Legionary (33 page)

Within a handful of heartbeats it was over, the camp was carpeted in black-blooded remains. The Huns circled the centre of the camp, whooping a piercing high-pitched victory cry, while their majority thundered down to the shore to butcher the crew.

The celebrations settled, and the Huns milled towards the front gate of the camp. As they approached, two petrified sentries stared back at their certain death. The first sentry glanced briefly over his shoulder to see the shocked figure of the still-mounted foederatus, barely through the gates — frozen like an ice-statue.

‘Ride! Get out of here and get word to the legion!’ The sentry screamed. The foederatus quickly snapped out of his trance and spurred his horse round into a full gallop. Almost instinctively, the Horde of Huns swarmed towards the gate to pursue the Goth. The sentry stood with his hands wrapped around an unused palisade stake, and waited until the thundering horde were almost upon him before he dropped the post across the gate just as the first handful of riders made to pass through. With a crack of horse limbs, the riders were thrown from their mounts.

A precious few moments had been bought for the foederatus to make it back to the legion, the sentry gulped. Then he felt his bowels loosen at the scream of his fellow sentry being butchered. Glancing skywards, he searched for Mithras, then a thundercloud of arrows tore through his torso, and a glistening blade scythed through his neck.

The foederatus horseman dug his heels into the sides of his mount without mercy, and felt the beast straining at the breakneck pace they gathered. He did not allow any let up until he was almost into the forest to the northeast. He began to slow as his beast tired, turning eventually at the terrible victory whoop from the shore.

In the distance, the Classis Moesica fleet was ablaze, fire arrows raining down on the inferno. Without those ships, the legion was in dire trouble. Without news of this, the legion was truly doomed.

He jumped as something caught his eye from the trees.

‘Time to die, Roman lover!’ A Hun horseman trotted towards him, an arrow nocked in his bow. Two others appeared silently to encircle him.

Fear hammered at his heart as he raised his hands, shaking his head. ‘No,’ he stammered, dropping his sword and reaching into his purse.

‘So the Roman lover thinks he can buy his life?’ The three Huns sneered.

The foederatus very slowly raised a small gold Christian Chi-Rho cross hanging from a chain, then slipped it on over his head and held it to show them.

‘I’m no Roman lover,’ he grinned. ‘I’m with you!’

The ground quaked as the Hun horde moved off. Balamber rode in their midst, gleaming in his iron Sassanian armour and surrounded by his loyal horde leaders — the nobles who would share the largest spoils of his winnings. He scanned the seas of mounted troops that surrounded him; no neat formations or tidy units — this army fought like a pack and devoured all who stood in their way. The swell of spears, caps, arrowheads and bows filled the land to the horizon in every direction, riders and the poor wretches who begged for the honour of serving as his infantry, bobbing gently as they moved southwards.

Destroy all before you
; the mantra rang in his head. For the briefest of moments, he allowed the distant memory to run free in his mind, the one that he had fought to keep back for so long, since he was a boy on that very night. His stomach shrivelled as he recalled the scene; the thousands upon thousands of his kin, wailing, bloodied and maimed on the plains. The
Qin
regiments had cut the throats of his people in a night raid on the tribes. The stragglers, those who had fought their way free, staggered across the deserts and plains, always following the setting sun, numb from such brutal loss, in hope of finding a new home. Something touched his heart for an instant; a misty shade of the stinging sorrow behind his eyes he had felt on those long past days.
Meekness brings defeat and dishonour
, he gritted his teeth, recalling yet again the pain on his father’s face when he grappled young Balamber by the shoulders on one of those long, dark nights;
with this slaughter, the mighty Tengri has spoken to our people these simple words; destroy all before you.

Balamber blinked the harrowing echo from his mind. He checked his horde leaders around him. They feared him more than they feared any foe, be they this ever-less distant empire of Rome or the proud dynasties of the Far East. He spoke gently. ‘A legion of Rome awaits us to the south. Their reputations do them a great service, but keep this in mind when we face them: they are not what they once were. Lambs ripe for the slaughter, if you will. Spill their blood and we open the gates to our destiny. Their empire is a land of bounty stretching to the far end of the world where the sun rests at night. And it will be ours!’ The horde leaders’ eyes glistened in longing and wonderment at his words. ‘You, as my most trusted men, will share in the cream of this bounty. Fight well for me, men, and share my honour!’

‘Rest assured, we will shed our own blood for you, Noble Balamber,’ one replied. The others rumbled in agreement.

He smiled, trotting forward. These men would cut their mother’s throats at the sight of gold. And only the promise of gold would tame them.

Balamber nodded to his personal bodyguard — a giant of a man who wore a huge ox-horn bound around his neck by a ragged leather strap. The bodyguard lifted the horn and filled his lungs. The deep, ominous moan that poured from it echoed across the landscape and was greeted with an animal-like guttural roar of over twenty-thousand Huns.

The horde marched to war.

A roaring fire punctuated the black of night as the grotesque pile of corpses was reduced to ash. All legionaries were posted to the empty houses and halls of the town, and only a few topknotted figures stood around the inferno in silence.

Pavo rested his spear on the battlements and let his eyes rest on the crackling blaze — some brief respite from the monotony of sentry duty and staring out into the blackness of the plains. Amalric the Gothic prince had demanded for the gore-pile to be set alight as a pyre in some last attempt to regain the dignity of the dead. At first, Nerva had steadfastly refused, insisting the thing would be like a beacon to the Huns. Gallus had winced as he stood between the two while the whole legion watched. Pavo replayed the nerve shredding moment when he had been called up from the ranks to explain to Amalric that the Huns had left spies in the town, and that their position was compromised in any case due to the rider who escaped.

Pavo sighed, turning to look out over the blackness in front of him. With only a tiny lantern tucked into the corner of the battlement, the Hun army could be assembled right out there, yet he couldn’t even see the ground from up here. He glanced down at his mail shirt, picking at the gore cladding it had taken on. A tiny piece of matted blood crumbled away, leaving a beautifully unblemished sliver of iron behind it. He pulled the thong with the bronze phalera free of his vest and eyed the writing longingly as always. His mind drifted to the heat wave summer of his childhood in Constantinople.

Sitting on the doorstep facing onto the dusty lane of the slums surrounding the Gate of Saint Aemilianus, Father pummelled the scale vest relentlessly despite the blistering sun beating down on his back. Meanwhile, Pavo had cartwheeled back and forth across the lane from house to house, giggling with his playmates. ‘My father’s going to fight in the legions!’ He had cried, his chest puffed out. ‘My father will be emperor!’ His friends had eagerly joined his child-legion of six — armed with broom handles and wearing caps and bowls on their heads, they had marched on the forum. Or at least as far as the end of the lane.

Pavo smiled, momentarily transported from the cool, dark battlement in this alien land. Then the cold hands of reality traced his spine as the dark memory returned; the gaunt, dead-eyed soldier who dropped the pitiful purse of coins in his hand — announcing the death of his father without a word of solace.

Pavo shivered as a chill breeze washed over him.
Enough
, he chided himself with a chuckle,
stay alert or you’ll be the legion idiot again!
He blinked to stare out into the dark plains again, when a pair of hands stabbed into his sides. His heart leapt and his eyes bulged.

‘Allright?’ Sura sniffed.

‘In the name of…what d’you call that? Did you actually get any sentry training?’

‘Relax! Nobody can see diddly squat — we could be over in that inn there — Zosimus claims they found seven unopened casks of ale in the cellar,’ Sura frowned.

‘Aye, a cup of ale and the lash from Nerva — sounds lovely. Have you seen anything…’ Pavo’s voice trailed off as he saw the darkness swim on the ground below. ‘Sura, look!’

The pair clamped their hands on the battlement, peering into the night. There it was; a rider.

‘Who goes there!’ Pavo yelled, grappling his spear. At once, the sentries all along the battlement jumped to attention and the call was echoed.

‘Foederati scout, let me in!’

‘Password?’ A cry came from above the gate.

‘Teutoberg!’ he hissed back.

‘Allright lads, let him in!’ One sentry bawled.

Pavo and Sura craned towards the gate for a better look.

‘Could be Julius Caesar for all we can see,’ Sura tutted as they strayed from their sentry points, screwing their eyes up.

‘He’s a bit late isn’t he?’ Pavo reasoned. Sura nodded with a frown. The sun had set a long time ago — the scout had been due back just after dark.

‘Sura, Pavo!’ a voice barked. Both spun round to see Felix fuming back at them, with Quadratus glaring likewise a few paces back. ‘Is that what Brutus taught you? To be distracted by every coming and going, every little detail? Eyes forward, and stay at your post.’

Pavo jumped to stand upright and stared fastidiously out into the blackness again. Sura scurried fifty paces along the wall to his post to do the same.

Felix sighed. ‘Anyway, you couple of morons, shift’s over; we’re here to relieve you.’

Flitting down the steps, Pavo caught a muffled mumbling from the gate — the jagged twang of the foederati. ‘Move,’ he hissed over his shoulder to Sura, ‘we might get an ear in on the report.’

The pair burst out from the stairwell and into the gatehouse enclosure.

A pair of foederati huddled with the scout rider and they talked in hushed tones in their native tongue. As soon as they noticed the entrance of the pair, they stopped, breaking apart. Two glared stonily at Pavo and Sura.

‘Move on!’ One barked.

‘Wait a moment, you’re in my wing, aren’t you?’ Sura ignored the two and spoke to the rider.

The scout rider’s face was stern at first, and then he broke into a grin. ‘Sura, isn’t it? They’ve got you back on foot duty have they?’ He nodded up to the battlement. ‘Hah, we’ll make a rider of you yet!’

As the rider spoke, Pavo let his eyes drift. Then something caught his eye, a glint of metal on a chain around the rider’s neck. His eyes keened.

‘Did you see me this morning?’ Sura roared. ‘I was ahead of Captain Horsa. You lot were well behind.’

The rider laughed. A warm laugh. But as he did so the chain lifted, and the edge of a dull yellow cross peeked from his breastplate. Something was etched on its surface. The breath froze in Pavo’s lungs.

‘I’ll show you tomorrow, eh?’ Sura concluded, turning to Pavo. The rider roared in laughter again.

‘Come on!’ Pavo hissed.

‘Eh?’ Sura frowned. ‘What about getting a listen in on the report?’

‘Screw the report.
Come on!
’ He tugged Sura by the elbow and together they stalked away from the gate. At the first corner, Pavo turned in sharply.

Sura glared at him. ‘Well?’

‘That cross,’ Pavo’s eyes darted as he rifled through memory.

Sura frowned. ‘What cross? What are you on about?’

Pavo gripped him by the shoulders ‘There’s no time. We need to speak to the officers. We could be in bigger trouble than we ever imagined.’

Dawn had arrived. The legion stood on the plain outside the town’s main gate formed up and ready to march. Nerva and Gallus stood to the fore, looking to the dim horizon for any sign of movement. The foederati scouts had set out before dawn in their five divisions to reconnoitre the second hop of their trek to Chersonesos.

‘That’s too long already, damn it!’ Gallus grunted.

‘If they don’t come back…’ Nerva trailed off.

‘Sir?’ Gallus frowned.

‘I’m just thinking aloud. If they don’t come back — for whatever reason — we still have to move, Gallus. The Huns know we’re here. I won’t let us hole-up here as a sitting target. This town simply won’t hold out against the numbers reported.’

‘The fleet is always there, sir. It might not be in any sort of shape to sail, but it could take us offshore. There have been no reports of a Hun navy.’

‘Then what — sit off the shore and starve? With no means of repairing the ships?’

Gallus looked to the coast, far in the distance. He never thought it would be him who suggested it, but needs must. ‘Sir, may I suggest we call on the I Dacia.’ Gallus expected Nerva’s grimacing reaction. ‘As much as I hate to say it, sir,’ he checked to make sure that no legionaries were in earshot before continuing. ‘But as things stand we are positively buggered. Maybe we should put pride and reputation to one side?’

Nerva chuckled — but his expression remained cold.

‘I hear you, Gallus. The pragmatist would admit we need help here; one legion was supposed to be enough to tackle a disorganised society of Gothic farmers and warbands, but instead we are being fed to the wolves.’ He dropped his distant gaze to his boots, shaking his head.

Gallus glanced around nervously — body language like this would percolate through the troops. The Nerva he aspired to seemed locked away inside this cage of jangling nerves.