Legionary (32 page)

‘Thinks he’s a bloody centurion,’ Zosimus grumbled.

‘Pipe down, Zosimus,’ Avitus snapped over his shoulder as they jogged ahead, doubled over while flitting through the tall grass.

Pavo longed to see a trader, a child, a guard, anyone as they thudded down to the dirt trail approaching the main gate. But nothing. The gate itself lay ajar, but not far enough to see inside.

‘Sir?’ He gasped.

‘Pavo — keep your voice down.’

‘Sir,’ he whispered, ‘Should we look for an alternative entrance?’

‘Gate’s open — why should we? You reckon it’s a trap?’

‘It just seems…too easy?’

Avitus continued his jog, gritting his teeth. The other three kept with him until eventually he relented and stopped. ‘Fair point. You don’t just leave the town gate open, eh? All right, what are our options?’

‘We could chuck a rope up the wall?’ Quadratus suggested, stroking his moustache.

‘There’s got to be a guard entrance. And if the main gate’s open that might be too?’ Pavo offered.

‘Yep,’ Avitus scanned the stonework. To the left edge of the town, a small, arched timber panel presented itself. ‘Okay, Pavo. Your idea so you’re up — get in there and give us the thumbs up from the wall. Then we’ll come in the main gate. If we don’t see you, we know you’ve had it.’

Pavo gulped as a pang of cool terror grasped his heart. ‘Me?’

‘Don’t be a fairy about it,’ Zosimus growled. ‘Look on the positive side — there could be nobody in there and we could all be sitting down eating roast boar and supping ale before sunset. Now get a move on!’

‘Oi! I’m in charge,’ Avitus hissed.

‘I should’ve been put in charge over you two clowns,’ Quadratus sighed.

‘You? You couldn’t organise a hangover in a wine cellar,’ Avitus snapped.

Pavo stepped away from the quarrelling three.
Sod it
, he thought, stalking forward in a crouch towards the guard door.

‘Attaboy, Pavo,’ Zosimus hissed after him.

The wall was the height of three men and the mortar was flaked in disrepair, but there were no signs of siege damage — if it had fallen to the riders then it had not been taken by force. He slowed as he reached the guard door. Nudging the timbers with his shield boss, the door creaked back on its hinges, sending a shiver up his spine. The gloom before him offered up only the first few stone stairs of a staircase, no doubt leading to the battlements above, then darkness prevailed.
Next time, I keep my mouth shut.

He stepped into the shadows. Looking up, a tiny square of white light presented itself as the doorway onto the battlements.
Here we go
. He stalked up each stair carefully, tapping his sword flat ahead of him like a blind man. The staircase wound upwards squarely and he broke into a hop as his confidence grew along with the white light above.
A wave or the middle finger,
he wondered,
what should I give them as the signal?
He chuckled as he sprang the last few steps. Then the breath stopped in his lungs and his heart lurched. A glint of iron appeared and disappeared just above him.

Time stopped as he stood frozen in the darkness, his thundering heartbeat filled his head. Then a scream filled the stony enclosure, echoing from the walls like a thousand warriors, and Pavo ducked behind his shield instinctively — just as a sword hammered into its rim, sending a shower of sparks through the air. In the instant of illumination, the twisted features of a scar-faced warrior appeared.

‘What the,’ Pavo gasped, steadying himself. Then, from behind him, footsteps thudded up the stairs and another war cry pierced the air. ‘Oh bugger!’ He cried, swinging his sword into the blackness behind him and butting his shield out above him. Then a sword whipped past his chest, scraping his armour and another hacked into the stair by his ankle. Pavo threw down his sword and shield and leapt from the stairwell — clawing out at the blackness, his fingers whipping through the air in the brief moment of weightlessness. Just as he braced himself for the plummet onto hard stone below, his fingers snapped onto something and his body slapped against the stonework — the other side of the stairwell. His attackers roared as they smashed swords with each other.

Pavo pounced on the instant of confusion, pulling himself up, feeling around the floor for the stairs. Sprinting upwards, the square of white light was just above. He lurched up until it grew and enveloped him as he burst out onto the battlements, gasping.
The signal!
He panicked, rushing for the edge of the wall, but there was nothing; just grass where he had left them. Just then, his two attackers bundled out into the walkway too. They stalked towards him, flat yellow faces grinning as they noted his lack of weapons. Pavo whipped out his dagger, backing off. The warriors were both built like bulls — short and stocky, with flowing dark locks and wispy moustaches. They wore layers of skins and leggings, with crude linen armour over their chests and held long, straight swords in their hands. Filling the width of the battlement, they forced him backwards. Pavo craned to see over the parapet. He whipped his hands up, waving, and roared — surely Avitus and the lads would be watching, but still the plain lay empty. The Huns barked at each other in their jagged tongue, agitated, and then one relented, turning to roar out across the town. From the streets, the clopping of horses’ hooves rattled out, a Hun rider raced towards the main gate, lowered in his saddle — then burst from the gate and thundered across the plain.

Bugger!
Pavo hissed to himself as the rider shot for the horizon. Then he turned to his two attackers, raised his dagger, and remembered his own words to Zosimus only moments ago.
They don’t take prisoners
. His legs wobbled as he staggered back. Then he thumped into the end wall of the battlement — the breath lurched from his lungs. The Huns smirked and ran for him.

Pavo slid to the ground, kicking out towards the nearest Hun’s gut. He felt the man’s ribs crack as he fell backwards. Then the glistening sword of the other Hun arced down for his neck. Pavo, penned in at the corner, could only brace himself and tear his dagger across the path of the blow. A metallic screech sent sparks flying as his dagger caught the blow and sheared in half. The shard of dagger blade sclaffed up and across his knuckles, gouging deep into the skin and chafing the bone.

Roaring in agony, instinct took over and he sprang up to headbutt the momentarily vulnerable Hun, catching him right on the nose. A sickening crack rang out and the Hun moaned, dropping his sword. Pavo dipped to take the weapon, bringing it up to rip it across the Hun’s midriff — but the linen armour rendered the blow harmless and the sword flew from his hand into the town below. Jumping backwards the Hun reached for the bow slung on his back, wrenching back the shaft and the razor-sharp bone tip. Pavo’s eyes widened — it was now or never.

As the Hun’s fingers slackened on the arrow, Pavo leapt, punching upwards to knock the bow offline. The arrow rocketed upwards and he brought the stump of his dagger ripping into the Hun’s throat. With a gurgling scream, the warrior toppled from the battlement into the town below. Pavo’s limbs felt leaden as he staggered back from the edge, then he heard a dull growl behind him. His stomach lurched as he spun to face the noise; the sweating, pinched features of the first winded Hun stared back at him, teeth gritted as he pointed his sword into Pavo’s face.

‘Your life is over, Roman. Just like the Goths,’ he nodded towards the town centre.

Pavo glanced over, but could see nothing behind the taller buildings in the way.

‘They opened their gates, expecting mercy — they thought we might let them live as slaves. They were wrong! Now you will join them.
Tengri
wills it…’

A distant whirring caught Pavo’s ear; iron…coming his way.

‘Duck!’ he heard behind him.

Dropping to his knees in lieu of any other strategy, Pavo felt a spatha zip over his head from behind, then plunge into the Hun’s neck, sending a torrent of dark blood into the air. The warrior tumbled into the town below, lying broken next to his comrade in the bloodwashed packed-earth street. Pavo turned to see Avitus at the end of the battlement.

‘What kept you?’ He stammered.

Pavo stood well back as the legion filtered into the town centre. Zosimus, to his immediate right, was still pale at the sight of the mountainous feast that awaited the vultures.

All around the flagpole. Pink limbs and shards of white bone projected from the grotesque pile. Severed heads of men, women and children, locked in spasms of pain and gaping emptily into the distance. All this was coated in a dark-crimson sheath.

Amalric looked at the scene with the cold expression of a man who had seen the same — and worse — many times over. He stood with Nerva in a solemn silence.

‘We’re always one step behind, eh?’

‘Sir?’ Pavo blinked, turning to Gallus beside him. However, the centurion’s gaze was lost in the mountain of gore.

Then a lilting harmony rose up, a soft voice gliding through a foreign lament. Amalric. Horsa came to stand beside him, placing an arm on his shoulder.

Pavo looked around the circle. He thought of Tarquitius’ grim prophecy.

Night fell on the coast of Bosporus as the eighth century of the XI Claudia bedded into their regulation ditch and stake encampment — a miniature of the standard legion camp. Centurion Aquinius had chosen the site carefully. The features offered by the location, on the side of a plain, were a sheer cliff face to the immediate west, a clear view to the beach, the sea and the disembarking fleet to the south and an open vista of the inland horizon to the north and east.

He had been happy to be trusted with the coast watch task — a relatively plum sortie; far less likely to run into riders on the beach, and the boats were a handy option should they find themselves in trouble. Nothing could take them by surprise here; he smiled in satisfaction, lifting his water skin to take a cooling swig, eyeing the setting sun.

Twenty sentries stood watch at regular intervals along the palisade, while the other sixty huddled around the braziers at each tent, gratefully munching boiled goat stew. It had been a stroke of luck to come across a deserted farmstead, still populated with fat livestock. Now after their day of quick march across boggy terrain, this was the perfect tonic. The fleet had cruised smoothly, with a gentle wind providing the perfect pace to stay level with their land escort. Now, like a train of ants, the crew from the fleet filed up from the beach towards the camp to eat and to gather salted beef, pulses and fresh water for the following day. Only the skeleton crew of the giant pirate quinquereme remained at sea, as a contingency measure against a naval attack. So far, so good, Aquinius thought as he tore a piece of bread from his ration.

The sentries at the gate of the camp shuffled in agitation as the aroma of cooking meat wafted past them. They examined the inland horizons, keen to find any distraction until their shift finished. A small cloud of dust puffed up from the eastern plain. Both men jumped to attention in alarm.

‘What is it?’ The first sentry hissed, bringing his spear forward.

‘Will you take it easy? Wait a moment and let’s see what it is before you declare war…’ his companion spat. Then he, too, screwed his eyes up. After a moment his shoulders dropped, and he relaxed his grip on his shield. ‘Look, red leather armour — it’s the foederati messenger,’ he chuckled, ‘what are you like?’

A lone foederatus was tasked with keeping the shore century in communication with the main body of the legion. A heartbeat between the two parties, and it had worked well. The billowing blonde hair of the rider settled as he slowed on approaching the camp entrance. Then he saluted the sentries dutifully.

The sentries looked at each other in mischief. ‘What’s the password?’ The first sentry called.

‘You’ve let me in twice already, don’t be ridiculous!’ He moaned in a Gothic twang.

The sentries simply grinned and stood firm.

‘Teutoberg!’ The foederatus sighed.

Aquinius wandered among the legionaries, offering conversation and encouragement to the fresh and unfamiliar faces of the recruits who had flooded his century only days ago. He supped at his second course; an urn of broad bean broth, allowing the salty aroma to curl into his nostrils as his eyes passed over the fleet crew trudging back to the beach to board their vessels again. He felt his eyelids leaden at the final traces of sunlight slipping from the horizon above the cliffs. He sipped and then stopped, his brow furrowed — a rather frantic figure was waving from the deck of the quinquereme. Then he noticed the train of crew. Suddenly they broke into a run, dropping their supplies. Every hair on the back of Aquinius’ neck rippled as he heard the dark rumble of hooves from behind him. Surely not…from the cliffs?

He turned numbly to see a dark wash of riders pour over the cliff edge. He rubbed his eyes in disbelief as the Hun riders strafed their animals down the treacherous and impossible terrain unharmed. Like a dark avalanche, thousands of them hurtled towards the western stake palisade — sparse and poorly fixed as it was, the riders would be upon them in an instant. Aquinius dropped his urn of broth, the scalding liquid leapt up in protest, coating his bare shins, yet he felt nothing. The legionaries, too, were completely stunned, only being able to stand in disbelief and watch the wave of destruction as it roared over them.

‘To arms!’ Aquinius roared. Those who managed to grab some form of weapon or protection managed at best a few parries before being swept to their death by the merciless torrent, the Huns cutting down the century like tall grass. Aquinius stumbled backwards, flailing, before he fell to his knees. A lasso wrenched around his neck and with a dull crack, he was lifted from the spot and trailed like a broken doll behind the rider who had snared him.