly from the nothingness and into the bounds of the empire. Helms tucked underarm, they were a sea of flowing blonde locks over leather armour.

The man at the head of the column, hair tumbling down from a classic topknot, a bristly blonde beard, a leather patch over his left eye and silver hoops hanging in number from his ears, raised a hand to salute the Roman guards. ‘I am Horsa of the Thervingi. I come, as promised by Lord Fritigern, with my men in aid of Rome and her people.’