Legionary: The Scourge of Thracia (Legionary 4) (19 page)

‘I repeat my offer, Tribunus,’ Urbicus spoke in a low voice. ‘Stay, guard these walls and you will not want for anything.’

‘And the empire?’ Gallus replied without hesitation. ‘What of Trajan’s Gate? Who will inform Comes Geridus of the Gothic incursion into Thracia?’ He flicked a hand up. Quadratus lifted the ruby bull standard and the legion crunched forward again.

‘Gates!’ Gallus called up to the gatehouse. The timber gates groaned and began to open with a clanking of chains.

‘Stay!’ Urbicus leapt in front of him, his eyes bulging and his handsome face streaked with sweat despite the chill. ‘
Stay!
’

Gallus’ nose wrinkled. ‘Why?’

‘These walls are useless without a true garrison. A band of brigands almost stole into the city last month. If what you say about the Goths is true, then we are at their mercy – high walls or not.’

Gallus looked around the gathering crowd, seeing faces of women, children and frail old men amongst them now. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said in a concilliatory tone. ‘I’d advise you to train the men of the city into a militia and-’

‘Close the gates!’ Urbicus snapped, backing away from Gallus, his demeanour changing and a nasty glint appearing in his eyes. The opening gates halted and the men in the crowd now stepped forward, bringing cudgels and knives from behind their backs. ‘By the fury of God, you will stay.’

Gallus glanced around the grubby mob that Urbicus had roused. A few hundred of them. ‘Do you know how easily trained legionaries could slay these men?’ he said coolly, swatting away the fact that the recruits had only experienced a fraught moment of action at the fall of the Great Northern Camp and most of those who had survived had done so only by virtue of their swiftness to flee. He stepped towards Urbicus as he said this. ‘I have witnessed it before. In Constantinople, during the riots, I saw the streets run red as thousands fell to the blades of just a century of the emperor’s guard.’ The mob halted at this. He clasped a hand to his sheathed spatha and now Urbicus too lost his pluck, his bulging eyes flicking from Gallus’ glower to the blade hilt. Urbicus backed up against the inner town wall. Gallus came nose to nose with him.

‘Now do as I say: train these men to fight Goths, not legionaries. And, for your sake and that of everyone in these walls,’ he added, his teeth gritted so his next words were feral, ‘
open the bloody gates.
’

That afternoon they stopped by the Via Militaris. The great highway was deserted as far as the eye could see in both directions. No sign of the Gothic horde at their rear, Gallus realised, and no sign of Roman forces ahead . . . or anywhere. Had the armies at the Great Northern Camp been the very last of Thracia’s regiments?

Western Thracia was a wild country with green hills, granite shards and a tapestry of wild flowers. A birdsong of larks and martins filled the gaps in between legionary banter
as they set about kindling cooking fires and sucked from their water skins hungrily.

‘Easy . . .
easy!
’ Quadratus scolded one callow and somewhat rotund youth by the name of Trupo who seemed set to drain his skin in one sitting. ‘You’ll bloody well drown yourself if you’re not careful. Save a little – remember we still have an afternoon of marching to come.’ The chubby recruit – beetroot-red and still panting from the morning’s trek – nodded hurriedly and tried to spit his last mouthful of water back into the skin, much to Quadratus’ disgust and to his fellow recruits’ amusement.

Gallus’ expression eased at the gentle chorus of laughter. A rare speck of light on what had been a dark few days. A degree of fragile spirit amongst these terrified boys had been kindled. And it would be needed if they were to become anything like the many legionaries he had fought alongside in his military years. His gaze flicked between the few veterans that still walked the realm of the living. Zosimus and Quadratus, two who had been with him since his earliest days in the ranks. Pavo and Sura, once mere boys themselves. Now they were on the cusp of becoming true leaders. And there was Dexion, an officer who seemed to be everything Pavo might yet become: wily, astute, wary of bullshit and well-scarred from over twelve years of service. His thoughts drifted momentarily to the memory of Felix, his one-time Primus Pilus. He imagined fondly what the diminutive Felix’s reaction might have been to his replacement.
A big, lanky bugger like him? Nah, never good enough to take my place – short and deadly’s what you want – like a spatha blade!
The faintest hint of a smile played with Gallus’ lips, only to be scattered when he thought of all the recruits lacked: armour, training and fitness were all absent . . . as was true courage. Their road would be long and arduous.

Three cohorts had been promised. A few hundred men had been delivered and just two centuries had survived their first battle. He cursed himself for ever believing in the memorandum that talked of such grand numbers.

‘Sir,’ Dexion said, stalking over to him, his white-plumed helm clasped underarm and his hair matted to his forehead. ‘They’re asking for permission to grind their grain and bake some bread?’

Gallus shot an eye to the sky. A short while could be sacrificed in order to fill their bellies properly. ‘They have an hour,’ he nodded.

Dexion wheeled round to address them. ‘Bake your bread and cook your porridge. We will be marching again in an hour and no later.’

In moments, the men had been separated into groups of eight and the burring of hand mills and crackling of kindling cooking fires filled the air, sending spirals of sweet woodsmoke into the air. Quadratus, Zosimus, Pavo and Sura strolled between them, watching how they went about this vital business.

Dexion came to stand by Gallus again, watching them. ‘Seems they know the basics?’ he mused, chewing on a cake of hard tack he had made a few days previously, watching as they made pots of porridge and kneaded dough, before placing it in small, clay
clibani
pots to bake. Soon, the aroma of baking bread wafted from each fire. ‘At least, they already work in contubernia of eight men and know how to cook.’

Gallus nodded, then his brow knitted. ‘Aye, except that one.’

They squinted to see one young lad near them – tall and rangy. Instead of milling grain or tending to porridge or baking bread, he was busy chopping an onion and finely slicing a clove of garlic and a sprig of wormwood, while the other seven of his contubernium watched on with wide eyes, licking their lips like hungry pets. Gallus sighed, ready to step forward and scold the lad.

‘I’ll deal with this one,’ Dexion offered, then stepped forward in his place.

Gallus strolled around the edge of the cooking legionaries, eyeing the goings-on, hearing Dexion’s tirade in the background: ‘Pheasant stew? What’s your name? Cornix? Well, Cornix, where in Hades do you think you’ll get a skinned pheasant within the next hour? I couldn’t care less if you’ve brought an onion! Shove the onion up your arse for all I care! Get some bloody bread in the clibanus and do it now!’

Gallus nodded in appreciation at the man’s sudden turn of ire. Dexion had a steeliness about him. The man had been sullen for these past few days since the girl Felicia’s slaying, but when it mattered, there was not a trace of sorrow. The primus pilus had known the girl only for a few months, it seemed, so perhaps their bond was not so strong. Pavo, on the other hand, was struggling. He glanced over to see the optio watching over the men’s cooking absently, his intercisa helm clasped underarm, his short, dark hair tousled, his hawk-like face smoke-stained and his eyes glassy. The young optio was doing his best to hide his grief, but he seemed sapped of his usual pluck. Loss was something the lad was becoming fast-accustomed to.
Loss,
he thought, seeing a familiar look in Pavo’s dark eyes, memories of Olivia and Marcus coming to his mind’s eye,
that endless, dark sea.

He looked to the west and wondered what might be found there. At Trajan’s Gate, might his path and Emperor Gratian’s cross? And the shadowy members of the western court . . . would they be with him? They had gone unpunished for their actions for years.
Every passing day without justice was an affront to his slain family.
Have I not waited long enough?

Destiny
, he thought.
Justice
, he affirmed.

Chapter 9

The Cornutii marched abreast with the Scutarii riders, heading along the easterly track, across the wetlands of eastern Thracia, skirting the shores of the tranquil and turquoise Burgas salt-lake. At their head, Barzimeres swayed on his mount. He squinted into the sun and inhaled the crisp, morning air as he tore at a loaf of fresh bread, chewing happily on it as he reflected upon his obtaining of the fine grey mare. The shame had faded as swiftly as the ruin of the Great Northern Camp had slipped into the horizon.

Ah, Saturninus, you had little need of this beast anyway, it seems.

He chuckled again, casting a glance over his right shoulder and across the silvery-green tall grass of the plains. Somewhere back there lay the city of Adrianople, and the last scout that had come to him reported that Saturninus and his legions had somehow managed to gather south of the overrun Great Camp then stage a fighting retreat towards that city.
Five days of rearguard action and fending off Fritigern’s harrying riders?
he thought, imagining the meek and horseless magister equitum in the midst of such a fraught encounter.
Ah well, they say that a fight is always better on foot,
he mused, his shoulders jostling once again as he patted the neck of Saturninus’ mare.

Make haste for the cities!
the scout had implored him, passing on Saturninus’ word.
The Goths spread like fire!

‘That they do,’ he muttered under his breath, ‘but not in this direction. Haven’t seen one of those dogs in days!’ He cast his eyes over the salt lake again, seeing only storks and herons picking through the muddy shallows. One such bird plucked an unlucky grey mullet from the water and juggled the fish in its beak before gulping it down, the sparkling, silvery-scaled fish gone as quickly as it had appeared, devoured by its foe. Again, this reminded him of Saturninus and his desperate retreat. A great sense of contentment overcame him.

A whiff of salt-tang in the air and a weary cheer from his palatinae legions brought him from his thoughts and drew his gaze forwards again. Their destination was in sight: Deultum, the coastal town that sat on the crossroads of this eastern track and the paved Via Pontica. Framed by the Pontus Euxinus’ sparkling sapphire waters and a clear, azure sky, this fortified settlement would be a fine winter billet for his regiments. The thick, squat grey walls looked as if they had been carved from the bedrock, and the purple imperial banners fluttering over the land-facing gatehouse rapped defiantly in the stiff coastal breeze.

‘It was formed as a veterans’ colony, you know,’ he said to the nearest of his men, tossing another chunk of bread into his mouth. ‘So unlike some other cities, they will welcome a famous general and his army,’ he added, crumbs spraying.

The feather-helmed Cornutii centurion marching alongside Barzimeres’ stallion nodded, not looking up.

‘Famed for its hot springs and fine wine, it should make a comfortable home for the time being.’

‘Perhaps,’ the centurion muttered absently.

Barzimeres frowned at the response, peering down to see the man’s eyes, but the jutting iron brow of his helm shaded them from view.

A simple fellow, Barzimeres chuckled. A swordsman and no more.
Why waste such well-thought-out words on his kind?
He mused. ‘It has its whores as well,’ he said, sure this would hook the reprobate’s interest. ‘Though you take your chances with th-’

The words died in his throat as he saw something in the north, from the corner of his eye. Something had moved: a silvery flash. His sunken eyes swivelled to scour the tall grass and fens off in that direction.
A leaping mullet?
He hoped.

Nothing.

Then, just as he turned away, it came again. A glint of silver. Then another. Then many. A cold, creeping dread overcame him and the bread fell from his hand. Armoured men rose from their haunches and into view like an demon crop sprouting from the earth. Fair-skinned and tall spearmen in red leather vests, topknots billowing in the breeze, eyes merciless.

Goths?
Barzimeres mouthed through quivering lips. There were hundreds of them. No, thousands. He swept his disbelieving gaze around both flanks – there were two great rows of them, one on each side of his column. And the ends of each hurried to join up behind the column, forming a vast arc all but surrounding them. Now riders galloped into view behind the join: a handful of Taifali in mail and leather and – his heart almost stopped –
the head-taker!

Reiks Farnobius rode tall in his saddle, axe resting against one broad shoulder. He whistled and a small pack of Huns sped forward into view as well. Barzimeres noticed how Farnobius wore a foul look upon his face – as if he had been wronged. That the giant’s gaze was fixed upon him brought a mighty, unseen hand pushing down upon his bowels.

‘They’re everywhere!’ a cry of alarm sounded from the column as, with a buccina cry, a rattle of armour and thunder of boots the men turned away from Deultum to face the Gothic arc, forming a defensive crescent.

Barzimeres instinctively hauled the reins in his white, trembling fingers, the mare swinging round to face the Goths with his men. The Goths took to rapping their spears on their shields and erupting in a visceral, animal
barritus
cry. Farnobius raised his axe, ready to give what was surely the order to advance.

‘Sir?’ panicked voices called out from his Cornutii ranks.

‘Lead us, sir,’ his Scutarii riders said. ‘We
can
win this.’

Barzimeres felt every last morsel of his hubris drain from him, and the contents of his guts suddenly turned into a fiery stone, desperate to be released. This was his moment to prove to those who mocked his bought command. ‘The Hero of Deultum?’ he wondered. Then, as if in answer to the proposition, he glanced over his shoulder to the remaining stretch of road that lay between him and Deultum’s gates.

Or . . . safety? Safety for a few who might break swiftly enough?

His resolve gone, he yanked the reins to wheel the mare around towards the city gates, but a firm hand clasped his wrist and stopped the action.

‘That is a fine horse,’ a calm voice spoke suddenly. He looked down to see the surly Cornutii centurion holding his wrist and stroking the grey mare’s mane.

‘Wha – unhand my mount and get to your place in the r-ranks!’ Barzimeres stammered.

‘My boy worked hard to look after the beast for Saturninus . . . ’ the centurion replied. ‘ . . . a brave boy, he was. Unlike the bastard who put a knife in his heart to take the horse from him.’

Barzimeres’ whole being shook now. ‘No!’ he gasped, his gaze switching from the centurion to the Gothic arc and Farnobius’ axe, which swept down like a standard.

‘Death to the legions!’ the giant roared. At once, the Gothic lines surged forward.

Barzimeres struggled to pull the reins free of the surly centurion’s grip. ‘I – I did what I had to. In the heat of battle, men must do grim deeds in search of victory! Now get back to your ranks or we will all die!’

‘We are all fated to die one day, Tribunus,’ he replied casually. ‘But at least now, I can avenge my son before I fall here with the rest of my comrades. And you can go to your death as the Hero of Deultum . . . ’ he said this, then drew a small dagger and swiped it. Barzimeres flinched, but the blade merely scored along the mare’s haunch, spilling dark red blood down its leg. The beast reared up in agony and panic and Barzimeres struggled to stay on the saddle, his helm slipping over his eyes. Then the centurion slapped the creature’s wound and the mare bolted. She burst out in front of the Cornutii spear line and galloped straight for the closing Gothic advance.

Barzimeres slid his helm up and from his eyes, hearing a great cheer from the Roman lines at the sight of their leader’s selfless ‘charge’. The mare was at full pelt, racing headlong for the centre of the Gothic lines despite his desperate yanking on the reins and digging of heels into its flanks. He saw Farnobius’ face broaden in a gleeful smile, saw the giant axe rise, glinting in the sun.

‘No! Turn, you foul creature!’ he yelped hoarsely.
Worse than that weak-lunged dog, Saturninus
, a scorning, sibilant voice hissed in his mind. He fumbled to draw his spatha, only to drop it in his panic and haste. His eyes locked onto Farnobius’ axe blade, swinging for him, and he felt the urine pump from his bladder to soak his breeches before the contents of his bowels were released at last. He felt only a dull
clunk
as the axe swept through his neck, sending his world tumbling earth over sky. When his head came to a rest in the grass, he saw his backwards-tilting headless body still saddled on the fleeing grey mare, blood spurting from the neck. By some trick of the gods, life remained with Barzimeres’ head long enough for him to see Farnobius dip in the saddle and pick it from the grass by the tuft-beard. The Goth plucked Barzimeres’ bronze winged helm and placed it on his own scalp, then hurled Barzimeres’ head to one side like a scrap of food.

With his final moments, Barzimeres heard the Gothic charge crash against the Roman lines, then the life left him as a pair of plucky carrion crows descended to devour his eyes.

The evening sky was stained with smoke and the stink of open guts danced on the wind. Fritigern watched as ladders pressed against Adrianople’s grey walls and Gothic spearmen raced up them for one final push.

‘Onwards!’ Alatheus bellowed, smashing the hilt of his longsword against the boss of his shield, his long, white locks billowing in the dusk breeze. Beside him, Saphrax echoed his cries, waving on not their own Greuthingi horsemen, but Fritigern’s Thervingi spearmen, carrying on their spears the sapphire hawk banners that had once been a symbol of pride. Yet this latest wave of attack faltered, just as it had the previous day, when the legionaries garrisoned on Adrianople’s battlements met the Gothic push, swiping heads and hands from the climbers or forcing back the ladders before the climbers could pour onto the battlements, sending those near the top crashing back onto the ground below where many already lay dead, broken or riddled with Roman arrows. Then the Roman ballista atop one of the city’s main defensive towers turned to the latest wave of onrushing Goths. With a twang and then a thud of timber, a bolt leapt from the device and ploughed into his massed kinsmen. They split like a cut of meat under a butcher’s cleaver, blood spraying up as two men were impaled and a third’s leg was torn off, while a handful more were knocked to the ground. Another bolt-thrower from the next nearest tower spat forth too, ruining four men as the bolt ruptured their heads in that one strike and sending those nearby scrambling in terror. Fritigern saw the isolated figure on top of those walls; the slight one with the long, dark hair, orchestrating the artillery with simple swipes of his hands. Saturninus’ retreat to the city might have been fraught and the Thracian armies might well have been broken in the withdrawal, but still enough legionaries remained to deny the Gothic Alliance the taking of the great cities. In the five days since the fall of the passes, the promised land of Thracia had not delivered as his people had hoped. Another bolt spat forth, this time skewering a Thervingi scout rider to his mount then casting the writhing pair back like tumbleweed blown by a gale, through a densely packed group of his archers, many of whom were crushed or maimed by the thrashing horse.