Legionary: The Scourge of Thracia (Legionary 4) (28 page)

Tink-tink-tink-tink.
It was here and yet not here. Before him and yet not. Coming and going with the fresh breeze. Was this some trick of the Gods?

As Quadratus gleefully started some vicious homily, Gallus turned away, sure this odd noise could be pinpointed. It sounded again – over by the fort gates, he was sure. He stepped towards it, ears pricking up, yet when he got there, it sounded again . . . to his left? And as soon as he turned round to face that direction, it came again –
tink-tink –
but this time to his right. He swung in that direction to see the juniper grove; only a thick mesh of trunks and branches. ‘What in Hades
is
that?’ he whispered, turning back to face the troops again. Then he froze as, from the corner of his eye, something snagged. It was a hunter’s instinct. Had something moved in there, amongst the trees? Cold fingers of doubt walked up his spine as he turned back to the grove. He saw that, indeed, a branch of one tree was quivering. He stalked towards the grove, his breath held. As he did so he heard something else: the faint snapping of twigs and bracken within.
Deer?
he wondered, peering into the shadows. He reached up to part the branches and look inside, when a shrill cry pierced the air from behind him.

‘Sir!’

He swung round to face the cry, as did Dexion, Quadratus and all of the recruits. Three figures emerged up the scree path and stumbled onto the plateau. Zosimus, Pavo and Sura. The grave looks on their faces was enough to rid his mind of any other thoughts.

Moments later Gallus and Dexion were inside the principia, craned over Geridus’ map table, imploring the Comes to act. ‘Given the starting point of Abdera and the estimated pace of a Gothic horde, the rogue reiks will reach this pass within two weeks,’ Gallus insisted.

Geridus, seated as ever and outlined by the fire that blazed in his hearth, gazed at Gallus’ fingertip where it was stabbed into the map.

‘Five thousand Goths would swamp this pass,’ Dexion added. ‘You must see there is no doubting this.’

Silence. Then a loud slurp as Geridus drained his wine cup before pouring some more.

‘Sir, every moment we let pass is a moment that this Farnobius and his army approaches. We must,
must
, act,’ Gallus demanded.

Geridus swirled his wine cup, his expression unaltered.

‘Comes,’ Dexion tried again, ‘we need to bring reinforcements to this pass, or we need to fall back to where we can find them. Either way, we need you to give the order. This pass is yours. On your watch it will stand or fall.’

Geridus sipped his wine, his gaze drifting to the flames.

Gallus and Dexion shared an exasperated look. Then, when the Comes drained his cup and poured another, Gallus nodded to the door. He and Dexion strode to leave.

But a burring voice stopped them in their tracks. ‘Take my horses and my riders, then.’

Gallus swung on his heel.

‘You do know the danger that lies west of here?’ Geridus added.

‘Quadi, chaos, an imperium in turmoil. Aye, you described it all too well,’ Gallus replied.

‘Then take my horses and riders and hasten word to the west. Do whatever you must to garner reinforcements for this cursed pass.’

Gallus’ eyes darted, his mind combing over who from the Claudia would ride west with Geridus’ men. Himself and at least one other, he decided. ‘It will be done. I will lead the riding party personally.’

Geridus’ left eyebrow arched at this. ‘Then you are a brave soul, Tribunus. For unless you are swifter and hardier than all my men who have tried until now . . . that westerly road will be the death of you.’

His words echoed around the room. Gallus ignored the creeping chill they brought to his flesh.
And it will be the death of the blackhearts too,
he thought, knowing that only by going west could he ensure Gratian would come for Thracia. He cleared his mind of this momentarily and thought of the many men he would be leaving behind. ‘What will happen here?’

Geridus looked up from the rim of his cup, his eyes rheumy and hooded from inebriation. ‘Here? Here the rest of the forces will remain. We have been tasked with holding this pass,’ the drunken veil slid away for just a precious moment, and his eyes brightened with a sad echo of long-lost vigour, ‘and that is just what we shall do.’

Pavo stood with the two formed-up centuries of the XI Claudia. He watched in silence as eight of Geridus’ riders saddled their horses by the fort’s gateway then hoisted themselves onto their mounts. They were dressed in scale and mail vests, flowing red robes and helms. This, he could accept. But the rider at their head, he could not. Gallus was saddled on a tall steeldust gelding. The tribunus wheeled a hand around, bringing the eight equites into line behind him, then faced the formed ranks of the Claudia.

‘I will be gone for weeks, maybe longer,’ Gallus said.

Pavo shook his head involuntarily.
No,
the voice inside said again.

The tribunus met the eyes of each of his men and added. ‘Emperor Gratian will hear of the situation in Thracia. More, I will do all I can to summon and despatch reinforcements to this soil before this bold reiks approaches. When Farnobius comes, you will not stand alone. I promise you this. In the meantime, bolster the defences here, draw what manpower you can from the countryside or the nearest towns. This pass
must
hold.’

Gallus and Pavo locked eyes for a moment. A gaze worth a thousand words.

Pavo’s thoughts crashed together in turmoil. The tribunus was to ride west at haste, through Quadi-infested lands until he made it to an operational Cursus Publicus waystation or all the way to Gratian’s court itself. He alone knew of the tribunus’ intentions if he crossed paths with the Western Emperor’s Speculatores. And at equal pace, Reiks Farnobius was coming for the pass. The giant who had slain Felicia was coming here. Pavo could stand and face the whoreson. Anger and angst lashed against one another as he beheld these twin concerns.

Gallus said nothing as they remained in that gaze, but the tribunus’ words from their chat a week ago surfaced in his mind.

Face the past, face the nightmares. Strike them down!

Pavo offered him the faintest of nods and the tribunus replied in kind.

Clopping hooves and the spluttering of a horse sounded behind Pavo. He barely noticed the noise, until he saw a look of guilt cross Gallus’ face, the tribunus dropping his gaze at last. Frowning, Pavo turned to see the source of the noise. It was Dexion, walking a black mare through the ranks and over to join the outgoing party.

‘Dexion?’ Pavo gasped, clutching at his brother’s reins.

‘I have to go,’ he whispered to Pavo, clasping his shoulder. ‘The legion can defend this pass without me. By the Gods, you have survived long enough before I showed up! I will bring Gallus back. Both of us will return, I promise you this.’ His tawny-gold eyes grew glassy, then he turned away and vaulted onto his mount, heeling her over to Gallus’ side. Pavo beheld this, the last of his kin, readying to leave. His chest and throat swelled and seemed set to burst with some plea for the pair to stay, but he knew they were right. Someone had to take word west.

‘In my absence, you have the legion,’ Gallus said soberly to Centurion Zosimus.

‘Sir!’ The big Thracian replied with a salute, his craggy features betraying not a droplet of fear.

Gallus and Dexion threw up a hand in a valedictory salute, and the formed ranks saluted them in reply. Pavo felt the gesture was akin to hurling a rock at the pair. But there was no time left. They had to leave, and leave they did, snaking from the plateau edge and off down the scree path at a walk. Once on the valley floor, he heard Gallus roar; ‘Ya!’ and the small riding party swung onto the Via Militaris and broke into a gallop for the west. He watched Gallus’ black plume and Dexion’s white plume as long as he could discern them. Finally they were gone and their dust cloud faded along with the thunder of hooves.

His lips moved just enough to whisper;

‘Mithras be with you both.’

Chapter 15

Just an hour later, the legion had eaten and a steely air of determination had settled across the fort spur. There was much to do, too much. But it had to start without delay. Pavo set down his barely-touched bowl of stew and bread and strode over to face the few centuries of the legion, standing by the juniper grove alongside Zosimus, Quadratus and Sura. The sea of youthful eyes that beheld them were beset with trepidation. Their bodies were still without enough muscle or carrying too much fat, and their stances and positions were wrong. Most troubling of all was that they now had less than two weeks to correct these life-or-death faults.

Zosimus was the first to break the silence.

‘Allright you skinny runts; you think the last few weeks have been hard?’

A few nodded, their more savvy comrades nudging them with elbows to stop them.

‘Ha! Well let me tell you that you’ve had it easy so far.’ The big Thracian centurion punched a fist into his palm. ‘
Now
it’s time to make legionaries out of you.
Now
you’re going to know what it feels like to pass out from pain.’ He stopped and let a foul grin spread over his anvil jaw, striding over to the ranks and leaning a little closer to come eyeball to eyeball with Cornix. ‘
Now
you’ll long to make it to the end of the day and enjoy a mouthful of soggy hard tack!’ He strode back and forth. ‘Running should sort you out, down the scree path to the Via Militaris then up the southern valley side. Once you get up to the top,’ he paused, the evil grin returning, ‘you come all the way back. Optio Pavo here will have a nice little surprise for you when you return, won’t you?’

Pavo read his cue and stood a little straighter. ‘Yes, sir! Now, you heard what the centurion said: strip down to all but your boots and tunics, into line and . . . ’

Zosimus hurried over to their head as the recruits barged into each other in a panic. ‘ . . .
move out!
’

The jostling recruits followed Zosimus off the fort plateau and down the scree path towards the valley floor and the Via Militaris. As the big Thracian’s rhythmic encouragements faded, Pavo and Sura set about hammering chest-high stakes into the earth in a rough grid formation for sword practice. Pavo felt each thump numbly, his mind still in a scattered mess.

‘They’ll make it,’ Sura said.

‘What?’

‘Dexion, Gallus, they’ll make it to the West.’

‘How can you be so sure?’ Pavo panted, lifting up the next stake.

‘Think of what Gallus has been through before. Then think just how angry he’s been in these last weeks. Now, who do you fear for most – Gallus and Dexion, or the poor Quadi who might dare to stand in their way?’

‘I know who my coins would be on,’ Quadratus chuckled, joining them in their task.

Pavo frowned at the pair, then broke down in dry laughter, before helping hammer another stake into the ground. The recruits returned a short while later, gasping, some staggering. The portly Trupo was the most spent of all, his face a shade of puce. Pavo and Sura ushered them into the forest of stakes, tossing wooden swords and shields to each as they passed.

‘And take your positions, one man to each post. Shields high, swords to the right and
thrust, hack, feint, stab!
’

The
clack-clack
of spathas delving into timber and the resultant spray of splinters went on for some time. Pavo saw how they held the weapons with fear and discomfort. The blisters would have to come soon, so the calluses could quickly follow, he mused. After that, familiarity with the blade would not be far behind. After an hour of this, Quadratus theatrically stretched his arms and yawned. ‘Hmmm, I quite fancy stretching my legs. Who’s with me for another run?’ The sweating, trembling recruits looked up, aghast. Silence. ‘Ah, that’ll be
all
of you then.’ With a chorus of muffled whimpers, they fell into line behind Quadratus. Off they went again down the slope from the fort and on up the southern valley side.

‘Mithras, I remember those days,’ Sura commented, piling up wraps of plumbatae darts for the next bout of training as he watched them go, ‘legs like rock the day after.’

‘Aye, and brains like dung,’ Zosimus said with a snort. Then he sighed. ‘Running will make them stronger and faster, but two centuries against five thousand?’

Pavo curled his bottom lip. ‘If nothing else, training them hard will keep their minds from what is to come.’

‘Aye, that is true,’ Zosimus chuckled. ‘Though some of us at least need to focus on that alone. This place is nothing like the great barrier we expected. If we’re to stand any chance, it has to become just that . . . a barrier, a blockade.’

Pavo realised the big Thracian was looking to him and Sura. In his time in the legions, he had been dutifully led by officers who would position the centuries, devise the formations in a field battle and architect the defences in a blockade. Several ranks had stood between him and such discussions, but here, he realised he had to be part of it. Gallus was gone, Geridus wallowed in malaise within his fort, and Zosimus and Quadratus alone could not be expected to formulate their strategy.

He eyed the valley floor, the high ground of the fort plateau that he stood upon and the section of the southern valley side that bulged as if to meet it, then at the Via Militaris squeezing through the gap below. The narrow passage and the high ground were theirs to exploit. His mind began to dig at every feature of the landscape: the near-skeletal beech trees further along the valley side, the flat-spot on top of the southern bulge, the pock-marks on the Via Militaris where flagstones were missing. ‘There are things we can do here, things to make our numbers count for more.’

Zosimus’ eyes grew hooded and he nodded. ‘There certainly are. Come on then, let’s hear it?’

‘Could we block the pass?’ Sura mused first, his gaze fixed on the valley’s narrowest point between the fort spur and bulge on the southern valley side, opposite.

‘Given the time we’ve got we could throw up a timber wall, maybe,’ Zosimus mused, stroking his jaw. ‘That would keep our lads busy, certainly, and we all know the Goths don’t like walls.’ Then he turned round to eye the fort with disdain. ‘Though we should repair this place as a priority,’ he said, tracing out the broad, shuddering crack in the fort’s southern wall with a finger and then along past the crumbled battlements and the listing towers.

Pavo nodded. There was much to be done and so precious little time to do it. He heard Quadratus and the recruits panting as they returned up the scree path, and decided that a look around the southern valley side might spark some further ideas. As the recruits spilled back onto the plateau, gasping, spitting and wheezing, Pavo stepped up, setting down his helm and slipping his swordbelt and mail off. ‘And off we go again,’ he said, waving them with him. He ignored their groans and hoarse protests as they followed him back down the scree path, knowing that the pain in their limbs and lungs today meant more strength and speed in the days ahead.

Seven repetitions of this gruelling run they undertook, and by the end of it even Pavo struggled to gather in enough breath. By evening, his muscles had stiffened and he devoured two bowls of the spicy stew Cornix had prepared. As he ate, he heard the recruits talk of their day, some slapping others on the back in congratulation as if their training was complete now. A wry grin forced its way across his lips, and he saw Sura, Quadratus and Zosimus – sitting by the fire with him – grinning likewise.

Six days passed like this. Running, intensive sword and formation practice, plumbatae throwing, repairs to the fort, timber hewing and gathering for the wall and foraging to fill the fort’s stores. The relentless effort – leading the marches, shouting them into place until he was hoarse and rising before dawn to ensure everything was ready for the day ahead – kept Pavo’s mind from darker thoughts, and during those days he took heart in how much the recruits improved: they were no veterans – not by any stretch of the imagination – but at least now they held their spears and shields well. And the first calluses came by that sixth day; now they handled their swords with a degree of confidence, and each knew their place in the ranks – some even taking to correcting the others and ensure they were exactly one arm-width apart. But as he headed to his tent on the plateau on the sixth night, exhausted, he wondered how raw the scars of the fraught battle at the Great Northern Camp were in their minds. The chaos on the banks of the Tonsus came back to him: the screaming, the flashing Gothic blades, the blood. He had developed a tolerance to sights such as those. The soldier’s skin, they called it. But to the young lads it would have been raw, visceral, terror incarnate. And to those who had turned and fled, shame would be in that vile mix. They had hidden their fears well in these last days, though he had heard them chatting nervously about the approach of this feared Gothic Reiks and his horde. As he retired that evening, he even heard one ask another:
when Farnobius comes, will you stand?

‘You will have to,’ Pavo mouthed to himself as he slumped onto his bed, ‘else Thracia will fall.’

This black truth troubled him until well after dark. It was only some hours after the rest of the legionaries in his tent had fallen into a chorus of snoring that he too fell into a deep, dark sleep.

Pavo felt the heat of Constantinople’s summer sun sear his skin. The shackle seemed to gnaw on his ankle and Tarquitius’ cries of glee were piercing. He felt the slave-trader unlock his chains, then felt the seas of hands pass him down like an animal to his new owner. This time, however, Pavo did not struggle. This time, he kept his eye on the spot at the rear of the Augusteum. This time, he saw the shadow-man earlier than usual.

Who are you? he mouthed, his eyes blazing under a dipped brow as he beheld the dark form. He noticed how the figure seemed poised, ready to spring from the darkness and into the writhing masses of the square. Just then, the hand of Tarquitius’ bodyguard wrapped across his mouth. He felt himself being dragged from the square, but refused to look away from that spot. The shadow man watched his plight.

Act now! Pavo shouted, shaking the bodyguard’s hand from his mouth. Come, buy me, mock me, slay me – do whatever you came to do . . . just show yourself!

At this, the shadow-man stood tall . . . and walked away.

The pink light of dawn woke Pavo. For once it was not with a start. He looked around the contubernium with a frown, angered at this persistent riddle.
It is a dream and no more,
he scoffed, longing to believe he could accept that. He sat up, his blanket falling from his bare chest, and noticed Cornis, Trupo and Auxentius stirring too. The urgency of all that was going on at this pass suddenly came to the fore.

Not a moment to lose,
he thought, then rose with a groan, stretched his weary muscles, drew on his tunic and swept his woollen cloak around his shoulders. As soon as he emerged from the tent, he swiftly drew the cloak tighter as the morning chill bit at him. The plateau, the fort and all of the tents erected here in its shadow were shrouded in thick frost, glinting in the early sunlight. He heard the first groans coming from within the other tents. The recruits had been forewarned about
ambulatum
practice today – essentially full-step marching but with maneouvres thrown in too, each century tasked with outflanking the other and using the terrain to their advantage.
Another day of relentless training,
he mused,
and we must work faster to fortify this damned pass,
he realised, eyeing with dismay the roped outline of the yet-to-be-started timber stockade across the valley floor down below. Up here on the plateau, the huge crack in the fort’s southern wall had at least been mended with rubble and mortar, but the repair of the eastern and southern battlements was a laborious and slow job and the double gateway on the western wall still lay open and gateless. They were days behind in their plans already.