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

‘Well, he looked as if the name meant something. Then he threw up all over himself and was carried out and dumped on the street side. I tried to find him but he must have staggered away.’ Sura offered an apologetic smile. ‘I’m sorry, Pavo. I knew it was not enough. I didn’t want to torment you with such flimsy findings.’

Pavo took a moment to compose himself. ‘Ha, don’t be silly. The sot probably didn’t even understand the question. It was probably some mistake, maybe he thought you were offering him a drink?’ he laughed and tried to sound unflustered, but Sura saw right through it.

‘Look, you should go, find the others, enjoy yourself,’ Sura said earnestly nodding into the throng of bodies. ‘I’ll be over shortly.’

As Sura turned back to the pair of ladies, Pavo edged through the crowds in search of his other comrades. He thought over his friend’s news, shrugged, took a mouthful of the wine, then nearly gagged.
Neat
, he cursed as the potent and tart liquid rolled across his tongue. He turned round to berate Sura, but saw that his friend was already in enough bother, with the women now mocking him and his tale. ‘Ah well, neat wine it is,’ he shrugged, taking another swig.

The crowd before him parted to reveal Zosimus and Quadratus, senior centurions of the XI Claudia, at a nearby table. The pair were locked in an arm wrestle, growling, straining, sweating, veins bulging from foreheads like worms, nose to nose and glaring into one another’s eyes. He considered making a remark that perhaps they should just give in to their true desires and kiss passionately . . . then quickly decided against it. The pair matched each other in formidable height and build but nobody could mistake one for the other: Zosimus the Thracian was a haggard sort with a squashed nose, stubbled scalp and anvil jaw, while Quadratus the Gaul wore a flowing blonde mane of hair and matching moustache. Twelve empty ale cups sat on the table beside the pair – six each, it seemed . . . so far.

With a
thwack
, Quadratus smashed his comrade’s arm to the table, and a chorus of cheering rang out from the onlookers. The big Gaul grinned and nodded as he collected in a handful of bets from the bookmaker.

‘Big, cheating, farting . . .
bastard
,’ Zosimus grumbled, then shook the table, causing it to wobble a little. ‘Look, a dodgy leg,’ he yelled, hands outstretched and eyes wide in appeal to the crowd, ‘I was at a disadvantage!’

‘You’re always at a disadvantage against me,’ Quadratus mused with a glint of mischief in his eye, settling back into his seat and accepting a fresh cup of ale from a spectator, then draining it in one go.

Pavo sat with them, then sighed and supped on his wine. Sometimes the only way to silence a chattering and troubled mind was to get roaring drunk. At least this argument seemed more plausible now that the first few swigs had warmed his blood.

Zosimus, still seething, slumped to sit on the bench beside him. He turned to see Pavo and his expression lightened fractionally. ‘Ah,
Optio
, fancy an arm wres-’

‘No,’ Pavo replied sharply and swiftly. He had served as Centurion Zosimus’ second-in-command since the Battle at Ad Salices and had learned some harsh lessons in that time – most on the battlefield, some in the tavern. He automatically rubbed at the shoulder that Zosimus had nearly ripped out of its socket last spring in a previous bout of arm-wrestling.

Zosimus’ scowl returned and he tore a piece of bread from a basket of fresh loaves on the table and chewed on it as though it was a shard of pewter. ‘Fine. Where’s the tribunus?’

Pavo shook his head. ‘He’ll not be joining us.’

‘Aye, well . . . nothing new there, eh?’

Pavo swirled his wine and gazed into the surface. Gallus, leader of the XI Claudia, was unlike any other soldier he had ever known. Tall, lean and utterly merciless. The sharp, gaunt look of a wolf and the roar of a bear. Pure ice, inside and out, he had once thought in his early days with the legion. But it hadn’t taken Pavo long to realise that there was a gravely wounded man inside that steely carapace. A man not unlike himself. Yet something had changed in Gallus after their escape from Persia. The iron tribunus had been freed of his Persian chains, but remained shackled by some new, fiercer inner turmoil, it seemed. He had been irritable and distracted, always muttering, always gazing into the distance.
Always west,
Pavo mused.

Before Pavo left to come to the tavern, Gallus had been sitting, silent and alone atop the compound wall, his eyes fixed on the western skyline, lost in thought. They had shared no words – just a single glance had served as a conversation. As he had stepped out of the barrack block, Gallus had stopped him with a shout, throwing a purse of coins down to him. ‘Come back in one piece,’ he said gazing beyond Pavo’s shoulder with that faraway look. ‘Remember: tomorrow afternoon, we are to be briefed by the magister militum.’

Pavo realised he had absently lifted the purse from his belt whilst tangled in these thoughts, and noticed Zosimus’ eyes gleaming at the sight.

‘Quadratus, look at this,’ he bellowed, clutching Pavo’s wrist – drinks are on Pavo!’

A roar of drunken approval rang out from all nearby as Quadratus snatched the purse from Pavo’s hand and headed to the serving area.

Feeling his sobriety slipping away, Pavo tried to order his thoughts. ‘I think we need to keep an eye on him, sir.’

Zosimus frowned. ‘On Quadratus? Has he started farting already?’

‘Does he ever stop?’ Pavo chuckled and drank some more. ‘No, I mean the tribunus. He’s not himself.’

Zosimus sighed. ‘Aye, in all the time I’ve known him, he’s been a hard bastard. Hard, but true. His focus has always been on his legion – seeing his men right. It was his way of dealing with things, I reckon – things that happened in his past. But since we left Persia, his mind has been elsewhere. He still does his bit, I mean – has us in good order and doesn’t take any nonsense. He gave Sura a severe bollocking yesterday for leaving the latrines in a disgraceful state. And I mean
severe
,’ he whistled at the memory. ‘But it feels like . . . like . . . ’

‘Like part of him is missing?’ Pavo suggested, then thought of that wistful westwards gaze again. ‘Or elsewhere?’

Zosimus took a swig of ale and nodded, wagging a finger at Pavo in agreement then wiping the ale froth from his lips with the back of his hand. ‘Maybe he’s got too much time to think about things. These last few weeks since Persia have been strange for all of us,’ he gestured around the tavern, then to his absent swordbelt. ‘When we meet with Magister Militum Traianus and find out where in Thracia we’re to be posted to next, we can get on with it, get back to normal. Active duty keeps the mind clear, I usually find.’

Sura slumped down next to them, casting one last forlorn look at the departing women and gingerly touching an angry red hand-mark on his cheek, before latching onto the conversation. ‘What’s that? Have you heard where Traianus is posting us to?’

‘Not yet,’ Zosimus chuckled, ‘but I’ll tell you, Thracia has no shortage of trouble-spots.’

Pavo curled his bottom lip and tilted his head, seeing no flaw in Zosimus’ logic. ‘Yet we are just five men strong. What can Traianus expect of us?’

Quadratus returned just then, pushed fresh cups into each of their hands and grinned the driest of grins, revealing a flinty sobriety for just an instant. ‘He expects us to survive. It’s what we’re good at.’

Sitting a little taller at this, and without another word, they clacked their cups together and drank.

Pavo felt the darkness of deep sleep drain away. Suddenly, he sensed an ethereal scene take form around him. Strange, yet familiar at the same time. He was on a raft at sea. No, not a raft, nor a sea – it was a wooden platform, raised above an ocean of faces, waving their arms, calling out, eyeing him like a mangy dog. He felt something heavy on his ankle, and looked down to see a manacle. A heavy, iron manacle. And his legs were different – those of a young boy. A foul terror rose in his belly as he realised where he was.

No! he mouthed silently, recognising the tall, marbled sides of the Augusteum square, seeing the other slaves standing beside him, chained likewise, heads bowed, spirits broken.

Just then, he saw a grinning, corpulent face, wading through the crowd towards the platform.

‘Forty Solidi!’ Senator Tarquitius cried.

No! You’re dead, this isn’t real! He mouthed without a sound. But every instant that passed seemed to vitalise this strange, strange place. He could feel the sun blistering his bare skin, the stinging of the blisters on his feet, smell the gold-toothed slave master’s foul breath.

‘Sold!’ The slave master cried. A thick clunk of iron and the shackle was off.

Pavo felt unseen rough hands seize him from behind and push him towards Tarquitius.

No! he screamed, his voice still absent as Tarquitius’ face widened in a smug smile of victory, arms outstretched, ready to ensnare him.

As he struggled and thrashed, he noticed something. Beyond Tarquitius’ sweating, bald face and behind the rest of the yelping crowd: the crone. The milky-eyed, withered old woman who had intervened that day. She stared at him with her sightless eyes. Her face was grave and she stood with one arm extended, a bony finger pointing to the north edge of the Augusteum. As he was passed through a sea of hands, he struggled to snatch a glance at the colonnade there. Then he saw it – a figure! Little more than a shadow, half-hidden behind one column. He could see no eyes, but this one was watching him. Watching him pass into slavery.

Then, through the blackness of the shadow, the eyes glinted like jewels.

Pavo reached out, just as Tarquitius’ arms closed around him.

‘Who are you?’ he called out, his voice coming back at last.

But the shadow-man slipped behind the column.

‘Who are you?’ he yelled as he woke. He realised he was panting, sweating, sitting upright, both hands outstretched, his mouth dry and foul from the wine and his head giddy. He heard his last words echoing around the barrack block, followed by a grumble of discontent from Zosimus’ bunk, nearby.

‘Shut up, Pavo,’ the Thracian said through taut lips and gritted teeth without opening his eyes.

He noticed the shafts of pale light shining in through the shutters and guessed it was dawn. In the bunk below, Sura was fast asleep. From the bunk block next door, he heard Quadratus’ rhythmic snoring. He lay back, aware that he only had a few more hours to sleep before Gallus would have them up and preparing for the briefing from Traianus. He closed his eyes, but saw only the shadow-man behind his eyelids. Each time it seemed to jump out for him, as if to escape his nightmare. Worse, the neat wine from last night had left a vile nausea in his belly and rendered his head like a war drum.
Thump, thump, thump.

When a furious volley of farting sounded from Quadratus’ room, he finally gave up on the notion of more sleep, slid from the bunk, pulled on his tunic and crept outside. He noticed Gallus’ room was empty too, his bedding awry. He soaked his face and scalp with water from the trough in the barrack parade square, then gulped a few mouthfuls to slake his acute thirst and wash away the taste of stale wine. Flashes of the tail-end of last night’s revelry came to him then: Zosimus drawing a dagger on a cat that had clawed at his ankles as they staggered from the tavern, then the sight of a short, hiccupping, trouserless man on the street outside with glazed eyes and some slurred story about his missing breeches. He palmed at his eyes then plunged his head into the water to be rid of the ludicrous scenes. He rose and swept the water from his scalp and face, then started as a messenger scuttled past him and on out of the barracks. He traced the man’s path to see he had come from the barrack walls. A figure remained up there, perched there like a crow.

‘I can see the purse was well-spent?’ Gallus said glibly.

‘Sir, it was,’ Pavo saluted, hoping he wasn’t swaying on his feet. Had the tribunus been there all night? ‘But we will be well readied for Traianus’ briefing this afternoon.’

‘Excellent,’ he said, then patted the scroll the messenger had just given him against one palm. ‘However, I’ve just been informed that the magister militum has brought the meeting forward. We are to be at his quarters within the hour.’