Legionary: The Scourge of Thracia (Legionary 4)

by Gordon Doherty

  ‘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.’

  Pavo suddenly felt more than a little queasy.

  The five stood before the wide table in Traianus’ planning room, gazing at the yellowed map of the empire pinned out before them. Pavo shuffled uneasily in the stifling morning heat, rivulets of sweat streaking down his back under his woollen tunic. It was so hot that it felt as if a hypocaust was ablaze under the tiled floor. His stomach churned from the foul wine and his mouth was parchment-dry. He eyed the goblets of cool water laid out on the table for each of them, but knew it would be against decorum to gulp from it while the magister militum spoke. Worse, the sight of the closed shutters gave the otherwise austerely decorated office the feel of a desert tomb. A swift glance along the line told him he was not alone. Sura’s eyes were glassy and bloodshot, while Quadratus and Zosimus had a grey tinge to their skin. Gallus, however, was alert, standing tall, eyes sharply following Traianus’ sweeping hands across the map as the magister militum briefed them. He showed no signs of his lack of sleep other than a slight shading under his eyes. Pavo searched the tribunus’ keen gaze for some hint of the trouble going on within, but found nothing.

  ‘The cane!’ an urgent voice surfaced from his medley of thoughts.

  Pavo looked up groggily to see Traianus’ eyes fixed on him. The magister militum’s nut-brown skin told of a life spent under the eastern sun and his white hair placed him at maybe fifty years old. But it was his scowl and pursed lips under his hooked nose that seemed to scourge Pavo with an invisible whip. ‘Will you hand me the bloody cane!’ Traianus repeated.

  Pavo started, then snatched up the cane with the bronze hand on the end, offering it to Traianus sheepishly and feeling a burning look of rebuke from Gallus on his skin.

  ‘So the Goths are pinned down in Moesia,’ he tapped the bronze hand on the stretch of land along the River Danubius’ southern banks where a handful of small, carved wooden horsemen were clustered, then swept the hand across the vast, curved area below this that ran west to east depicting jagged peaks, ‘but only because we can employ the great bulwark that is the Haemus Mountains.’ Traianus used the bronze hand to push five carved wooden legionaries out across the mountains, positioning five of them at roughly equal steps along the range. ‘There are five points where Fritigern and his horde might be able to bring their armies, wagons and people across those peaks, and five legions – one thousand men in each – have been deployed to resist any such effort. Thus, these five passes are vital.’ He tapped the hand along each one, west to east. ‘The Oescus Valley, the Trojan Pass, the Shipka Pass, the Kotel Pass and the Sidera Pass.’

  ‘And in reserve?’ Gallus asked in a tone that suggested he felt not a drop of intimidation in the presence of Emperor Valens’ direct subordinate.

  Traianus grinned wryly, tapping the map just south of the Shipka Pass. ‘The Great Northern Camp.’

  All of Pavo’s senses latched onto this. At once he saw how close to the Shipka Pass the camp was – barely a day’s march – and thought of Felicia. A cold stone of angst settled in his belly as he fretted for her safety.

  ‘Seven legions are stationed at the camp, ready to answer the call for reinforcements from any of the passes,’ Traianus said with confidence.

  But Pavo thought of the glass-eyed old man’s words back at the deserted apartment, and other hearsay that he had picked up on since arriving back in Constantinople. Some say the legions out there are in disarray. Men and units patched together from the survivors of Ad Salices – limitanei and comitatenses forged together in something of a rabble.

  ‘Seven legions, sir?’ Gallus asked. ‘I had heard mixed reports.’

  Traianus’ confidence faltered and he nodded briskly. ‘They are far from full strength, Tribunus, and most of them are somewhat pragmatic in their composition. Many fine cohorts – indeed, entire legions – were lost at Ad Salices, as you know,’ he and Gallus shared a solemn look of understanding and recollection. ‘Old legions have been laid to rest, their surviving vexillationes and leaderless cohorts have been merged with others in an effort to re-establish at least a core to the Thracian army.’

  ‘I understand, sir,’ Gallus nodded.

  ‘And that’s where you and your men come into play. You are to march your men to the great camp.’

  Pavo’s ears pricked up. The magister militum’s words were like an elixir to his fears. Felicia!

  But Gallus’ response was at odds with Pavo’s feelings. ‘The XI Claudia have just returned from the jaws of the Persian Shahanshah, and you plan to merge us into some other legion’s standard, sweep our proud history away like-’

  ‘The XI Claudia will live on, Tribunus,’ Traianus chuckled with a contented look on his face. The man was clearly encouraged by Gallus’ fiery response. ‘At the Great Northern Camp, you will find three new cohorts awaiting you. Your ranks will be what they once were.’

  Gallus offered no response, and Pavo saw a look of near-disbelief on the tribunus’ face. The XI Claudia had been in tatters for years, losing men on the battlefield as fast as it could recruit replacements, always well below its on-paper strength of some seventeen hundred men. Now it seemed that the guttering flame was to be rekindled in full.

  ‘Magister Equitum Saturninus commands the Great Camp, and he will furnish you with your new men and further orders.’ Traianus then stretched the bronze hand out to the empire’s eastern desert borders. There, a cluster of wooden figures stood. These figures were legionaries too, but taller and broader than those in Thracia. And in their centre was a fine, plumed rider. Traianus hooked them across the map, bringing them to the Diocese of Thracia. ‘As you know, Emperor Valens is already gathering his Praesental Army in the east. Some thirty thousand men . . . yet he will not be able to bring them to these lands until spring at the earliest.’

  Pavo nodded along with the others. He recalled Valens telling them just this before they set sail from Antioch. Keep the mountain passes secure until I arrive, then we will rid Thracia of the Gothic blight.

  But when Traianus swept the cane out again, this time to the west, Pavo frowned. There, far beyond Pannonia and the upper stretches of the Danubius, a thick blue line snaked south to north. The River Rhenus. Stationed along this great waterway was another cluster of the broad, tall legionary pieces and another plumed figure on horseback. Traianus gathered these with the bronze hand and swept them towards Thracia, following the banks of the Rhenus, then the Danubius, then down through the passes that snaked through the Dioceses of Pannonia and Dacia. ‘What you might not know is that Emperor Valens has called upon his western counterpart. Emperor Gratian will bring his Praesental Army to Thracia also.’

  Pavo gawped at the two model armies, trying to imagine what such a force might look like. Sixty thousand men. The Praesental Armies of East and West were the core of the empire’s finest soldiers. Many legions of comitatenses, elite auxilia palatinae infantry and scholae palatinae cavalry, specialist troops and siege engineers. Together, they could surely end the strife in Thracia, maybe even recover the northern chunk of the diocese – the lost province of Moesia between the Haemus Mountains and the River Danubius, including Durostorum and the XI Claudia fort.

  He glanced across to Gallus, expecting to see at least a glimmer of enthusiasm from the iron tribunus. But instead, Gallus’ face was ashen, fixed on the figure of the Western Emperor and his army. Then once, twice and again, Pavo noticed Gallus’ top lip twitch, betraying gritted teeth behind.

  Later that day, as the sun was setting, Pavo wandered alone in th
e quieter streets of the city’s north-eastern wards. They were to set off for the Great Northern Camp in the morning, and he hoped a stroll would tire him enough to enjoy a good sleep. Just a few dozing drunks and enthusiastic traders were to be seen, and the market babble was replaced by cicada chatter, sailing from the gardens, orchards and groves dotted in between the great marble structures of this, the finer quarter of the capital. He bought a small loaf of fresh bread from a baker, then set off again, tearing off and eating pieces of it absently. His thoughts flashed again with the promise of what lay ahead: Felicia and the Great Northern Camp. This stirred a frisson of anxiety and excitement in his belly and when he looked up, he realised he had strolled to the Augusteum – the site of that curious dream that morning. The majestic square was bathed in deep-orange light and deserted, the only sign of life being just the few sentries on the walls of the Imperial Palace area that formed the square’s eastern edge. The light of the setting sun glimmered on the tip of the Milliareum Aureum – the gilded bronze column used as a starting point for measuring distances from the capital. The Hippodrome nearby the square’s western edge was for once free of cheering crowds, with only the sound of the imperial banners rippling gently in the warm breeze from the Golden Horn. Resting in the shade of the magnificent Baths of Zeuxippus by the square’s southern edge was a series of small, stone tables and benches, each with a latrunculi board painted onto its surface. He sat at one of these chewing on his bread, looking out across the square and wondering: all those years ago, the day he had been sold into slavery, had there really been someone watching him so keenly from the shadows? His eyes swept round to the point where the slave-trading platform had been set up that day, right at the centre. Then on to the painted colonnade on the north edge of the square. Just like the dream, pools of shadow lay beside each column. He peered into the deepest shadow, trying to conjure the image from the dream and place it there. An odd chill passed over him as he did so. For a moment, dream and reality became one as he gazed into the blackness, the shadows forming shapes of all those long dead. Tarquitius, Salvian . . . Father. Nightmares of Father’s fate had haunted him for years. Was this dream of the shadow-man another that would blight him relentlessly? A sudden pluck overcame him at the thought. He stopped chewing, tossed the last morsel of bread to a sparrow that had been eyeing him, then stood.

  ‘To Hades with nightmares,’ he affirmed, looking off to the north-western sky and thinking of what lay ahead. ‘Felicia, I’m coming for you.’ Then he glanced once more at his bracelet and shouted aloud so his words echoed: ‘And Dexion; if you are out there, I will find you.’

  Gallus, dressed in just his tunic and cloak, stepped into a forgotten doorway halfway along a quiet alley, then descended the stony steps within that wound from Constantinople’s streets and down into the blackness below. He felt the muggy night air of the city streets dissipate, a creeping underground chill quickly replacing it. He resisted the urge to gather his ruby cloak to fend it off. The stairs wound round and round, ever-descending, ever-darker. Then the descent ended. He halted, gazing into the gloom. Before him lay a long, vaulted chamber.

  The old Mithraeum was bathed mostly in darkness, lit only by the guttering half-light of a torch in the street above, the pale orangey light dancing weakly through a small iron grid in the temple’s ceiling. The floor of the underground vault was dank with water leaking in from the River Lycus, which flowed unseen under Constantinople’s streets. The whitewashed walls were flaking, streaked with mildew and slime and the timber benches that lined the sides of the cramped space were rotting. Desiccated laurel and acanthus leaves from long-past ceremonies lay piled in the corners. A musty stench of decay hung in the air and a rhythmic drip-drip was interrupted only by the occasionally muffled, drunken voice from the streets above. In this Christian city, the old gods had been forgotten, it seemed. But Gallus had not forgotten Mithras, nor the oath he swore with the bull-slayer.

  Gallus peered along to the far end of the temple, eventually making out the carved slab mounted vertically there. As the city slept above him, he strode towards this sacred altar. Sleep was no friend of his on the best of nights, but on this night more than any other he found no peace. He had tried to rest but had been besieged by the shrill chatter of thoughts. Memories of the past played out from the moment he fell asleep. After that, shame jabbed at him every time sleep tried to return. Why had it taken so long, so many years, to reach that moment in Persia when he realised what he must do? That moment, on the bloodied floor of the Spahbad’s arena, with Carbo standing by his side.

  Eventually, we all must face our past, Tribunus.

  Carbo’s last words lived on. That haggard soldier had died along with so many others out in the east. But after years of running from his past, the man had died a noble death, facing his demons, striking them square in the eye. And Pavo, that callow youth who had grown into a fine soldier and a burgeoning leader, had echoed the sentiment, having marched through the desert to find his father against all odds.

  Every step through the burning sands. Every lash of the whip in those mines. Every blade that scored my flesh. It was worth it all. I faced the past. The nightmares are gone.

  ‘Then you are braver men than I,’ Gallus whispered into the cool blackness, his breath clouding, outlining his gaunt features and greying peak of hair.

  He stalked along the centre of the long, narrow chamber, past the rotting benches and the small food-preparation antechamber, strewn with long discarded bowls and platters, shrouded in dust. When he reached the altar at the far end, he stretched out a hand and traced his fingertips over the image carved into the rock there. The relief of Mithras slaying the bull had long since lost its vibrant colours, with only flecks of paint surviving. The god’s eyes were featureless, as if blinded by the near darkness he had been consigned to. He thought back to those days when he had thrown himself into the legions and embraced Mithras’ calling. He traced a finger along the scar welt under his right wrist, recalling the blinding, white-hot pain of the initiation test that had caused it – the Mark of the Raven, they called it. As his flesh had bubbled and split, the men of the Mithraeum had hailed him as a brave soul. But Gallus alone knew the truth: he was naught but a man too scared to face his demons. For a blessed few moments, the white-hot knife had caused him to forget the awful sight of Olivia and Marcus’ corpses.

  He knelt on one knee before the altar, his ruby cloak slipping around from behind his shoulders and enveloping him as his head fell forward. Pulling the idol of Mithras from his purse, he ran his thumb back and forth over the worn carving. ‘Almighty Sun, Our God . . . ’ he began the well-rehearsed verse in a muted tone.

  The prayer usually led his thoughts away from darkness, but this time it failed him, his thoughts snagging on one line;

  ‘Keep our harvest and those precious ones we love from all harm . . . ’ he fell silent, shaking.

  He thought of those who had slain his family and had then pursued him doggedly for years afterwards. Why had they finally let him be? Perhaps the Speculatores of the Western Empire knew of the torment that would plague him and saw it as more fitting than any gruesome death. Fated to live every day with the shades of his wife and child calling for him.

  ‘And I accepted this fate. Accepted it!’ he spat.

  Just then, a wagon wheel clunked over the iron grating. Gallus blinked, realising the night sky up above had grown dark-blue. The new day would soon be upon the city. He stood and offered Mithras a lasting gaze. It was time to say his piece.

  ‘I swore to give everything to you, Mithras, asking in return only that you let me forget my past and die an honourable death at the head of the legions. Yet you starve me of both. Why?’ The question echoed around the chamber, fading to utter silence. ‘Whatever the answer may be, know this; I relinquish you from the oath, as I relinquish myself. I have been running from my past for too long.’

  He gazed off through the darkness, thinking of the fecund countryside of Norther
n Italy, the green hills and towering cypress trees. In his mind’s eye he saw Olivia and Marcus there, playing, laughing by the wagon. Sunlight flooded the memory. It was a time of simple pleasures, until the Speculatores had entangled him – a simple farming man – in their wicked game. He had chosen the noble path, refused to do what they asked . . . and lost everything for it. Everything but his own life. The image of Olivia and Marcus crumbled, and the memory of their pained screaming filled his head, then the crackling of the burning pyre. Sharp, stabbing sorrow came at him like enemy blades. He cast it aside, then thought of Traianus’ revelation today: Emperor Gratian was coming east with his armies . . . and his agents. The Speculatores and he were fated to clash.

  He glowered at the faded image of Mithras, his brow shading his ice-blue eyes.

  ‘I will run no longer,’ he hissed.

  His words echoed around the vault as he swung round and strode from the Mithraeum, ascending the steps, his cloak swishing in his wake.

  Chapter 2

  A clear blue sky hung over the Thracian countryside. A hot afternoon breeze blew, rippling through the grass on the green hills and the golden wheat stalks on the flatland. The Via Militaris cut north-west across this pasture like a great grey vein, running all the way from Constantinople, across Thracia, Dacia and into the Western Empire, ending at the distant fortress-city of Singidunum on the banks of the River Danubius. Here at this mid-section of the great highway, two days march north-west of Adrianople and six days into their march overall, the five legionaries of the XI Claudia moved swiftly under their silver eagle standard, the ruby-red banner hanging from the crossbar bearing the effigy of a bull. Gallus led them, eyes set on the western horizon, his red cloak and the black plume on his intercisa helm rippling in the breeze. Quadratus and Zosimus followed, marching abreast, with Pavo and Sura at the rear.