Legionary (49 page)

‘Onward!’ Balamber cried. ‘Do not spare a thought for the cowards who will die behind you.’ He waved his nobles on into a full gallop.

‘Leave them,’ Vitus called down to the group of equites as he eyed the fleeing Huns, ‘let’s finish this; here and now!’

The equites wheeled around and piled in with the allied army as they strangled and flattened the Hun number. A moan broke out from the Hun circle as they realised their leader had deserted them. At the clatter of thousands of Hun spears and bows dropping to the earth, Vitus closed his eyes.

‘Victory is ours, sir!’ One legionary called out.

‘Sir,’ another voice called. He opened his eyes to see the filthy figures of Pavo and Sura. ‘The hill fort — it’s still under attack!’

Rain hammered down. The Hun riders swarmed at the tiny bunker in the centre of the fort, throngs dismounting and pouring inside past the ram and through the gaping fissure it had rent in the rubble mound blocking the entrance. Their fervour to prise the Roman stragglers from the bunker like clams from a shell had gripped them. It had also blinded them from the fate of the main body of the Hun army.

Pavo stumbled at the head of the legion as they swept uphill and onto the plateau, his hands bloodied and numb as he scrambled over a tangle of rocks and corpses, and his bristled scalp slick with a glue of rainwater and blood. ‘Come on — they’re still fighting!’

‘Steady lad, we’re on top of them now,’ Vitus yelled, grinning.

‘But they’re in there,’ Sura cried, catching up with his friend and the tribunus. ‘If the Huns are still fighting then some of the Claudia still live! The fort has been breached — they can only have moments left, we’ve got to hurry!’

Vitus grinned, puffed his cheeks out and whipped his sword up, wheeling round to rally the front line. ‘Our brothers’ lives hang in the balance — full charge!’ The exhausted legionaries perked up to give a roar, rallying the ranks behind them who poured onto the plateau, and like a riptide, they crashed forward.

Pavo roared at the head of the charge. A thought flickered through his mind as the Huns to the rear turned in realization, eyes bulging in shock; he was walking in the footsteps of his father now — the military hero. Would this be the moment he joined him in the underworld? Not today, he swore, thrusting his sword forward.

The storm had died to a whimper, and the sun had prised apart the clouds, sending shafts of warmth down on the soaked plains. As the rainwater began to evaporate, the air filled with vapour and the scent of wet grass, and then the sound of thundering hooves pierced the air.

Balamber galloped all out, still enveloped by the nobles and his personal bodyguard. He kept his body low and eyes straight ahead — like a good Hun rider. They were clear of the battlefield now; this next valley lay untouched by the scarlet gore of the one they had left. He scanned the flat of the northern horizon; the plains of home called him. But deep in his heart failure taunted him, jeered him and cooked a bitter brew of self-hatred.
Tengri
the sky god would disavow him and honour would be lost, but the one voice he could hear inside was that of his father. He almost welcomed the cold fear that traced his skin as he remembered the fate of their last leader; surely his nobles would turn on him now that he had been defeated in battle. Snatching a glance to one side, he saw the noble there dutifully keeping an eye on the land up to the horizon on his side, checking for threats. His heart slowed a little at this, until he turned to his other side — catching the eyes of two nobles. Until now he had viewed them as his most loyal, or at least most awestruck and fearful, nobles. They looked away sharply, but it was too late; the seeds of doubt had entered his men’s minds, and as the history of his people had proved time and time again, treachery was sure to follow along with the spilling of his own blood.

He turned to his personal bodyguard, riding by his side, and gave the faintest nod. Then he slid one hand underneath his furs, feeling for the hilt of his scimitar. He flexed his fingers around the hilt firmly and cast one final glance around to check that nobody was watching him before he made the move to slay his once-loyal servants. Then for the second time that day, a white cloaked figure caught his eye.

Bishop Evagrius was sodden with mud up to his knees, stumbling down the hillside like a drunk, scrambling on all fours to right himself. Balamber grinned as his mind feasted on the possibilities.

‘There is the traitor!’ He cried like a snake spitting venom. His nobles snapped to attention and they slowed to behold the sight. ‘After him,’ he hissed, sliding the scimitar out with an iron rasp. The nobles set off after him at a trot and rounded on him with ease, chuckling amongst themselves as they glared down on the bishop.

Balamber ambled forward, nudging his way inside the circle of his nobles. The sight of the kneeling bishop repulsed him: eyes bulging, skin as white as his robes and the mop of hair crowning his physical meekness. Evagrius’ eyes darted round each of the mounted nobles, searching for even a hint of mercy and finally they rested on Balamber.

‘Noble Balamber?’ Evagrius asked. ‘Great King of the Huns,’ he added, shivering. ‘Today has been a dark day for both of us. But together, we can still overrun the Roman Empire, just as we planned. Your place by my side at the throne of all Rome is there for the taking!’

Balamber ignored the bishop’s words, snapping the chain and gold Chi-Rho cross he wore around his neck and weighing the trinket in his palm momentarily. Wulfric had been right; his people had been played like pawns in this plot. Dispensable grunts for a ‘greater’ cause. So much blood had been spilled, blood of his brothers, blood that had turned his most loyal men’s thoughts towards treachery. He tossed the gold cross into the bishop’s face.

‘This dog is responsible for the events of the day!’ Balamber glanced round to his men; their faces were etched with suspicion and their narrowed eyes fell on the bishop and then Balamber in turn, hands resting on sword hilts.
Seize the chance
, he thought,
destroy all before you
. ‘He led the Roman relief force against us — flagging them forward. You all saw him wave them forward from the ridge. We have paid dearly for his gold with the blood of our kin.’

Gradually, the nobles turned to Evagrius, their faces smirking, their eyes glinting with bloodlust.

‘Let us take vengeance in my honour,’ Balamber continued. ‘Bind him and put him on a horse.’ He hesitated for a moment as he saw the bishop’s jaw waver to begin protest. The silver-tongued holy man would talk himself free if given half a chance. ‘But cut out his lying tongue first,’ he motioned to his personal bodyguard by his side. Evagrius cried out, clawing at his face as two nobles hopped down and pinned him to the ground.

‘When we return to our people, we will gather and melt the finest metals to fill his poisonous throat!’ He growled. His nobles at last responded in the manner he had hoped, roaring in agreement as his personal bodyguard crouched over the screaming Evagrius with a rusted dagger clutched in his hand. The bishop’s blood sprayed across the grass and his screams died to a whimper as the bodyguard held up a bloody sliver of severed tongue.

‘Now we move back to the east. It may take a generation, maybe two, but we will return. And when we do, our army will be greater than ever before. One day Rome and all her lands will burn at our feet!’

Pavo slumped back against a rock. It was jagged and gore-spattered, but it felt like a silk cushion as he let his leaden limbs relax. Victory could gild even the harshest of things.

The sun had prised the clouds apart like curtains, bathing the allied army and orchestrating a warm, musty breeze in a dance across the plateau. Looking down at his sword arm, he felt a numb urge to retch at the sight; a sliver of entrails had wrapped itself round his wrist, and a rough paste of bone, gristle and black-blood held it in place. His fingers trembled as he tried to move his shield arm to wipe the mess away. His head lolled back onto the rock and a sigh escaped from his lungs. All around him, the cheers of the allied army gradually hushed and were replaced by an iron rabble as they dug at the rubble-heaped entrance to the bunker. The Hun detachment had been smashed, but not before they had poured inside the bunker. What was left inside there would lift or shatter the air of victory. Suddenly, cries broke out from the bunker and rippled across the ranks. Pavo sat up with a jolt, his eyes pinging wide open.

‘On your feet, Pavo!’ Sura croaked, his grinning face coated in blood and the rubble-dust of the fort. ‘Seems like we did it!’

‘We did it?’

‘We did it! Look…’ Sura tailed off, pointing into the sunlight.

Pavo squinted into the brightness. A shape moved in the glare.

‘Pavo?’ a voice called.

Pavo’s eyes flicked up to the armoured silhouette towering over him, a halo of orange light framing him. For the briefest of moments, his mind played tricks on him; the broad shoulders, the gravel voice — for a heartbeat he was transported back to the dusty tenemented street as a seven-year-old on demob day. He found strength where there was none and struggled to his feet. Then the wolf-like face of Gallus materialised as the figure stepped forward.

‘Sir?’

‘I didn’t think that plan would come off — not for a moment — when I sent you away. The legion, or what’s left of her, owes you lads her life. And the empire…if that horde had been allowed to descend on her, to cross the Danubius…’ Gallus turned and craned his neck to gaze at the sky, the sunlight bathing his face. He looked gaunt, pale and utterly shattered. ‘And what of Felix?’ He added gently. ‘Did my optio fall on the mission?’

‘No chance, sir!’ Felix yelled out. Twenty paces back, Felix hobbled on his crutch. ‘Couldn’t get my spatha dirty today but I bagged myself some of those buggers on the ballistae!’ Horsa and Amalric trotted up behind the optio, saluting Gallus and throwing Pavo and Sura exhausted grins.

A warmth poured into Gallus’ features, bringing a flush of colour to his pallor. Pavo’s brow wrinkled at the sight of his centurion without the cool wolfen glare.

‘You did it — you actually made it all the way to the emperor,’ Gallus shook his head. ‘Either you’re good, very good, or the city lads need a good, solid kick up the arse!’

‘How many left, sir?’ Pavo croaked, licking his cracked and stinging lips.

Gallus’ face fell back to the usual iron expression, like a dark cloud passing over the sun. ‘Thirteen,’ he replied.

Pavo held his gaze. Thirteen men left from the thousands who had set off just a week previously. All those faces from the training ground, all those veterans he had looked up to. All cold and still on the ground. Avitus, Zosimus and a crutch-bearing Quadratus hobbled up to join their centurion. So the few men who made up the core of the legion had survived. Those who had fought and bled to earn the title of veterans would live on. Probably why they were veterans in the first place, he mused.

‘Nice work, lads,’ Zosimus half chirped, half winced, grabbing at the bloody splatter on his ribs. Behind him, the handful of surviving XI Claudia legionaries trudged around the plateau, silent and thoughtful, eyeing the blue sky, some mouthing prayers.

Pavo’s eyes hung on the pale, crimson-streaked legionary corpse only paces in front of him. This was the end Father had met, but today the gods had spared him. He shivered, recalling the darkening nightmare of Father calling to him from the sandstorm.

‘Take heart, Pavo,’ Gallus spoke, ‘That you saved any of us is a miracle,’ he pointed to Zosimus, who was lifting the legionary standard. The filthy and torn red bull rag flapped defiantly as it caught the wind. The allies rasped out an exhausted cheer.

‘But all these men, dead,’ he croaked, his eyes staying on the grey legionary corpse. The myth of the ‘soldier’s skin’ seemed distant now.

‘Loss is something a legionary must relive every day,’ Gallus spoke, his eyes searching the horizon. ‘Every one of those lads who fell today will haunt my dreams, Pavo. I have legions of them now, and it never gets any easier.’

Pavo looked up into his centurion’s eyes. For the briefest of moments, he saw the cold pain inside the man, in behind the stony facade. ‘Will their families be looked after?’ Pavo remembered the day in the street, the funeral payout and the legionary with the dead eyes.

‘I’ll be seeing to that personally,’ Gallus spoke firmly.

‘The legion is bare now, how will we…’

‘We’ll recruit, Pavo, we always do.’ Gallus fixed his eyes on him, and then something odd happened. The centurion’s lips lifted at either side. ‘But I know I can count on the men who survived today to see us through this,’ he smiled.

Pavo felt his skin prickle with pride.

‘Centurion Gallus?’ A voice boomed from behind. Vitus strode over and offered his forearm. Gallus turned to clasp it as the XII Fulminata tribunus bellowed with laughter, still riding on the wave of victory. He gestured down at Pavo and over to Sura. ‘I thought we would be too late — but these lads you sent back to the city were special — they must have had the emperor like putty in their hands!’

Gallus clapped one hand on Pavo’s shoulder and one on Sura’s shoulder. Then he spoke solemnly; ‘Fine representatives for the XI Claudia, sir. This legion doesn’t recognise defeat!’

Constantinople shook from the cheering. Buccinas sang out from the rooftops of the Baths of Zeuxippus and from the column-tops of the Augusteum as the triumph rolled down past the Hippodrome to the Imperial Palace. The streets swayed back and forth with a sea of citizens, striving to get the best view of the procession. The six white horses that led the gilded chariot at the head of the column wore every piece of decorative armour they could carry. In the chariot was the austere figure of Valens standing straight and tall, skin flecked with silver paint and hair combed forward pristinely. Despite neither raising a sword nor shedding a drop of his own blood, this would go down as his victory. It was he who had readied the relief army on his basis of his suspicions. And it was he who had gifted the Bosporus peninsula to Amalric as a federated kingdom — a magnanimous gesture that had thrilled the Goths and cemented the alliance with Fritigern.