Legionary: The Scourge of Thracia (Legionary 4) (36 page)

‘A dirty,
victorious
whoreson,’ Libo corrected him, holding out an arm to help him up.

Pavo chortled at this. ‘Discipline is everything, yes, but do not overlook the swift, simple things that can win a skirmish: a head-butt, a boot in the balls, a . . . ’ he decided to leave it there, seeing Libo’s good eye gleam with the possibilities. ‘Now, take up your plumbatae,’ he yelled, nodding to Sura.

As Sura took the century off to drill them in hurling their lead-weighted darts at the near-end of the small practice range, Pavo strolled over to the swarthy-skinned Cretan slingers, occupying the far end of the range and training to a tune of jagged Cretan cries from their leader, Herenus. Herenus loosed his own sling and observed the progress of the others, his leathery skin and fine, aquiline features wrinkling between encouragement and disappointment. His century of men were unburdened with armour – most wearing just woollen tunics, trousers and cloaks, and they carried daggers, slings and leather pouches filled with shot. He watched as the nearest of them drew the looped end of the sling over their forefingers, loaded small stones into the pouch then grasped the other, knotted end between thumb and forefinger.

‘Lift,’ Herenus cried.

All raised their slings. A brief whirring like a cloud of dragonflies sounded before the slings were loosed in unison. A thick crackle of stones punching deep into the timber butts or tearing clean through the straw ones sounded. Thirteen had hit their targets, maybe, but the rest thumped into the earth of the valley side, sending puffs of frost and dirt into the air. Pavo bit down on his bottom lip. Such a fine margin of accuracy could be the difference between holding the pass and losing it: the slingshot, almost invisible in flight, could turn a battle – but only if they were aimed true. He watched the next volley from the slingers. This time only eight hit their intended butts. The next volley was better with nearly half succeeding. He noticed as he watched that the group of eight nearest Herenus continuously struck their targets, and struck them well – deep holes bored in the centre of the trunk sections and torn through the straw dummies.

‘Herenus’ eight, what are they doing differently, sir?’ he asked Zosimus, nearby, without taking his eye off the training.

‘Nothing that I can see,’ Zosimus replied, squinting and watching as they used the same technique: load, loop, spin and loose. ‘Perhaps it’s the luck of their contubernium.’

‘They share a tent?’ Pavo said.

‘Aye, always have, they said.’

Pavo strode over to Herenus and halted him from his next shot with a hand to the shoulder. ‘That’s a fine eye for the target you have.’

Herenus grinned at this. ‘My father once told me I’d never be a slinger.’

‘What’s your secret?’ Pavo said, eyeing the sling but seeing that it was just an ordinary weapon with a leather pouch and cord hanging from either side.

Herenus flicked up the next piece of shot – an acorn-shaped piece of lead – and caught it in his hand. ‘My father was right . . . until I tried slinging these.’ He nodded to the slingers nearby, taking smooth but more spherical pebbles of different types of rock from their pouches and loading them. ‘These men are doubtless better marksmen than I or my tent mates,’ he said as the slingers loosed the rough pebbles only for most to go astray again, ‘but slinging different shapes and weights changes every shot. The only way to guarantee hitting a target time after time is to ensure that nothing varies between shots: same slinger, same sling, same technique, same shot.’ He rolled the acorn-shaped lead piece in his hand. ‘And this shot, the contours . . . makes it fly true every time.’

‘Where did you get this shot?’ Pavo asked.

‘It is what I have remaining from the time before my men were disbanded.’

Pavo’s eyes hung on the lead piece. ‘You have much left?’

‘Not really. My contubernium and I have been using this lot all day,’ he replied sheepishly.

‘Can you make more?’

Herenus frowned. ‘Well, I can try. I’d need a smelting furnace, some lead and a cast – I can make a cast, I suppose, and-’

‘Do it,’ Pavo said. ‘Take whoever else you need to help you. You can use the oven in the fort – I’ll arrange it with Comes Geridus. If you need any materials, come to me. Make as much as you can, plenty for all the slingers here.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Herenus said.

‘Good thinking. But will he have the time?’ Zosimus asked as Herenus beckoned a handful of his tent-mates and headed for the fort.

‘Maybe, maybe not. It’ll lift their spirits, if nothing else,’ Pavo replied. He gazed on down the valley to the eastern end, seeing the tiny dots of the advance lookout posts, one on each valley side. The men stationed there were under no illusions as to their responsibilities: the first sight of an approaching enemy and the buccina was to be blown hard.

Still nothing.

He gazed down at the timber wall blocking the pass and noticed the sagittarii stockpiling arrows and javelins there. Then he saw that Quadratus had now put his Sardicans to work in assembling the newly-fashioned ballistae along the edge of the fort plateau, pointing down into the mouth of the choke-point. Meanwhile Zosimus’ century was at work atop the fort walls, hefting slabs and stones into place as the crenels were gradually reconstructed, and fitting the new, iron-strapped timber gates onto the fort’s double entrance. The pass was unrecognisable from the near-deserted, crumbling ruin they had come to nearly a month ago. Five centuries of men would man this redoubt and man it well, he insisted.

‘Strong enough?’ Zosimus said, reading his thoughts.

Pavo almost imperceptibly shook his head. ‘Something tells me it’ll take more than a firm defence to hold this place.’ His gaze and Zosimus’ had turned to the fort. Through the open double-gateway, they saw the principia. ‘I can’t help but feel that the old man in there – Master of the Passes – might be the difference. If he can believe in himself once again.’

That night, whipping winter winds drove along the valley from the east. Wrapped in their thickest oiled woollen cloaks, the sagittarii stood watch on the timber stockade down in the pass, and at the advance lookout posts further down the pass, while the four centuries of the XI Claudia sat around a fire sheltered outside the fort’s western wall. They ate a meal of steaming spiced wheat porridge – a recipe of Cornix’ invention – and hard tack biscuit.

All eyes were on Trupo as he held both palms out, a small purple gemstone in one. He clapped his palms together three times, then held them out again. The gemstone was gone. Trupo beamed as if awaiting a chorus of applause. All he received was the odd sniff and shuffle.

Zosimus blew into his hands then shook his head. ‘That was rotten. Probably the worst trick of the night,’ he said, stooping to pick up the gemstone where Trupo had so obviously cast it down. ‘What about a story? Come on, you Sardicans must have some tales to tell,’ he said with a wicked grin, one eye slightly bulging.

Perhaps feeling under pressure, Rectus piped up: ‘Well, there was this one time when Libo and I were on patrol. We marched to Trimontium and were given the evening off.’ He grinned as he lost himself in the memory. ‘We met a couple of women that night.
Shapely
women,’ the grin intensified as he outlined such a figure with his hands. A gruff chorus of chuckling rang out across the gathered men.

Libo sat a little taller, casting haughty looks around with his good eye, proud to be mentioned in this tale of sexual prowess.

Rectus continued; ‘Then they invited us back to a room they shared . . . ’

Suddenly, Libo’s face fell. He shook his head urgently, trying to catch Rectus’ attention.

But Rectus was in full flow. ‘We were drunk, you see, and it was dark. I tumbled into the room and felt around for my woman. I finally grabbed her and she grabbed me. It was all groping and kissing, you know?’ Another rumble of throaty laughter. ‘
She’s a fiery one,
I thought as we tumbled around . . . until the two women lit a lamp on the other side of the room,’ Rectus shot an awkward look at Libo.

Libo’s head fell into his hands.

Rectus shrugged and flicked his head to one side. ‘Aye, that was a quiet march back to Sardica the next day, I can tell you . . . ’

A stunned silence and a few stifled shudders greeted the climax of the tale.

Ever the entertainer, Quadratus stepped into the breach. ‘Here, I’ve got a trick,’ he said, lifting a piece of kindling from the fire, burning at one end, then bent over, holding the flame near his buttocks.

Having seen this trick before, Pavo decided to act on his instinct. He got up, swept his cloak around his body and paced from the shelter of the fort’s western wall. As he went, he heard a noise that sounded like a duck being strangled followed by a whoosh of flames, and the night sky behind him glowed orange for just an instant. ‘Mithras, what evil is this?’ one rasping voice called out in terror over the chorus of gagging and retching that followed along with Zosimus’ howls of protest.

Pavo edged around the fort’s south-western corner and glanced out into the bracing tempest, looking east, down the pass. He saw only blackness. He shielded his eyes with a hand and scoured the night. Only when he caught sight of the orange glows of the two braziers atop the valley sides at the eastern end of the pass did the tension in his stomach ease. Yet the driving wind took to keening, as if mocking the buccina call of alarm they all feared – nobody knew how close Farnobius’ horde was, only that he was coming, and surely at haste. He slipped back from the storm, into the lee of the fort’s western wall and the warmth of the fire. As he strolled, listening to the banter, he looked through the open double-gateway and into the fort, seeing the dull glow of the fire within the principia’s doorway, and wondered if Geridus even shared these fears. He thought again what the old Comes might bring to them should he shake off his malaise. To have a legend like him stand with them in the defence of the pass would surely steel the men’s hearts. More, if they could tap into but a fraction of the man’s fabled guile . . .

Just then, he heard a scraping noise, high above. He looked up and saw a shadow atop the southern gate tower, hobbling around the hide-covered object, supported by a cane.

Geridus!
Pavo realised.
What are you up to, you old cur?

‘I’ve seen that before,’ a voice spoke next to him. It was Rectus. The lantern-jawed legionary was looking up at the tower-top with Pavo.

‘Aye, spends his days inactive in his principia, guzzling on wine, and then hobbles up there to spend his nights talking to the blackness,’ Pavo mused.

‘No, I mean that gait. I’ve seen soldiers suffer from it in the past. I used to be a medicus, remember?’

Pavo’s eyes narrowed.

Pavo entered the principia. Inside, the hearth blazed as usual and an intense heat swirled. Geridus sat by the fire, having returned from his sojourn to the top of the southern gate tower, his skin lashed with sweat from the effort and a wine cup in his hand as always. On the table by his side lay a plate of rabbit meat.

‘Sir?’ Pavo said.

Nothing. Just the crackling of logs on the fire. And . . . that infernal
tink-tink
noise. It came and went, as if emanating from somewhere inside the principia building. Pavo shook the distraction from his mind and repeated; ‘Sir?’

‘What now?’ Geridus said in a low drawl, his head lolling. The exertion of the climb up the stairway in the southern gate tower had clearly taken its toll. ‘I would rise to show you out, but I fear I cannot take another step today.’

‘Sir, Farnobius’ Goths will be upon us within days. The men have worked the skin from their hands to put in place a stockade down in the pass, battlements on this fort’s walls and ballistae along the edge of this spur.’ He held out his scraped and callused palms as if to prove these claims. ‘The fragments of broken or lost legions we have gathered now call themselves the XI Claudia and they will stand against the Goths. But they will stand stronger for the sight of you. Do you know that they whisper your moniker?’

Geridus’ chest jostled in a chuckle. ‘The Coward of Ad Sal-’

‘Master of the Passes,’ Pavo cut him off sharply with a steely tone that reminded him of Gallus.

Geridus’ head rose, shakily, his eyes bloodshot and his bald pate gleaming. ‘What use is a name, lad, when I can barely walk for more than a few moments?’