Legionary: The Scourge of Thracia (Legionary 4) (29 page)

A moment later, another dark, cold thought gnawed at his belly. It had now been a week since Gallus and Dexion had left to ride into the grim westerly lands.
What if
. . . he felt panic swirl in his breast, but caught it like a hornet, feeling it sting and thrash . . . then crushed it. The effort left him drained, only moments after waking. But he couldn’t dwell upon it, knowing that every moment of every day was crucial.

Quadratus emerged from his tent too, groaning and stretching, then emitting a furious buccina-cry of sorts from his buttocks. ‘I’ll get the lads to work,’ the big Gaul said, then nodded up and along the steep northern valley side to the advance lookout post there, ‘you go and put Zosimus out of his misery.’

Pavo stalked to the rear of the plateau and then on up the steep embankment of the valley side and to the east, the scree and frosted moss underfoot crunching with every step and his breath clouding in the air as he climbed. A true buccina cry keened behind him shortly afterwards, and Pavo heard the recruits stumbling from their slumber and coming together for roll-call. When he reached the top of the valley, he heard the distant bleating of mountain goats and sheep and the chirruping of dawn birdsong. Not a soul to be seen on this bitterly cold upland . . . except one.

He beheld the solitary form sitting in the dug-out shelter beside an unlit beacon. Zosimus’ cloak was clasped tightly around his shivering shoulders and his face was framed perfectly by the white linen scarf he wore tied around his head. His nose, lips and cheeks were a shade of indigo, his eyebrows speckled with frost like the earth around him. His face was bent in a scowl that said in no uncertain terms:
harumph!

‘Change of guard, sir. Quiet night?’ he offered.

‘Eh?’ Zosimus started, turning to Pavo. ‘Ach, you know, pretty dull,’ he said, letting go of his life-or-death grip on his cloak so it fell round his back. ‘Don’t know why I bothered with this,’ he shrugged, stood up and stretched somewhat stiffly, grunting with every cracking joint. ‘Stewing, I was.’

Pavo noticed the centurion’s blue fingertips but thought better of goading him any further. He gazed around the morning horizon and then down into the steep Succi Valley, his gaze coming to the pinch-point of Trajan’s Gate from where he had come. ‘Emperor Trajan most probably stood here,’ he mused, ‘nearly three hundred years ago. Maybe he even had similar conversations?’

‘Maybe,’ Zosimus replied with a shrug. ‘Or maybe he waited down there
in
the shiny new fort, unable to speak because he was sucking on a whore’s tits and drinking Falernian while some lackey stood up here, freezing his cock off and standing watch?’

‘I can take the next night watch up here if you like?’ Pavo offered with a chuckle.

‘Why, so you and that bloody lunatic can cause some sort of ruckus?’ Zosimus nodded to the fellow sentry on the tip of the southern valley side. From here, Pavo could just about make out Sura’s blonde hair poking from the shallow lookout burrow by the ash thicket. Zosimus chuckled at his own jibe, before breaking down into a coughing fit then bringing up and spitting a greasy ball of green-grey phlegm. ‘Nah,’ he continued, ‘truth be told, I’m just glad to be away from Quadratus. He might be a tent away, but his foul gases know no boundaries.’

Pavo produced and offered a parcel of salted meat and hardtack to his centurion. ‘Busy day ahead. I thought you might appreciate this for the walk down?’

Wordlessly, Zosimus took the parcel and tore off a chunk of salted mutton in his teeth, then offered Pavo the hard tack. Pavo crunched into this and both men squinted into the sun, rising from the eastern end of the Via Militaris. The skyline of inner Thracia seemed at peace, serene. What a wicked illusion, Pavo mused, wondering just where beyond that horizon the bastard Farnobius was.

‘We reckoned two weeks,’ Zosimus mused, his thoughts clearly attuned with Pavo’s.

Pavo scratched at his scalp and nodded. It had been a week since the Roman rider and the pursuing Hun had come to this valley. He thought of the Goths, their number and their aptitude for moving in vast hordes at pace. ‘Then we should prepare as if he will arrive sooner.’

‘Agreed,’ Zosimus replied stonily. Then his mood lightened a fraction. ‘And we’ve been doing just that - did Quadratus tell you?’

Pavo’s frown was answer enough.

‘We spoke to Geridus last night, him and I. The Comes has agreed to cede command of his century of archers to us. He asks only that he can keep six of them back . . . no idea what for,’ the big Thracian shrugged.

‘But the rest are ours and that’s what matters,’ Pavo said, lifted by this news, ‘seventy four more men with which we can plan the defence of this place. An extra seventy four pairs of hands to put the timber stockade in place.’ He too wondered for a moment why Geridus had kept back six men. He looked west and down the valley side, along to the fort. From this lofty vantage point, he could almost make out the hide-covered shape atop the fort’s southern gatetower. Whatever it was, it was big. And Geridus was particularly protective about that tower, keeping it locked at all times. The tower with the odd mass atop it, the six archers being held back . . . and that infuriating
tink-tink
noise that had disturbed his sleep on some nights – all these oddities in this strange world of Geridus swirled in Pavo’s thoughts until he thought his head would burst.

More perplexing was the Comes’ continued lethargy; the man’s malaise was almost mocking the efforts of every other soul at this damned pass. What had caused such loss of self-belief? Some haughty officers had branded him a coward for his non-appearance at Ad Salices, and Geridus had accepted this as his lot. Yet the century of archers obeyed and respected him absolutely,
and men do not follow cowards so readily,
Pavo mused. And the other half of his legend – the genius that had earned the title ‘Master of the Passes’ was exactly what they needed right now. Guile, guts and confidence. The aged Comes was something of an enigma. ‘Just what are you, old horse?’ he muttered.

‘We’ll get through this without him, despite him, even,’ Zosimus remarked, following Pavo’s gaze.

Pavo felt a twinge of pity for Geridus, though he was not sure why. ‘He is no Barzimeres, sir.’

‘Aye, but his spirit is gone,’ Zosimus said, holding Pavo’s eye, ‘and a broken commander is just as dangerous as a bad one.’

Pavo considered backing Geridus again, but decided there were greater battles to be fought with the precious time they had. ‘The real problem we have is manpower. Geridus’ archers are a welcome resource, but we need more if we are to have any hope – not just to build these defences in time but to man them.’

‘Aye, we do,’ Zosimus agreed. ‘Our lads are stronger now, they know how to stand in a line, shield-to-shield. But even then we need another few hundred men at least if we’re to have enough spears to stand across the top of this timber wall and face Farnobius . . . Goths only fear walls that have legionaries atop them. So aye, reinforcements would be a fine thing, but we’re relying on the tribunus and the primus pilus to bring such help to us when they return . . .
if
they ret-’ he stopped, following Pavo’s instinctive and pained glance to the western horizon. ‘They’ll be back,’ Zosimus said in his best attempt at a concilliatory tone.

Pavo showed no emotion, but felt the big Thracian’s gesture of support like an arm round the shoulder. ‘I hear what you’re saying: any officer worth his salt would hope for the best and plan for the worst?’

‘Exactly,’ Zosimus said.

‘Then perhaps we should try to talk with Geridus again: as a Comes he must know of places near here where we can draw extra men.’

Zosimus sighed, his eyes drifting over the fort and the principia within its walls. ‘We can but try. I’ll speak to him when I go back down to the fort – I’ll try and sort out a meeting today, at the end of your stint up here.’ Then a dry grin spread across his face. ‘Who knows, the old bastard might even share some of his wine with us. It’d only be fair, given that I’ve spent the night up here, guarding his bloody pass, all alone with no bloody thanks or-’

Suddenly, a serrated, baritone bleating sounded just paces behind the big Thracian.

‘Mithras’ balls!’ Zosimus yelped then swept out his spatha, only to see a grumpy sheep eye him with disdain and utter another guttural, tortured bleat. ‘Think that’s clever, do you?’ he made as if to swipe the beast with his half-eaten stick of salted mutton, sending the creature into an ungainly flight off across the valley side. ‘Any more of it and you’ll be tomorrow’s ration!’ he called after it. Satisfied that he’d put the sheep in its place, the big centurion wandered off down the frosty hillside back to the fort. Pavo watched him go, then settled in the dug-out shelter Zosimus had spent the night in, and gazed out to the east. Thoughts of all the plans that lay half-finished and of the recruits’ readiness, or otherwise, for battle scampered across his mind. But one thought marched to the fore as he imagined what lay beyond the eastern horizon.

Bring your horde, Farnobius. I will be going nowhere.

This thought gave him but a heartbeat or two of focus, before he found his gaze drawn back over his shoulder to the west. His mind flashed with images of his brother and Gallus lying undiscovered on the perilous western roadside, grey, torn by savage blades and ruined by the carrion crows. ‘Why did you let me find him?’ he addressed the skies over Trajan’s Gate as if some deity hidden there might respond. ‘Why, only to snatch him away days later?’

He closed his eyes and tried to block out the black thoughts.

Ride swiftly,
he mouthed.

At noon that day, Pavo sat with Quadratus, Zosimus and Sura around Geridus’ table. The aged Comes was slumped in his chair by the fireside. His iron-grey beard did well to hide what little expression there was on his tired features, and his bald pate glistened with a fine film of sweat.

Zosimus’ report was brief: ‘It has been a week and Tribunus Gallus has not sent back reinforcements. We have just two centuries of legionaries: most of whom have but weeks of training behind them, and they lack mail shirts, helms or decent boots. Saturninus could not hold the five northern passes with thousands of veteran legionaries, so how can we hope to hold this one with just this handful of ill-prepared men? Farnobius approaches with five thousand men. We will be obliterated. More, if this pass falls then Gratian’s western army will be diverted into a war with Farnobius’ horde. They will not be able to come to the aid of the Eastern Empire. The matter is simple: we need more men.’

An eternity passed, and it seemed as if Geridus did not care to respond.

‘You think I can conjure fresh men?’ he said at last in his throaty burr, watching the flames and swirling his wine cup. ‘From what – the dirt on the valley floor? I have given you all I possess, have I not?’ He waved a hand, irked and clearly well-inebriated. ‘My archers are yours and my riders are right now doubtless ringed by Quadi bandits on the westerly road!’

Pavo felt Zosimus’ ire. Geridus’ swift reply seemed to be pressing on the big Thracian’s shoulders like an iron burden. Gallus was not here to interject. The tribunus could be swift, subtle or acerbic as needed. But Zosimus, Pavo reckoned, probably felt only a pressing urge to grab this wine-addled giant by the shoulders and beat some sense into him. But the centurion composed himself and persevered. ‘But surely you know of regiments or vexillationes that can be summoned before Reiks Farnobius arrives?’

‘The Diocese of Dacia is bereft of legions, just like Thracia. But I know of smaller regiments that could stand against the number of Goths you expect. Fine, scale-clad cohorts. Veterans too,’ Geridus laughed. ‘Yet they are not mine to simply pluck from their bases like wooden figurines on a battle map. No, they are owned and kept closely by the venal-hearted, self-serving bastards who helped bring Dacia to its knees.’ His snarling tone shook the hall. ‘And if, without such manpower, this pass falls, what would they call me then . . . the Fool of
Trajan’s Gate
?’ he said this and then chuckled bitterly and swigged again on his wine.

Zosimus met the eyes of Pavo and the others, as if garnering their support. ‘Sir, you speak of this as if there is no doubt.’