Legionary (41 page)

‘We’ve been here,’ Felix hissed, poking his head in between the two. ‘Six men cannot pilot a bireme — think again.’

‘Already have,’ Spurius cut in, ‘there are forty men on that ship, ready to do anything to clear their names. They’re due to do a patrol of the coast for the next few days, but they’re well up for getting back to Constantinople. Yes, they took the gold, but like me, they had no choice; take a lump of gold in your hand or a blade of iron in your throat — which would you go for?’

‘I don’t bloody believe it…we’ve got a chance!’ Pavo gasped to Felix and Sura.

‘So all we have to do is get through the thousands of Huns out there?’ Sura sighed. ‘You chaps will be okay, but we’re a little conspicuous?’ He eyed the filthy, soaking and bloodstained tunics they wore.

‘Lads,’ Spurius whispered, clicking his fingers, ‘get the gear!’ His two colleagues scuttled over to the corner of the attic, pulling away a dusty canvas to reveal three sets of I Dacia armour. Spurius grinned. ‘Get kitted up, we’ve only got so long before people start asking the lads on the bireme questions.’

Pavo clipped on the scale vest — light in comparison to his old mail one; the comitatenses armour was leagues ahead of the limitanei armour in terms of quality — scales of iron, much lighter and offering more complete protection, and it was still silver in colour, not a hint of brown rust. And the intercisa helmets were mirror-like, such was their perfection. He tightened his sword belt; it felt good to be armed again. They tightened up their chin straps and looked each other over.

‘Bloody affront to the Claudia this is!’ Felix chuckled, cricking his neck and rubbing his hands.

Without comment, Spurius hopped over the edge of the wall and slid down to the alley again. Pavo followed suit and they edged warily through the shadows to the opening. The cry of gulls grew and tang of saltwater and black woodsmoke thickened in the air as they approached. Spurius gave them all a stony look.

‘Chins up and chests out, lads. We’ve only got one shot at this.’

The fire roared, the night sky glowing orange from its light.
No point in hiding now
, Gallus mused wryly as he stared into the flames. Fifty more had died of their wounds since the previous day and now, as darkness fell upon them again, he looked over his tired and hungry bunch. Numbering seven hundred and eighty three, only a few hundred more than a single cohort, they had still worked like a full legion. Now the place was armed to the hilt with every form of projectile, incendiary and obstacle they could harvest from the plateau. The bushes had been stripped of berries and a precious pair of wild mountain goats had been herded inside the fort. The cistern brimmed with fresh water. They were ready in so many ways. However, Gallus sighed, he knew they could never be truly ready for what waited on them down below.

Anxiety had settled in once the fort modifications had been completed. Too much time to think was never a good thing for a legionary, Gallus knew, and he had set them to the task of piling up this fire; a reward of roast goat waited at the end of the task. He pulled the meagre scrap of goat meat from the rib he held — the sweet fatty juice running down his wrist. Starvation wouldn’t be an issue for a few days yet, but by then it would be too late; tomorrow, the Huns would climb the hill and come at the fort with all they had.

The scouts had moved expertly — like snakes in the grass — to observe the activities in the Hun command camp. Until now, the Huns had ringed the base of the hill, content to starve the XI Claudia into submission. Then, at dusk, one scout had stumbled into the fort, rasping foamy blood with every breath before he collapsed from the arrow lodged in his lung. His dying words had sent the fear of the gods around them all; some report had come into the Hun camp, not long after the curious blaze in the docks, something which stirred the dark Hun leader into a rage and to at once issue the order to prepare battle lines.

Only one thing could have stirred such a reaction, Gallus mused as he chewed down on another mouthful of goat meat. Somehow, Felix and his men must have escaped the peninsula. He lifted an eyebrow wryly as he imagined what sort of ploy the group must have conjured to pull off the impossible. But they must have been spotted, or somehow the Huns now knew about it. At least the initiative had been seized back, even if it was meaningless. For now the Huns would move in on them and they would be pulverised long before the days passed that it would take for any kind of meaningful relief force to be mustered and then to arrive.

He perked up as a legionary on the far side of the fire struck up a lilting tune on the strings of a kithara. Then his gaze fell into the fire again as he chewed on the meat. Olivia’s face danced in the flames.

‘Who are you thinking about, sir?’ Zosimus asked quietly beside him.

Gallus blinked, turning to his new optio. ‘It’s a long story, I wouldn’t know where to start,’ he sighed.

‘My little daughter’s going to be four this year,’ Zosimus continued. ‘Lupia was talking of having a family feast to celebrate. On the fields to the north of Adrianople. The sun stays bright and warm all day long there. Just the chattering of the insects. Only place I can relax these days.’ He fell silent for a moment as the fire crackled. ‘Don’t suppose I’ll be going there again.’

The bluntness of his statement caused no visible reaction, but Gallus felt an empathy with Zosimus and the other men around him. Acceptance was no bad thing, but one thing was for sure; if they were to be annihilated by this black swarm from the wilderness, they would fight with the fire of wronged men.

The stolen bireme bobbed on the Pontus Euxinus, cutting a path through the darkness. Almost all of its crew of forty-six scrambled up and down the rigging like spiders, tweaking the mast so the sails could catch the best of the strong wind. Two figures were seated near the prow, panting, as they took a well-earned break.

‘They’ll kill her — make no bones about it. Cutthroats to a man. She gave me this the last time I saw her.’ Spurius shook his head, rubbing tirelessly at the bronze trinket hanging from his neck. ‘You’ll never understand what I’ve risked for you, Pavo. The Blues…if we don’t get back before…’

Pavo thought of his own mother — the empty space in his heart where she should have been. He ached, not for her, but for the pain Father must have been through in losing her. He reached forward, clamping a hand on Spurius’ shoulder; the Blues were ruthless, mindless animals — just like the Reds and the Greens. ‘I’ll do everything I can to help you. Your mother won’t be hurt, I promise you that. If you hadn’t made this move, the Claudia would be slaughtered for sure.’ He eyed the sky — still pitch. It was morning when they set off from the docks of Chersonesos and they had no accurate measure of their position or the time they had been at sea. It had felt like a long time, for sure. ‘We’re not far from Constantinople now.’

‘Less words, more action!’ Spurius snarled, shaking Pavo’s hand free, and then lurching over to the mast, where he shimmied up to the soaked rigging and started bawling at the exhausted legionaries. ‘Faster, you buggers!’

Pavo’s legs wobbled as he tried to stand — just a few more minutes, he afforded himself, slumping back down again. He touched a finger to the phalera around his neck. So different yet so similar, he mused. His thoughts whirled like the wind around him as his mind tried to settle the state of affairs. Spurius, the bullying bane of his life for months at Durostorum, had been unveiled as a victim; in masses of debt with the Blues of Constantinople and with no means of paying it off, the thugs had sworn to kill his mother if he did not complete a contract on Pavo’s head. Allied to this, it was surely only a matter of time — if it had not already happened — until the Huns realised their prisoners, and a patrol boat, had went missing. As soon as that coin dropped, Pavo shivered, the Huns would know a relief army was a possibility and the remains of the XI Claudia would be crushed. Every instant was precious from here, yet time seemed to be dancing away from him, taunting him with catastrophic failure. He prised himself to his feet and hobbled towards the mast.

‘There she is,’ Felix cried as the faint band of orange glowed on the horizon of the night sky.

Constantinople. Pavo felt warmth and bitterness wash through his veins at once; childhood with his father and then slavery under Tarquitius.

The silhouette of the great capital emerged gradually; domes and towers became distinguishable as they approached. Then, like the beacon of imperial majesty and faith that it claimed to be, the emblem of the cross pierced the glow from the tips of the highest buildings. The capital dominated the horizon and a choir of gulls congregated around the vessel to welcome them.

‘Right, lads,’ Felix called, dropping down from the mast onto the deck, ‘into the rags, as we discussed!’ The optio slipped off his sword belt and kicked off his legionary boots. Now, dressed only in a torn and shabby grey wool cloak, he looked more like a tired beggar than a legionary. The crew around him followed suit, while some set about rolling up the eagle-emblazoned sails and hacking tell-tale parts of the boat’s structure away. ‘A bireme passing itself off as a trade vessel?’ Felix chuckled. ‘If we pull that one off, we’re charmed!’

‘I wouldn’t even take time to think about it, sir. We’ve got to just go for it,’ Pavo sighed. ‘One other thing though, sir. It’s Spurius.’

‘What about him? He’ll be lucky not to be executed.’

‘He’s risked everything to get us out of there and come back here.’ Pavo’s eyes darted across the optio’s face. ‘We should give him some men.’

‘Is this to do with all that blubbering about his mother?’

‘He’s talking about facing a gang all by himself — we’ve got to help.’

‘Dunno,’ Felix grumbled, ‘like you say, we’ve got to stay focused. Anyway, chin up, lad, we’ve done so well to get this far.’ The optio then addressed the men once more. ‘Get all the shit in the hold up here, scatter some tools on the deck, break stuff — make this ship look like a floating turd!’

Pavo frowned as he set about pulling the ropes from their tightly coiled spindles and spreading them across the deck and then scattering tools on top of them — a mess any trade cog would be proud of. Then he leapt just in time as Sura hurled the latrine bucket across his path.

‘No need to go that far,’ Felix chided him, ‘bloody moron!’

Other cogs and light vessels bobbed past as they approached the city — the hub of trade in the empire. Pavo tried to keep his eyes on his business, just as a trader crewman would. But Spurius haunted his thoughts. He looked up to see the bull of a legionary hauling at the fur boxes with Sura.

‘Allright, Pavo,’ Felix grunted from behind him. ‘You’ve earned the benefit of the doubt. We’ll send ten along with him. But if this goes wrong…’ the optio stuck out his lower jaw and widened his eyes.

‘Fine by me, sir,’ he beamed.

Then a cry erupted from the crow’s nest. ‘Prepare for boarding!’

Felix bristled and he instinctively reached for his missing scabbard, checking himself just in time. ‘Bugger!’

Pavo spun to find the approaching vessel; in the darkness, the form of another bireme drifted into view. Its sides were lined with twenty eager looking legionaries. ‘Urban guard!’ Pavo hissed. ‘The worst kind of money grabbing, corrupt buggers in all the empire.’ He rubbed the old scar on his temple — courtesy of the urban guard’s sword hilt that day back in the Palace of the Holy See.

The ship slid up to their starboard and the gangplank dropped into place, thudding on the deck of the bireme. The twenty thundered across it and onto the deck, fanning out to either side as they did so. The captain strutted to the fore like a peacock, dressed in an immaculate moulded breastplate and a highly polished and scarlet-plumed helmet.

‘Here we go,’ Felix whispered to Pavo. ‘Looks like we’ve got a would-be Caesar to deal with.’

Pavo bit back the words of his reply, dropping his gaze to the timbers of the deck when he realised that the captain had heard Felix and was glaring right at them. Act humble and we might slip through this, he reasoned. The captain strode towards them, stopping barely a pace from Felix. Pavo noted with a sly grin how the captain had chosen to stand toe to toe with the smallest man on board.

‘What’s your business?’ He barked.

‘Trade,’ Felix replied matter-of-factly.

‘In this thing — trading what? Where did you steal this piece of driftwood from?’ He snorted, eyeing the setup on deck. ‘And you’ll address me as an officer, you dog.’ He brought the top of his hand cracking across Felix’s cheek. The crew braced for a fight, the boarding party grabbed for their sword hilts.

‘I’m sorry, sir. Textiles and furs,’ Felix yelled, leaping up in between his men and the captain’s. Tentatively, the two parties relaxed, swords sliding back into scabbards. He pointed to the carefully cut up pile of sail they had strapped up to look like batches of rough linen.

‘Tat! Where are the furs?’ The captain snapped.

‘Furs?’ Felix stammered.

The captain brought his knuckles raking across Felix’s mouth again. Dark blobs of blood spilled down the optio’s chin and onto his tunic.

‘Are you going to make me repeat myself, you scumbag?’

Pavo’s mind raced. They had not been prepared to be boarded, never mind for their handiwork on the ship to be scrutinised like this. Was this the point where they had to act, before their disguise was rumbled? He reached for his sword hilt, concealed beneath his cloak. The others by his side did likewise. But Felix shot them a glare, quickly pushing himself in between the crew and the captain once more.

‘Again, I’m sorry, sir,’ Felix offered humbly, wiping his mouth with his cloak. ‘We don’t collect the furs until we dock in the city. The Germanians bring them in to trade, so we ship this rubbish in from Pontus and they lap it up,’ he chuckled, nodding vigorously.