Legionary (34 page)

‘Sir?’

Nerva looked up, his eyes red-rimmed and ringed with tiredness. ‘You are right. Despatch a messenger…no, two, send them on different routes, to the fleet. Whatever state the fleet is in, get that quinquereme sailing for Durostorum. We must put pride to one side and call for the services of …Wulfric,’ he spat the name like a troublesome sinew of meat. ‘But they will not get to us for days, so we
must
attempt the hop to Chersonesos — we can bed in if we get to the citadel, but we cannot stay here.’

Gallus felt a weight lifting from his shoulders — not exactly as he would have played it had he been in charge, but at least the tribunus had offered some compromise. One more hop to Chersonesos it would be, then; all money on the next throw of the dice. But the dark cloud in his mind remained. What if? Then he thought back to last night. Pavo and his friend Sura had turned up at his billet, babbling. It all sounded so outlandish — Horsa and the foederati had been bought by the Holy See? Pavo had been right before, he mused reluctantly. The lad seemed to attract trouble but was one of the sharper recruits in the legion.

After issuing orders to two mounted auxiliaries, Gallus turned back to his tribunus. ‘Sir,’ Gallus started, fighting to keep the uncertainty from his voice, ‘do you have any concerns over the foederati?’

‘Concerns?’

‘Apart from the obvious. Yes they put their backs into the rowing, but they sneer at our boys, they don’t tow the line like Romans. I just mean…do you trust them?’

‘As far as I could throw them, yes!’ Nerva chuckled. ‘We’ve got to accept it, Gallus, they are not fighting for the empire. They’re after gold and gold alone — it’s a fact we have to live with.’

‘Whose gold?’ Gallus cut in.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘The emperor paid Fritigern for his allegiance I presume?’

‘Gallus, I don’t know where you’re going with this,’ Nerva quizzed.

’But he did pay them?’ Gallus persisted.

‘Well, yes. Standard policy these days — if you can’t beat them, buy them. Sadly. Look, Gallus, spit it out. I don’t want surprises later on.’

Gallus watched his tribunus grimace in frustration; Nerva was brash, wanted it all out on a plate up front. ‘Okay, it’s a long shot, but it adds up, albeit roughly.’ Gallus glanced around to ensure nobody was within earshot. ‘Our foederati have been seen carrying marked gold. Nothing special there, but one of my lads — Pavo — recognised the marking.’ He leant in to the tribunus. ‘From the Holy See of Constantinople, sir.’

Nerva’s eyes narrowed. ‘Interesting. That lad Pavo, he has a chequered history to say the least, no? In any case, it could be nothing — they might trade currency with the imperial coffers?’

‘I hope so, sir. I don’t know why the See would pay them on top of the emperor, and I’m not sure I want to know either.’

Nerva’s eyes grew distant momentarily and then he grinned wryly. ‘Bishop Evagrius…’

‘Slippery as a snake in oil,’ Gallus nodded. ‘I doubt he would release a bent nummus unless there was something sweet in it for him.’

‘Well, I’d love to quiz them about it, Gallus, but they’re gone and we’re here,’ he sighed, casting a hand to the horizon over which the five divisions had slipped too long ago.

‘Maybe we should bed in here after all?’ Gallus nodded back to Theodosia.

Nerva hesitated, then shook his head. ‘No, we move on. We’re almost there. The detachment shadowing the fleet is almost there. Stay focused, centurion, you’re made of stern stuff and I know you’ll see us through this.’ With that the tribunus wheeled away to address the legion, who rippled to attention.

‘Men, hold steady in your hearts, for we have arranged for reinforcements to bolster our mission. But the time to move is almost upon us — we head for Chersonesos. Our scouts will return soon. Prepare to march!’

Gallus’ mind raced. If only he had pieced the theory together earlier. Perhaps he should have insisted on a Roman rider going on the next heartbeat run to check on the fleet. He watched the legion ripple into perfect ranks again, and then glanced to the horizon. What lay over those hills? A terrible apprehension gripped him.

Horsa’s foederati scouting division trotted down into another lush green valley. Ahead, the hills rolled on into a few more valleys and then the sea sparkled in the distance. Hidden behind the hills down by the shore was the well-walled citadel of Chersonesos. Salvation for the legion was but a short ride away.

Sura eyed the sides of the valley sleepily. The thick, dew-coated grass shimmered and swayed to the rhythm of the babbling meltwater brooks trickling down from the hills to the north. He sucked a breath in through his nostrils — sweet and fresh. The distance to Chersonesos had been a good many miles further than anticipated, and they had had no option but to slow the pace so as not to wear out their mounts. Really though, the scouting today had been quiet, just like yesterday. Only the stop to watch a fox-fight had disturbed the hypnotic gallop from Theodosia.
Sharpen up!
He muttered to himself, digging his nails into his palm. Pavo’s theory from last night seemed ethereal now after a night’s sleep and his initial fears had quelled somewhat. These riders were mercenaries all right, gruff buggers, but no more, he concluded.

He checked his riding position — good, he was a comfortable distance away from the Goths around him. They had been none too appreciative of him the first day — too close, they claimed, kicking out at him and swearing in Gothic. Horsa had chided them and dropped back to ride with him, but the riders were never going to accept a Roman in their midst. He probably hadn’t helped matters by cheating at dice the previous evening, he mused. He glanced round at the riders again and their typical Gothic cavalry gear; leggings and leather boots, thick red leather tunics or chain mail vests, and then some who owned conical helmets. He felt suddenly all the more alien in his intercisa helmet and white, purple-edged tunic under his mail vest — stood out like a Roman from a hundred miles away, he surmised.

Then, Horsa twisted on his saddle to address the men. ‘Okay, pick up the pace — we can take in some water and meat when we round on this city. But the legion will be expecting us by now so we need to be speedy and make a quick return.’

Sura heard the order and made to spur his mount on, but he was snapped out of his daydream as he realised the column was slowing down rather than speeding up. Looking up, he saw Horsa — still twisted in his saddle. But something was wrong. The Gothic captain looked as though he had been struck by lightning. Sura traced the captain’s line of sight; there, right up on the lip of the valley to their left, an endless line of dark shapes rose with a chorus of thundering hooves. Huns, countless in number, swept towards them.

Suddenly, right behind Sura, came a guttural roar of pain. Icy fear ripped through him. He spun his mount round; two foederati were in file behind him, the closest with a pallid face, blood rushing from his mouth and down over his tunic and over the spear tip bursting through his chest. The man behind him grimaced, ripping his spear back. In the same instant, cries of pain rang out all around him; in a blur, the foederati started slaughtering one another. Sura spurred and bucked his horse in a panic at the sudden chaos, only instinct brought his shield around his flanks — rebuffing two spear-jabs. His limbs like wet sand, he glanced around for Horsa, hacking at the two swords focused on him.

‘Treacherous dogs!’ Horsa roared.

Sura’s wide-eyed gaze flicked to Horsa, and then to the closing jaws of the Hun attack, now only paces away and with lassos spinning and spears and bows raised, poised to fire.

‘Ambush! Return to the legion!’ Horsa screamed, hacking his way around the edge of the chaos.

Sura locked eyes with Horsa, who gritted his teeth and roared, pointing his spear back in the direction of Theodosia. A handful of loyal riders gathered around their leader, fending off blows. Horsa roared, but whatever he said was drowned out in the thundering of the Huns, and he swept past Sura. But Horsa was being driven away from the path to Theodosia, the Huns herding him and his party back up the valley. A hissing shower of arrows spat past Sura and without another thought, he too was off at full pelt behind the Gothic captain.

The sun now stretched high into the blue, birds raced across the plains around Theodosia and the cicadas chattered incessantly. But while the wildlife hunted and played, the legion shuffled uncomfortably in both the heat and the non-appearance of their foederati scouting parties. Even the pack mules brayed in thirst at the rear. On the front line of the first century, just behind the officers, three figures baked in the sunlight.

‘Bleeding joke, this is,’ Zosimus huffed, pulling his helmet off to scratch his dark stubbled scalp and wipe at the waterfall of sweat on his forehead.

‘Come on, come on,’ Avitus grumbled, ‘give the order to go back into the town!’

Pavo felt sweat race down his back, matting the rough fibre of his scratchy tunic under his oven-like mail shirt. They had been standing outside for far too long now. Surely, something had to give. Legionaries had strolled around, chatting after a while. Gallus had quickly whipped them back into line though. But now even the primus pilus was shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Shielding his eyes with his hand, Pavo looked to the south again for any sign of movement; just lush green rolling hills, pines rippling in the lofty zephyrs and the occasional darting deer. His eyes flicked back — something had moved. Red leather and iron. The foederati had returned.

First one division, then another emerged from the heat haze. More poured into view behind them. They trotted rather than galloped, and Pavo counted them — only four divisions.

‘Do they think we’ve got all day?’ Spat Avitus.

‘We’ll make them walk from now on in, see how they cope with it, lazy buggers! I’d happily sit on my backside on one of their horses all day,’ Zosimus chipped in.

As the foederati approached, Pavo strained to see which of the five was missing. Going by the directions they approached from it was the one he dreaded. Sure enough, Horsa and his men were the ones. The four divisions fanned out in front of the legion. Pavo’s brow knitted as he watched the approach.

‘Foederati!’ Nerva bawled. ‘Proceed to check-in.’

The foederati practically ignored the tribunus’ orders and continued their lazy amble up to the officers. A grumble of insults and moans grew from the assembled legion.

‘Silence!’ Gallus snapped.

Pavo watched as one foederatus nudged another, who finally broke into a trot forward. He respectfully dismounted, but then strode past the officers, ignoring them to address the entire legion.

‘I bring sad news. Captain Horsa has been slain.’

Gallus stepped forward to reprimand the Goth’s disregard for protocol, but it was too late; a wave of groans swept across the legion.

‘His path to Chersonesos was clear, but he attempted to cross onto our path on his return. Just as he sighted us, the Huns descended on him — he and his men didn’t stand a chance.’

‘All of them, dead?’ Nerva stammered.

The Goth nodded, his lips tight and thin.

Pavo felt a cool ripple of dread wash through his limbs. All of them? Then Sura would not be returning from this far-flung land. None of them would be at this rate. The phalera weighed heavily on the thong around his neck.

‘How many?’ Gallus quizzed.

‘Three, maybe four thousand.’ The Goth’s face remained expressionless.

Then where are the other sixteen thousand?
The question screamed in Pavo’s head.

‘And how did your men return intact?’ Nerva replied to the Goth. ‘If the Huns intercepted Horsa on your path then surely you would have been caught up in it too?’

The Goth nodded in agreement. ‘He saved us; his men absorbed the impact of the Hun charge while we sped to their aid, but Horsa waved us back — roared at us, demanded we escape and get back to the legion.’

Nerva nodded. ‘A good man till the end.’

Gallus remained steely faced. ‘You weren’t in too much of a hurry. Did you lose them?’

The Goth looked up, his face betraying indignation. ‘Of course we lost them; do you think we would lead the Huns right onto the legion? We slowed only because our mounts are exhausted from the flight.’

‘Very well. Let’s hope you shook them off well enough,’ Gallus replied icily, eyeing the foederati horses for signs of fatigue.

Pavo noticed as the centurion’s eyes narrowed at the Goth.

‘But you must make haste. Our route was clear. Round the last valley by the coast,’ the Goth barked, swerving past Gallus and Nerva, now addressing the legion again. ‘If we move quickly, we can slip past the Huns.’

The legionaries rumbled into a chorus of agreement.

‘Enough!’ Nerva roared. ‘And you’ll not speak over me again or I’ll have you in chains!’ He spat at the Goth. Then he turned to his primus pilus. ‘What do you think, Gallus?’

Pavo watched the centurion — their eyes met briefly.

Gallus’ eyes darted momentarily across the ground by his feet, and then a grimace spread across his lips. ‘We have no other option, sir. In lieu of better intelligence, we have to move. Again we must go with what little we have.’

Nerva nodded briskly and without hesitation looked to the Goth. ‘Form up your men on the wings.’ The tribunus then turned to face the legion. ‘Form column, move out!’ He bawled. With that, the tribunus leapt onto his mount.

Pavo turned over the facts in his head; Sura was dead. His friend was dead. A sickness hovered in his stomach, not at the loss, but at the lack of emotion to go with his thoughts — the soldier’s skin. Ashamed, he tried to visualise Sura’s face, gritting his teeth as the legion bristled for the march. In front of him, just as the Gothic riders had ridden clear of earshot, Gallus leaned in to Nerva and whispered something. The tribunus looked unsure, but Gallus persisted. Eventually, Nerva nodded and turned back to the men.