Legionary (6 page)

‘Much appreciated,’ Pavo croaked to the driver, leaping to the ground. The driver glared at him and held out a hand. Still unused to holding money that he alone owned, Pavo rummaged in his purse and dug out two follis of the ten Tarquitius had bitterly handed over to him before he left the villa. He tossed the coins to the driver. Oddly, the driver nodded back to him, as he would to any citizen or freedman.

The cart set off without delay. His travelling companion, still dismounting, stumbled onto the road in his filthy tunic, with a ragged satchel over his shoulder.

‘Oh for…what was his problem?’ The blonde lad cursed.

Pavo shrugged, smiling, rummaging in his satchel to pull out two boiled eggs that he had bought at the docks in Tomis. He peeled the shell from one and munched into the white, eyeing the lad; probably a similar age to himself, with a tumble of blonde curls hanging on his forehead, framing emerald eyes and rosy, chubby cheeks like a cherub bust. But it was the inherently cheeky grin that caught the eye

‘Ah well, I hope he gets as far away as possible before he realises the coin I gave him last night was fake,’ the youth snorted. ‘Sura, Decimus Lunius Sura, unofficial King of Adrianople — here to hinder the legions,’ he grinned, stretching out his hand. ‘Didn’t mean to pass out on you like that, but you were sound asleep when I hitched a ride. So what name do you go by?’

‘Numerius Vitellius Pavo — here because…er…because the streets of Constantinople couldn’t handle my greatness,’ he replied, cursing his poor show of wit as he clasped Sura’s hand. He didn’t really have a proud history to share.

‘Okay,’ Sura nodded uncertainly, wrinkling his forehead and plucking the other egg from Pavo’s hand. Before Pavo could protest, Sura had cracked off the top of the shell and sunk his teeth into the white. ‘Well, I hope you’re up to the walk?’ He mumbled through a full mouth, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder to the plain stretching out ahead.

Pavo turned away, unable to suppress a chuckle at this lad’s swagger, then he hopped up onto the verge at the roadside to take in their surroundings. The River Danubius snaked across the land from the west until its rapids poured into the shimmering waters of the
Pontus Euxinus
. The silhouetted bulk of the town of Durostorum hugged the banks of the river; the squat stone bulwark of the XI Claudia fort lay dead centre of the plain between the crossroads and the town, a rocky island in the sea of cornfields about twelve stadia ahead of them. He traced his eyes over the train of merchant carts along the road to the fort; a constant flow in both directions — headed in with wine and food and back out laden with legionary wages.

When you fall at the end of a sword, then my hands are clean.
He shivered at Tarquitius’ words.

They walked, they bantered then they ate some more when Sura pulled a chunk of bread from his satchel — dry but welcome, and washed down with a skin of chill water. Then as the shadow of the fort loomed closer, both fell quiet. The fort, weatherworn and half-clad in spidering green moss, dominated the landscape for him. He cast an envious glance at Sura by his side; the Thracian’s face didn’t betray any hint of the fear Pavo felt gnawing at his insides again. The legions were sold as a glorious career path, but the truth of military life was brutally summarised by the sight of young men mutilating themselves on the city streets to avoid conscription. It was hard to believe the texts he had read telling of a time when the army was the most sought after vocation in the empire. Sure he was free, but survival was a transient concept in the legions.

‘Watch out!’ Sura yelled, shoving him to the roadside. A trade cart hurtled between them, its rider standing tall — taller than any Roman, with his blonde topknot billowing in his own slipstream. A spray of grit and dust whipped up and over their faces.

‘Bloody Goths!’ Sura spat. ‘Seems they can’t make up their mind whether to trade with us or make war. Those big buggers are exactly the types we’ll be up against after we’ve signed up. They’re everywhere, I hear.’ Sura turned to Pavo with a manic sparkle in his eyes. ‘You scared?’

‘No!’ Pavo started.

Sura grew a wry smile and nodded slowly. ‘I’ll make you a deal,’ he said, looking Pavo up and down, then nodding towards the legionary fort. ‘Let’s face it, neither of us is built like a legionary…you’re more like a baby deer with those legs,’ he prodded a finger at Pavo’s slender knock-knees, scuffed and bruised. ‘So if we’re going to get through life in the legions, we can’t let the veterans mess with us. You watch my back, and I’ll watch yours, eh? Deal?’

Pavo noticed an unfamiliar feeling in the pit of his stomach — this was the first time someone had spoken to him as a friend for over a year. Back at the slave quarters under Tarquitius’ villa, Kyros the Cretan, maybe ten years Pavo’s senior, had played dice with him at night and shared food. Together they had suppressed the bitterness of slavery and kept each other’s spirits up for many seasons. Then Tarquitius had bludgeoned him for stealing stale bread from the pantry until blood haemorrhaged from his eyes and ears.

He bit back the cold memory, accepting Sura’s outstretched hand. ‘They aren’t too complimentary about the legions from where I come from. They say the soldiers are either local farmer boys, too young even to shave, or scum scraped from the city gutters; beggars, brigands and cutthroats — the scummier, the better.’

‘Didn’t put you off though, eh?’ Sura chirped, slapping Pavo on the back.

‘Look, I didn’t choose this…’

‘Aye, aye. And as I said; I’m King of Adrianople,’ Sura mocked.

‘Adrianople? I heard that lot couldn’t hold a torch to the street gangs of the capital,’ Pavo sighed dismissively, hitching up his pack. ‘The Blues and the Greens; vicious buggers — and I had to deal with them on a daily basis.’

‘Course you did,’ Sura picked up a piece of slate and hurled it. He was already in flight by the time it skated off the back of Pavo’s head.

‘You dirty camel’s arse!’ Pavo roared, bounding for his attacker.

Pavo launched himself forward as Sura stumbled down the rough banking at the side of the road. They crunched together, head over heels down into the parched roadside ditch. Pavo swung for Sura’s gut, only brushing knuckles against tunic, and falling face-first in the dust. Sura roared with laughter. Enraged, Pavo shot out an arm, grasping Sura’s ankle, wrenching him from his feet and onto his back. Triumphantly, he scooped up a handful of dust, cramming it into Sura’s mouth.

‘Breakfast on me, and there’s a nice portion of donkey turd in there for you,’ he yelped. Suddenly, the neighing of a horse and a gruff voice boomed over the pair of them.

‘Names and ranks?’

Both of them sprang up to face the voice. Squinting through the sunlight, Pavo made out the bull-like form of a mounted officer in full dress centurion armour; a bronzed cuirass over a dark-red tunic and a horsehair crest billowing across his helmet.

‘Names and ranks? Don’t make me ask again!’ The centurion barked through his tombstone teeth. Pavo noted his heavy brow seemed set in a permanent frown.

Sura spluttered the clods of dirt from his mouth, to which the centurion cocked an eyebrow.

‘We’re on our way to enlist in the XI Claudia legion, sir!’ Pavo jumped in. ‘I’m Numerius Vitellius Pavo.’

‘Decimus Lunius Sura,’ Sura croaked.

‘Couple of skinny runts coming to enlist, eh? Dunno what the army is coming to,’ he muttered. ‘Centurion Brutus, chief centurion of the second cohort,’ the officer grunted, rubbing his stubbled anvil of a chin, ‘and I can only beg Mithras that you don’t end up in my ranks. Out of the ditch and follow me in.’ He nodded to the gatehouse of the fort, the ruby-red bull banners flapping in the breeze from the flanking watchtowers, where a set of six grim-faced legionaries glared down on them. ‘Or would you rather stay out here to roll about in the donkey shit by the roadside?’

Pavo and Sura swapped a nervous glance and then scrambled up the banking. Sura followed Pavo’s lead, standing straight as a flagpole, chin up and chest out.

‘Ready, sir!’ Pavo chirped, but his grin dropped as the centurion’s steely glare remained.

‘We’ll see about that,’ he said, calmly turning his mount towards the legionary fort at a gentle trot.

Night cloaked the forest and only the hooting of an owl pierced the silence around the crumbling fort. The crisp air tingled on Gallus’ skin as he lay prone in the bracken. Risking another glance over the foliage, he scrutinised the inside of the fort through the jagged crevice that had rent the south wall.

A fire in the centre of the flagstone courtyard danced, silhouetting the Gothic warband gathering around its heat — every one of them towering like giants, their topknotted blonde locks adding to their other-worldly appearance. But they wore no armour or weapons, he noticed keenly. He flicked his gaze up to the dark shapes strolling the battlements; these men were clad in red leather cuirasses and longswords and bows hung on their backs. Fifteen of them in total, a large watch for such a small fort. Did they know something was coming for them?

He had sent a small party back to the site of the ambush at dawn, to give their comrades a proper burial.
Mithras bless you, Felix
. Yet he suspected the spectre of the Goths would rise again when they reached this first fort. Then, a gentle scuffle behind him signalled the return of Avitus from his scouting mission.

‘I’ve circled the fort, sir,’ he panted, wiping the sweat from his bald pate and slipping his helmet back on. ‘There is no larger force in the vicinity, and I count ninety inside the fort, all fighting men. They are definitely the ambush party we came across yesterday.’

Gallus clenched his fist against the hilt of his sword.

‘Prisoners?’

Avitus nodded firmly, his lips pursed. ‘Just the one, sir. Young lad called Proteus. A farmer boy, only signed up with us weeks ago.’

Gallus ground his teeth. A farmer boy; words that could describe most of the legion these days. The men he had sent back for the burials had returned, reporting that only forty-seven bodies lay in the forest — yet forty-eight were missing. He and Felix had debated earlier that day on whether to engage the Goths. Now the decision was made.

‘The quicker we move the less pain our man in there will suffer. Take up your position, Avitus.’

As Avitus slid down next to the other legionaries on the ground, Gallus took one final scan of the area. He waited, eyes trained on the Gothic watchmen on the walls. The silence grew agonizing until at last, the pair on the front wall turned in towards the gatehouse. Gallus cupped his hands over his mouth and whistled a trilling note twice.

Splitting into two groups, the legionaries scuttled for the two corner towers of the front wall of the fort, stilling themselves against the chill of the stonework. Gallus, leading the right-hand group, screwed up his eyes at the towers; the timber tower houses on top of the stone walls had long since decayed and this would be their way in — giving them a semi-fortified high ground to hold at the same time. But one slip, one yelp, any mistake and they’d have nearly twice their number to deal with in a straight fight. Gallus looked to the far end of the wall and prayed that Felix and his men were ready in the blackness.

Felix counted behind tightly closed eyes.
Four, five, six…

‘Go!’ He hissed to a startled Zosimus. The big Thracian then swung a length of looped hemp rope up to a timber stump on the outside edge of the tower, where it caught silently. He yanked it twice and then grunted. ‘It’s all yours, sir,’ he whispered.

Felix flashed a wry smile; being the shortest legionary in the century meant he was always the first name on the sheet where stealth was required, as with poor Avitus on the other side of the fort. ‘Smallest buggers in the century versus the tallest warriors in the world,’ he cursed bitterly. He filled his lungs as he looped and knotted the rope around his torso, kicked off his boots and passed his helmet to Zosimus before hoisting himself to walk up the wall, wincing at the scuffling and scraping of his bare feet on the masonry. His arms stiffened as he started pacing upwards, his eyes fixed on the lip of the tower. Flakes of dry and rotten wood sprinkled in his eyes as his weight on the rope ground at the stump up above. Gently placing one foot after the other Felix settled into a rhythm, and his heart steadied a little. Then there was a terrible groan of bending wood. He froze, praying for the beam to settle. Then there was a sharp crack.

His world whooshed upside down, a blinding white light filled his vision as his head cracked off of the stonework and his sword slipped from its sheath, clattering against the wall. Gruff yells broke out from the battlements above. As Felix’s head stopped spinning, he quickly realised he was dangling like a fish on a line, but then he was jolted upwards. Panicked, he grappled at the rope, kicking out to get a foothold on the wall again.

Lurching all too rapidly towards the top of the wall, he stiffened in horror; a snarling blonde-locked and bearded Gothic guardsman glared down at him with icy-blue eyes and a snarl. The blood pounded in his ears and he started kicking out from the wall to increase his weight. Still he rose until he could smell the ale from the Goth’s breath. He closed his eyes as he felt himself being scraped over the parapet and onto the battlements, clenching his fists in grim expectation.

‘Whoa!’ Hissed Gallus. ‘Easy, friend — you’re safe!’

Felix opened his eyes to his centurion and Avitus, huddled on the battlement behind their shields under a bombardment of missiles from the insides of the fort. The Goth remained hanging over the wall, now with a spatha lodged in his back and his blonde hair dripping red. Felix ripped the weapon from the corpse.

‘Get down,’ Avitus growled, yanking the optio under cover just as a volley of arrows sclaffed off their shields. Pinned down, they glanced in hope at the edge of both towers — no reinforcements yet. But now the wall-guard had raced to the scene of the incident. Seven of them.