Legionary (2 page)

‘Park the oars!’ He roared, remaining at the stern, eyes fixed on the land, ears trained on the goings-on behind him. First, there were the scuttling footsteps as the
beneficiarius
worked his way along the deck, and then the rhythmic clatter as the
remiges
lifted their oars clear of the water, sighing as they rested their weary arms.
Not perfect
, Gallus mused, comparing it to the drill back in the docks,
but acceptable
.

Once more, he gazed inland. The peninsula had fallen into darkness more than one hundred years ago. The invading Gothic tribes, the Greuthingi, as they were known, had declared their sovereignty over the peninsula with the delivery of the Roman ambassador’s head to the emperor’s palace. Since that day, the empire had seen the rise and fall of scores of emperors, her territory sliced like an apple into eastern and western halves and her mighty legions evolve almost beyond recognition. Nobody was quite sure how much this place had changed in that time, but reports indicated that the old Roman frontier fortification system still stood, lying dotted like decaying teeth across the eighty miles or so of the peninsula neck. Yes, there had been trade and diplomacy in the many years since this place had last been under direct Roman influence, but the Goths of Bosporus had fallen silent some time ago, and a hundred years could breed many ills. Gallus could only wonder what the shadows held.

He held his back straight and his face expressionless, burying the gnawing excitement and fear deep within. How would this group of men behind him handle the sortie, far from the XI Claudia fort on the banks of the
Danubius
? While the rest of the legion, some two thousand men, remained stretched out over the great river’s borders protected by walls and reinforcements, here with him were the double strength first century of the first cohort — the one hundred and sixty considered most able, thrust out into the wilderness. Discounting the smattering of calloused veterans though, the numbers counted for little. Gallus turned and ran his eyes over them; barely one in ten were over twenty years of age, such was the fatality rate on the frontiers, and dressed only in filthy, sodden tunics and boots the youngsters looked every bit the farmers and labourers they were. He bit back his doubts; this was a brave new dawn for the empire, and Gallus was all too proud to lead it. In this day and age, for a
vexillatio
of
limitanei
border troops to be given a mission deep into foreign lands…well, that was quite something. Quickly, he tempered the urge to smile, keeping his lips quill-thin, maintaining the iron stare instead. Then, he placed the intercisa helmet on his head, with the shark fin of iron and the plume adding another foot to his towering frame.

‘That’s the stuff,’ he encouraged the men as they set about tying down the rigging, thumping his hands together. But there was no cheering, no banter. He clenched his jaw at the silence.

He had been a late starter in the army, joining when he turned thirty. The post of primus pilus had fallen to him after a rapid succession of deaths of the previous incumbents. Practically every Gothic raid over the Danubius had propelled him further up the ladder; from legionary to
optio
, to centurion and now here, the role of the primus pilus. In just four years, he had risen to be the man whom all in the legion should look to for inspiration. He saw one young legionary grapple with the supply cart, his hands trembling. They were anything but inspired.
It’s not you, Gallus, they’re just scared
, he repeated in his head, thinking of the last words his predecessor had offered him;
you can lead them
. The old nerves that he had felt in his first officer posting as a junior optio had returned; parched mouth, self-doubt and paranoia. Regardless of this, his iron features stayed cold as ever.

His ears pricked up at a nervous cough — the rigging and deck space of the ship was in order and the men were ready, standing in formation, staring dead ahead. ‘Good work! Now unload the ship,’ he barked with a nod to the supply sacks and crates, ‘then form up for the march.’

The men shuffled across the deck. The ropes for the gangplank were hurled over the rim of the vessel and onto the shore. The century split in two, half thumping down onto the shingle and half unloading supplies to them. The odd roar of encouragement split the air from the handful of veterans in the century, but apart from that, the silence was painful.

He looked over to his optio, Felix. The swarthy, diminutive, fork-bearded Greek was holding the silver eagle standard with a damp ruby-red bull banner rippling from the crossbar, readying to give it to the
aquilifer
, whose job it would be to carry the standard on the march. ‘Felix,’ he beckoned, ‘give me that, I have a job for it!’ He grappled the staff and strode over to the gangplank, surveying his men as they busied themselves assembling the supply cart.

‘And let’s get this eagle planted in the sand,’ he cried, leaping over onto the shingle with a thud. ‘It is time for the XI Claudia to make her mark on this land!’

The century turned to him as one — a sea of stunned faces. Gallus felt the cold fingers of doubt race up his spine as he tried to hold his posture, until, after an agony of only a few moments, a chorus of cheers erupted. The cheering died into a rabble of banter as they jostled and bumped past each other as they worked.

A thump landed behind Gallus. ‘Nice touch, sir,’ Felix whispered with a grin.

Gallus barely flicked up the sides of his papyrus-thin lips in return, but he knew his trusted optio valued that like a thousand bear hugs from any other. The Greek had shed blood with him along the length of the Danubius for so long that they understood each other like brothers. He turned to eye the precious few select men of the century that he could count on in the same fashion; Zosimus the hulking Thracian with a nose like a squashed pear and permanent stubble; Avitus the bald, catlike little Roman and Quadratus the towering Gaul — his thick blonde moustache a throwback to his long-lost ancestors. All had their own stories, but each of them had shared his pain in the ranks since the day he had flung himself into his military career.

Life for Gallus before the legions was like a fading dream, the days before the gods had seen fit to take her from him.
Olivia.
The morning before they had set off in the
Aquila,
he had crouched before the temple of Mithras, eyes gazing through the idol in front of him. Eternal life and honour, the deity promised to loyal soldiers.
Screw your honour, give me back Olivia!
Then he grimaced, emptying his mind of those thoughts, wiping the rainwater from his chin until his knuckles whitened.

‘Oh for…’ Zosimus growled, vexed at the ill-fitting cart wheels. ‘Quadratus, get your back under this side so I can get the wheel on the bloody axle!’

Quadratus, reddened and fumbling at the opposite wheel, scuttled round to Zosimus’ side of the cart, only to drop his side of the vehicle on the legs of another young legionary who yelped out a rather ladylike scream. A roar of nervous laughter halted work momentarily.

Gallus welcomed the distraction. ‘Zosimus! Try not to decimate my century before this mission has begun.’

‘Sir!’ Zosimus’ grimace flushed slightly as he strained to slot the wheel into place.

The rest of the century was forming up into ranks, slotting armour in place, buckling belts and harnessing weapons. Gallus paced the ground in front of his men, screwing his eyes up at the murky grey sky. He looked to his ranks; capped with their intercisa helmets, dressed in mail vests over white tunics, woollen trousers and leather boots. They carried the deadly combination of a
spatha
sword, a spear and a collection of
plumbata
darts, slipped in behind their ruby painted oval shields. His mind flitted to the paintings and frescoes of the legions of old. Gone were the
lorica segmentata
, the square shields and the
gladius
. Also gone, some would say, was the invincibility of that lost age. He took a deep breath and unravelled a parchment map as the last of the century shuffled into place.

‘We have three more hours of daylight, by my reckoning. That gives us two hours marching time, which should see us to a small clearing in the forest to the north.’ He paused, glancing up at his rain-sodden ranks. The men’s faces said it all. Eyes darted back and forth along the tree line and fingers edged along shields restlessly. Alone on the vast beach, their number looked pitiful. Hastily, Gallus crumpled the map into his pack, biting back his frustration.

He paced before them, silent but glaring, as he thought back to the inspirational words of his predecessors. Then he boomed, ‘Hold your chins high and fill your lungs with air. For we are part of the greatest military machine this world has ever known. Every forest we have entered, every sea we have crossed, every desert we have endured and every mountain we have scaled — we have been victorious. Not without setback, that is for certain, but the fact that we are here at the borders of the world today shows that we have prevailed. It is those barbarians who cower in the undergrowth who should feel fear right now, should they even be so brave to look down on us.’ He saw pride flicker from the uncertainty on their faces, then puffed out his chest and seized the moment.

‘Remember…we are the
pride
of the XI Claudia!’

He turned to face the forest and pumped the eagle standard into the air, as if mocking the unknown shadows ahead. This ignited a roar of approval from the ranks, and inside his chest, his heart thundered. He spun to his optio and clicked his fingers. ‘Felix, organise fifty men to stay with the ship, then line up the rest — they’re coming with us inland.’ Then he turned to the beneficiarius. ‘Take her round the peninsula, we meet on the eastern coast, as planned, three days from now.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Felix nodded.

‘Yes, sir,’ the beneficiarius agreed.

He frowned as all the mutterings of discontent, skulduggery and what-ifs during the briefing from
Tribunus
Nerva scampered across his mind. Despite the bullish bravado, which Gallus loved him for, the commanding officer of the XI Claudia could turn even the most trivial of events into a drama. However, this time there were genuine layers of agenda and politics involved.
Dux
Vergilius had meddled from above and Mithras only knew who was pulling his strings.

‘And Felix,’ he waited for the optio to draw closer before adding quietly. ‘Be on your guard,’ he locked eyes with the Greek, ‘we’re walking into the lion’s jaws.’

While Constantinople bustled with activity on a very ordinary late winter morning, a lean, tired faced man with receding, close-cropped chestnut hair ambled up to the Palace of the Holy See. He stopped at the side gate and eyed the urban guard furtively.

‘I’m here to see the bishop. He is expecting me,’ he muttered, pulling his rough hemp robe a little tighter.

The guard looked apprehensive. ‘Oh. And you are…?’

The robed man shuffled in discomfort. ‘You don’t need to know.’

The urban guard tilted his helmet back, scratching his forehead with a grin. ‘Thing is, I’m afraid I do. I’m under orders not to let anyone in, unless they have an appointment. And any troublemakers…’ the guard drummed his fingers on his scabbard.

‘
Bosporus,
’ the man hissed, eyes darting around the passing citizens.

The guard looked puzzled for a moment, and then his face dropped as he recognised the password. ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ he said, pushing the gate open.

Senator Peleus suppressed the urge to glare at the guard — lest he might be recognised. Instead, he kept his head down, made his way across the courtyard and over a bed of gravel directly to a rusting cellar door. The latch clicked as he heaved it open — unlocked as arranged — then he descended the steps into the gloom. He carefully paced along the candlelit corridor at the bottom, passing storeroom after storeroom, stacked with crates and bundles. Then he saw the ostentatious bulwark that was so clearly the treasure vault door. Going by its thickness, the Holy See was more than financially sound, he noted. Towards the end of the corridor, Peleus veered into the unused section of the vault network, distinguished by its darkness. He walked blind, feeling for each pillar, counting.
Two, three, turn left, one, two, three, four.
Claustrophobia clawed at his throat as all around him was silent and pitch-black. Only the chill air and cool damp of the floor tickled his senses.
Only one more pillar
, he repeated in his head, reaching out. At the same time as his fingers touched the cool pillar, a welcome halo of orange candlelight was revealed from the vault to his left. He shuffled into its paltry warmth and waited.

The location was unbecoming of men of such high station. Dank and musty, the dripping brickwork glistened all around him like the night sky.
The life of a sewer rat,
Senator Peleus shivered, pulling his robe a little tighter around his slender frame.

From above, the dull and distant clopping of palace slaves going about their business reverberated around the cellar vault. Yet, while they worked in the sunlit land of the living, their master was to conduct his business down here with a senator.
How absurd!

Even more absurd was the fact that Peleus had never taken such a risk, indeed any risk, in his entire career. Until now. And this risk would be shared with every soul in the empire. The promise of wealth and power had seemed so much more glamorous when he had talked it over with the bishop at the festival, hubris and wine coursing through his veins. Now there was only the chill reality of what they had set in motion.
It’s not too late
, a voice screamed in his head. He tried to remember the count of pillars, and then turned to step away from the candlelight.

Behind him, a shadowy figure emerged from the gloom.