‘Ah, so you’re alive?’ a voice remarked glibly behind him.
He swung round to see a glass-eyed old man in the doorway of the adjacent apartment.
‘Where is she?’ Pavo panted.
‘Long gone. Back in the summer. She left here with a faceful of tears.’ The old fellow wagged a finger at Pavo as if in reproach. ‘She heard word that your lot had been slain out in the Persian deserts.’
Pavo cast a bitter look at the Cursus Publicus scroll, wishing he had been able to get word to her sooner.
‘She left the city to help at the Great Northern Camp and the five mountain passes,’ the old man added. ‘For months now, trains of workers and oxen have been leaving Constantinople in droves to help supply and maintain the camp. She felt it was the best place for her. Things are dire out there from what I hear – legions cobbled together from the few bands of men who survived Ad Salices, and more Goths than a man can count trying to break through the passes.’
‘Aye, aye, we’ve heard much talk of this Northern Camp since we returned to the city,’ Pavo said, his eyes darting as he tried to make sense of things. Felicia seemed to be enticed to danger like a bee to a bloom. Indeed, he snorted, she had been drawn to him. The flash of amusement faded and he wondered if their time together was over. If Felicia thought he was dead then he had to get word to her at this distant camp. He ploughed his fingers through his hair in frustration. Why, why didn’t you wait just a little longer? he thought.
‘Where are you headed?’ the old man said as Pavo staggered past and trudged down the stairs.
Pavo looked back up, his face sullen. ‘Where else does a man go after he has lost his woman?’
‘Have one for me,’ the old fellow chuckled.
The bustle outside seemed smothered and distant and he felt numb as he made his way back up the main street towards the Forum of the Ox. This square space was set in the dip between the third and seventh hills. The place was dominated by the glistening bronze sculpture of a bull at its centre – still bearing black stains from its days as a method of execution, where Christians would be roasted alive in its hollow belly. These days, the forum hosted no such spectacles. Now, the Forum of the Ox knew only trading by day and unfettered iniquity by night. And, rather fittingly, it was where he had arranged to convene and drink with his few surviving XI Claudia comrades.
Dusk descended as he entered the forum. Torches and lamps blinked into life and the first shrieks of laughter and crashes of breaking glass sounded from the gathered crowds of carousing folk. Cackling drunks stumbled across his path, groups roared out chorus after chorus of ribald song, and near the middle of the square, some furious short man endured the indignity of a circle of his taller friends throwing him up in the air again and again, each time with a great cry of merriment. A violent ripping sound rang out, and the next time he was tossed up in the air, his trousers were absent, and watching women squealed in mock horror at the short man’s flailing genitals while his friends roared with laughter. The sound of gaiety along with the reek of cheap wine and roasting meat hastened Pavo’s step.
Watered wine. Stick to the watered wine, he nagged himself as he made his way over to one open air tavern bearing a vine wreath and ale-stirring pole above the arched entrance and shoved his way through. The place was separated from the street by a red-brick half-wall, and contained twenty or more overpopulated tables and benches, with wine and ale barrels and jugs lining a snug in the rear wall. He scanned the myriad ruddy faces for the few he sought. He could not help but chuckle when he caught sight of Sura, standing by a brick pillar. The brash, blonde-mopped and fair-skinned legionary, Pavo’s closest comrade since enlisting nearly two years ago, was in his element, it seemed, in mid-flow of some doubtlessly fanciful tale – his hands waving in illustration – while two local women close to twice his age listened intently. He stepped a little closer to listen in.
‘The Persian Shahanshah?’ Sura snorted derisively in response to one woman’s question. ‘He was a worthy foe but, ultimately, he came up short against me. Now I’ve returned to these parts,’ he waved his hands, palms down, in a calming gesture, ‘so hopefully I can sort out the trouble in Thracia. Unofficial King of Adrianople, you see,’ he said, jabbing a thumb into his chest. ‘They say I’m cut out to lead a legion. I can see where they’re coming from. If I had a few cohorts at my command, I’d . . . I’d . . . ’ Sura stammered as he realised he hadn’t thought his story through and, as usual, his efforts began to unravel. His cheeks grew rosy as his lips flapped soundlessly.
‘You’d have Durostorum and all in the north back in imperial control?’ Pavo offered, stepping in next to him.
Sura did a double-take at this suggestion then grinned, seeing it was Pavo. He shoved an untouched cup of wine from a cluster of several on a shelf into Pavo’s hand then turned back to the women, nodding hurriedly. ‘Aye, er . . . all of the north.’
The women cackled as they latched onto Pavo’s game.
‘Reconquer old Dacia north of the river too maybe?’ Pavo added.
Sura now fired a swift and sour glare at Pavo. ‘Pavo for fu-’ he started then stopped, seeing Pavo was alone. ‘Where is she?’ he asked.
Pavo shook his head. ‘Gone.’
Sura frowned, turning away from the women, his brow furrowing in deep ruts. ‘Gone?’ he said, his mouth agog as he reached out to place a consoling hand on Pavo’s shoulder. ‘You mean . . . ’
‘No, she’s well – as far as I know. But she left the city and headed out into Thracia for this Great Northern Camp we’ve heard so much about,’ Pavo replied.
‘The Northern Camp?’ Sura spluttered in a mix of relief and dismay. He shook his head and cocked an eyebrow. ‘I shouldn’t be so surprised really. Drawn to trouble like a whore to the docks, that girl. Er . . . ’ he shrugged in apology at the inappropriate analogy then clasped a hand to Pavo’s shoulder. ‘Look, we’ll find a way to get to her and to protect her.’
Pavo said nothing, simply clasping a hand to Sura’s shoulder in reply. Sura glanced at Pavo’s leather bracelet, made to speak, then hesitated.
‘Sura?’ Pavo coaxed him.
‘Eh, oh, nothing.’
Pavo saw how Sura was working hard to avoid his gaze. Then he noticed his friend glancing at the leather bracelet again. Sura knew what Pavo had found, out in the east, and had sworn to help find this half-brother. ‘You have found something? Come on, tell me.’
Sura shook his head. ‘Well, yes, something and nothing. I tried asking around in here,’ he nodded towards one gnarled drunk and then swept his head across the others nearby. ‘Nothing. Then there was one whose eyes lit up.’
Pavo’s breath stilled.
‘A veteran from the Thracian legions, discharged just a month ago – lost an arm in a clash with the Goths.’
‘He knows of Dexion?’ Pavo said.
‘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 shr
ugged, 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 bo
ny 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.
Legionary: The Scourge of Thracia (Legionary 4) Page 3