Legionary (23 page)

The call for the reclaiming of the old province of Bosporus had arisen from the Holy See itself. ‘Yes,’ he grasped onto the hazy memory. Their argument being that the reestablishment of the kingdom as a Roman province would be another great tale in the emperor’s legend. And for it to be achieved by the Christian armies of Rome would prove a decisive blow to the lingering pagan peoples of the empire and a victory for Arianism, the true faith. Even the soldiers, still clinging to the old deities, might unite under the Arian banner.

He looked again to the statue of Jupiter. Silent, steady Jupiter. Never dogged by a propensity for schism like Christianity was. His marbled and featureless eyes conveyed a sadness from an old and dying world. The Christian teachings of Arius held the candle of faith for him, but the old ways seemed so clear, so simple, no wonder the rank and file found comfort in them. But it wasn’t faith that tore at the empire now, Valens chuckled bitterly as he thought; it was the men who purported to embody faith. Then there was the state, the rabble of the senate had become an insidious white noise. He issued a silent prayer to all the gods, fearing that he had made the biggest mistake of his life.

He clapped his hands and a slave slipped through the door. ‘My emperor?’

‘Call for my scribe,’ Valens said, ‘and prepare two messengers, with fresh stallions from the imperial stable.’

‘Yes, Emperor,’ the slave replied and then was gone.

Valens closed his eyes and massaged his temples. Was it already too late?

At the boatside, Pavo’s stomach rumbled in protest at being left empty and in torment as his eyes followed another droplet of cold sweat falling into the swell below. He had spent the rest of the first day and night at sea by the boatside and now his body seemed to accept that there was nothing else to eject. The waters were choppy again as the sun dipped into the western horizon and the
Aquila
bucked and swelled, promising another night of no sleep whatsoever.

He slumped down, resting against the vessel side. He had replayed lovemaking with Felicia in his mind more times than he could count, and now it was just frustrating. While the veterans were snoring blissfully, most of the recruits of the first century had given up trying to sleep and had gathered in a circle in the centre of the deck. After a few deep lungfuls of cool air, he groaned as he pushed himself to his feet and then wandered over to join them. They were talking in hushed tones around a candle.

‘The Goths up there are different. A trader in Durostorum told me; they ambushed a trade caravan and didn’t spare a single one of them. Man, woman, child; slaughtered without mercy,’ one of them said.

‘It’s the forests; they hide in the trees and sink arrows into you from above, so you don’t even know you’re dead till you find yourself wandering in the realm of Hades,’ another said.

Pavo cocked an eyebrow, the hair on the back of his neck standing straight. He had fought against a small warband of Goths and that was it as far as battle experience went. That was in friendly territory, where enemy numbers were limited. Here this straggling band of border legionaries was wandering into the jaws of the unknown.

‘…aye,’ another legionary blurted out, a little too loud, ‘but I heard there are these people who have moved into the peninsula, too. Dark riders. More fearsome than any of the Gothic warriors. They celebrate their victories by eating the dead children of their enemies.’ Then, unnoticed until now, Gallus coughed and the group jumped as one and the young legionary emitted a high-pitched shriek.

Gallus surveyed the group. ‘Choppy waters tonight isn’t it, lads?’

Looking around at each other, they nodded and agreed. Pavo noted the stonier than usual look the centurion wore and stood back, keen to stay out of his glare.

‘Usually I tire myself by walking the deck. If that doesn’t do it then I find that a session on the oars helps.’ The legionaries looked at one another again, agreeing this time less readily.

Gallus sighed and again looked round each of them. ‘Whatever you do to get through this voyage, let’s keep it light, eh? Now try to get some rest instead of winding yourselves up like this.’

But Pavo couldn’t hold his words in. ‘What is it like there, sir? Bosporus?’ He asked, stepping forward. All heads turned to him. At once, his skin prickled with the dry heat of embarrassment.

Gallus turned to stare at Pavo, who braced for some form of rebuke, but there was none; instead, the centurion’s eyes sparkled in interest.

‘I just mean, perhaps if we knew some of the reality of the situation in the old kingdom, we might be able to focus, to set our minds at rest?’

Gallus nodded very slowly. ‘It’s a fair question,’ he began. ‘I’d like to tell you nice things about what happened to us when we carried out our reconnaissance of the peninsula, I really would.’ Pavo watched as the centurion’s eyes narrowed. He wished he had stayed in the shadows, as the centurion seemed to lose himself in some silent, dark memory. ‘However, the reality of war is something that a soldier cannot afford to dwell on. We need to focus only on us, how good
we
are, how strong
we
are. Each of you might still be feeling like fish out of water,’ he paused as the ship rolled again, ‘if you pardon the expression, but the veterans think the same thoughts, feel the same fears. The only difference is that they’ve learned to deal with it.’ He nodded to the slumbering heaps spread all over the deck.

Pavo watched keenly now as he saw the centurion’s stare loosen. There was something there, a sadness.
He actually has feelings!

Gallus’ voice trailed off momentarily and the recruits shuffled in discomfort.

‘Thank you, sir, I understand,’ Pavo offered.

‘Just remember, lads, no matter what this mission throws at us, every single one of us will be there by your side, sword in hand, ready to bleed for you,’ he leaned forward, the candlelight flickering in his eyes, ‘to die for you.’

The huddle of legionaries welcomed the statement with a unified roar of approval. Those who had been asleep in their beds groaned rather more disapprovingly. Gallus nodded to Pavo then turned and left them. It was a stony, cold nod, but Pavo’s chest bristled with pride.

A vulture soared on a zephyr, high above the neck of the peninsula. The skies were clear, but so was the ground — not even a hint of blood or scraps anywhere. The vulture drifted on across the mountainous ridge, crossing over into Bosporus. At once, the ground turned from grey green to deep crimson. Circling below, thousands of fellow carrion birds eyed the growing pile of carcasses in growing impatience. The vulture swooped to join them.

‘Pile them higher!’ Apsikal barked at his soldiers. ‘Noble Balamber will only be happy when the
Tengri
the sky god can taste their blood…and the Romans can see the tip from their cities!’ He strolled amongst the gore-spattered troops, swiping at bloodspots on his own mail vest as he went. Seven thousand bodies, stripped of armour and jewels. These Goths were no match for Hun warfare. A victory won with only a few hundred casualties on their side. The Hun juggernaut was unstoppable, he enthused, turning to take in the sea of yurts filling the plain to the horizon. Horses whinnied at every remaining spot of open grass, feasting on the sparse pickings jealously. He strode over to his mount, stroking its ears as it munched. ‘Not long now,’ he whispered. ‘Soon you will be feasting in the gardens of the Roman Emperor.’

Apsikal looked up at the tent of Balamber; a large enclosure, but certainly not embellished in any way — he was too wily to let his love for jewels and riches show. The Huns did not live under a king, but the strongest noble held power just as great as one. The men feared Balamber absolutely, but they loved him too. Being a horde leader, seeing Balamber’s wrath first hand almost daily, Apsikal knew only of the fear, and it was time to report on the battle. He could not stall any longer. To lie and live, or tell the truth and die? His heart thundered.

He ducked as he entered the inviting warmth of the hide tent. The setup inside was simple; areas were sectioned off to make the entrance lobby he stood in, a room for his concubines and a council room. Oil lamps flickered in the gloom, casting dancing shadows across the stern figures of Balamber’s personal guard. They parted without a sound as he approached.

Apsikal felt as though he was descending into an underground labyrinth as the curtains flapped behind him and a scent of burning meat curled around his nostrils; the council room was darker still and only a dim outline of Balamber was visible at the far end, slumped on his rudimentary throne — a simple timber bench on a raised platform. Apsikal approached gingerly, stopping at the foot of the platform. He looked up at the shadowy outline of the man; the man who had led their people through poverty and famine, moulding them into an army that nobody in the east could resist.

‘Noble Balamber,’ Apsikal spoke, his voice trembled. Moments passed with nothing but painful silence. Then Balamber shuffled to sit upright, to his full and towering height.

The first thing Apsikal noticed was the intensity in his leader’s eyes. Was it fury? Like Apsikal and most of the Huns, Balamber wore a snaking moustache and kept his flowing, jet-black hair tied back into two knotted tails. His nose curled over the top of the moustache, the rising and lowering of which was usually a good indicator as to his mood. On his cheeks he wore the three distinctive childhood scars seared into his flesh by ritual-abiding parents many years ago — designed to introduce the young to pain and to discourage beard growth. Wrapped in a dark-red robe, Balamber simply rested his hands on the arms of the throne, and stared.

Apsikal gulped. ‘Our business is complete with the rebel Goths, Noble Balamber. We have stripped their carcasses of useful materials, and desecrated their bodies, as you commanded.’

Balamber gave the merest of nods.

Apsikal unravelled a tattered scroll listing the inventory of bloody takings from the massacred Goths. Being one of only three literate members of the horde had sealed his rise to prominence. He drew a deep breath to ream off the highlights of the takings, but Balamber raised a hand.

‘Are they dead?’ He asked, his face devoid of emotion, all apart from his eyes, now almost burning holes in Apsikal. ‘All of them?’

Apsikal cleared his throat. The question he was dreading. Genocide was the order he had been given by his leader, and he had failed to complete the order in full, albeit by the merest of fractions.

‘They…’ He cleared his throat again.
Lie and live, tell the truth and die
. ‘They had a detachment of light cavalry, Noble Balamber. They managed to despatch a few of them before we shattered their lines.’ Apsikal paused as his leader shifted forward on his seat, his moustache lifting as his lips pursed.

‘Fewer than twenty of them escaped, Noble Balamber, and that was after several hundred fled. We brought them down in swathes with a single volley of arr…arrows…’ Apsikal stuttered to a halt.

‘Then those twenty will be dead and their skulls added to the pile before we move from the camp at the end of this week,’ Balamber asserted, his voice steady, fingering the gold cross hanging on a chain around his neck. ‘And you will complete your orders this time. Gold piled higher than the corpses outside awaits us if we succeed here, along with the keys to the Roman Empire!’

Apsikal nodded and two beads of sweat coursed down his forehead.

‘For if you do not fulfil my expectation this time, then the finest armour from the pile outside will be melted down and poured down your throat.’ He pounded a fist on the arm of his throne.

Apsikal dropped his head and fell to one knee.

‘I will not fail you this time, Noble Balamber.’

A stinging, torrential rain battered the fleet. Towering waves strove to raise each of the creaking hulks towards the sky and meet the full force of the storm. Then, an inevitable collapse back into the dark-blue abyss followed each of the ascensions. On board the
Aquila
, the crew lay scattered across the decks like twigs in a rainstorm, desperately clinging onto frayed rigging, shattered decking and crumbling masts. The storm had come from nowhere; one minute the sun baked their skins as the remiges rowed, the next, the sky had blackened and the fury of Poseidon was upon them.

Grasping a piece of worn rigging, Gallus blinked the frozen water from his eyes, willing his numb fingers to manipulate the loose end of the rope into a hoop. He staggered his attempts to save himself with barking orders to the flailing men on the deck. Every time the ship dropped into the trough of a titanic wave, he grasped the rope, praying that the other end was fastened securely enough, steeling himself against the screams of the less fortunate. Finally, the rope slipped into a loose knot. He braced himself as he waited for the next crashing impact, eyes shut tight, when a hand clamped itself around his ankle.

‘Sir!’ A desperate voice gasped.

Gallus blinked at the exhausted figure of Felix. ‘Felix, thank Jupiter!’ He roared above the noise, throwing down the remaining rope to his optio and grasping his wrist. ‘Brace yourself…’

Again, a wall of salty, perishing water collapsed down on top of them for long enough to once again make them doubt whether their ship had went under or capsized — at least two other ships of the fleet had done exactly that.

Gallus coughed as the swell tumbled from the decks. ‘Felix, what have you got for me?’

Felix spluttered, shivering violently. ‘Sir, we only caught broken signals from the rest of the fleet in front before the storm hit us.’ He stopped to retch, before lashing himself to the mast as Gallus had done. ‘I don’t know any more than anyone else — but it doesn’t look good,’ he chattered, nodding to the upturned hull nearby. ‘We’re being torn to pieces out here, sir.’