Legionary: The Scourge of Thracia (Legionary 4)

by Gordon Doherty

  He thrashed and kicked, unintelligible curses pouring from his lungs. Yet Sura and Dexion hauled him back from the scene, speeding as best they could from the eager Goths.

  ‘She’s gone, Pavo. There’s nothing you can do for her,’ Sura cried, his voice tight and his face stained with tears, flashing glances back to see that the Goths had chosen to aid Farnobius, giving them precious moments to flee.

  ‘Come, brother,’ Dexion added with a bitter howl. ‘I have few friends in this world. Do not let me lose another today.’

  Gallus and Zosimus found themselves facing a pack of seven Goths who had broken ahead of the horde. Gallus whacked one Goth on the side of the head with the flat of his spatha, sending the warrior stumbling backwards, stupefied, into his comrades. The tribunus then plucked up a dropped torch and put light to the tents immediately before them. A wall of fire shot up and this bought him and Zosimus moments to hasten their flight.

  ‘Run,’ Zosimus gasped, turning and shoving Gallus with him. They leapt over a series of fallen and torn tents then hurdled a broken wagon lying on its side. They ducked down behind it, each panting and praying that they had shaken off their pursuers. Both started when Dexion and Sura staggered round the wagon’s edge, dragging Pavo like a prisoner, and ducked behind there too. For just a moment, Gallus was transfixed on Pavo. The young optio’s face was twisted in a snarl and he shook visibly with ire. His chest rose and fell like bellows and his eyes were aflame. It was a hauntingly familiar look. He noticed how Dexion and Sura retained their marshalling grip on Pavo’s arms.

  ‘What happened?’ Gallus asked Dexion.

  Dexion shook his head briskly, the dark look in his eyes answer enough.

  Just then, Quadratus skidded round behind the wagon. ‘It’s over,’ the big Gaul snarled. ‘The camp has fallen.’

  ‘Break for the south!’ a hoarse voice cried out as if in confirmation of the earlier buccina signals. The six behind the wagon turned to see Saturninus. His lank black hair was plastered to his face with blood and he was still surrounded by a beleaguered century of his Macedonica men and the majority of the terrified Claudia recruits who had flocked to him for protection more than anything else. They were falling back at speed now. Just a small pack of Goths harried them – most were distracted by the prospect of plundering the abandoned Roman tents and shacks.

  Gallus waved his men with him as he scuttled over to Saturninus, joining his retreat.

  ‘Sir, where do we go from here?’ Gallus said, eyes combing the southern horizon as they fled.

  ‘The cities,’ Saturninus bellowed in reply. ‘We hasten south and take shelter in the walled cities.’ Then he met Gallus’ eyes and lowered his voice. ‘But I need one legion to go elsewhere.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘We have little time to discuss this, Tribunus. But your brief is simple. Take your men to Thracia’s western borders. In the hills there, a narrow defile called the Succi Pass links these lands to the lands of the west. At the narrowest point of the valley stands a great fortress: Trajan’s Gate. It is our last hope. It must . . . must remain in imperial hands.’

  ‘Trajan’s Gate?’ Gallus whispered, thinking of the maps he had studied – the long, tight Succi Valley and the choke-point that bore the name of a long-dead emperor. To say that Trajan’s Gate was arterial was to understate its importance.

  ‘Aye. Geridus, Comes of Pannonia watches over the Gate with his armies. He must be forewarned of what has happened here. He is a good man, Tribunus – not without flaws, but a good man. Many call him the Master of the Passes, and we can only pray that he can live up to such a moniker. Your forces should bolster his and see that the Gate stands firm. For it is through that corridor that Emperor Gratian and his western army will march to our aid. Now more than ever, we need his legions and those of Emperor Valens.’

  The din of the rampaging Gothic horde and the panting, panicking legionaries faded away. All Gallus could hear was Saturninus’ words, ringing like an echo.

  For it is through that corridor that Emperor Gratian and his western army will march.

  Fritigern hefted his longsword round to sweep the head from the shoulders of a brave legionary, then swung round to locate his next opponent, the breath rattling in his lungs. But there were no more armoured men facing him. What remained of the legions of the Roman camp were in flight, harried by packs of his horsemen. He saw a group of Greuthingi horsemen running down a fleeing Roman woman, knocking her from her feet then dragging her into the remnant of a Roman shack. Her screams were shrill and never-ending. His own Thervingi warriors were no less merciful, putting Roman tents to the torch and slaying the few who had chosen to hide within when they came running from the flames. One of his men hoisted a severed Roman jawbone on the end of his spear like some sort of trophy. The Huns circled the camp, heads scouring the massacre as if disappointed that the slaughter was at an end. Thick, black smoke coiled around him and the stench of spilled guts, coppery blood and effluent was rife.

  ‘The legions are broken, Iudex. They flee in disorder,’ Reiks Saphrax said, panting, nodding to the escaping pockets of Romans now far south of the camp.

  He looked to the squat reiks and said nothing, then strode to the square of tents that served as the Roman principia. The din of rapine and plunder was slightly muted in the centre of this square. The area was deserted bar the carpet of dead strewn on the ground. Then he saw one body twitch. An officer. The eyes of this one were upon him. The shaking hand stretched out to his spatha, lying a foot or so away. Fritigern stalked over and drove his longsword through the soldier’s chest.

  ‘The gates are open, Iudex. All Thracia is ours for the taking,’ this time it was Alatheus who had sidled up to him, his purring voice incongruous with the muted sounds of pillage beyond the wall of tents. Saphrax, as always, had come with him.

  Fritigern saw that Alatheus and Saphrax had spilled little blood themselves – their armour and garb relatively clean. But they don’t need to for they have a champion to do their bidding, he mused, hearing Farnobius’ lionesque roar, just beyond the screen of tents. As if conjured by Fritigern’s thoughts, the tents on one side of the square crumpled or were pulled down, opening the principia area to the rest of the camp and revealing Farnobius on the other side, clutching three legionary eagle standards and a pair of severed heads. The cyclopean warrior’s face and armour were plastered in blood and strips of skin dangled from his trident beard. The horde, amassed behind their champion, erupted in a polyglot victory cry as he pumped the standards in the air, then took them, one by one, snapping the staffs over his knee and tossing them to the dirt.

  ‘We must press this advantage, Iudex,’ Saphrax urged him, one fist clenched before him, his eyes shrinking to slits. Then he raised his voice, turning his head as he spoke, so all the amassed warriors could hear; ‘What is left of the Roman armies must be cleansed from the land – plucked like lice from the back of a dog before they can gather again.’

  A deafening cheer of agreement exploded from the many thousands of warriors.

  With a pang of angst, Fritigern recognised the attempt to force his hand. He filled his lungs and spoke even louder than Saphrax. ‘Yet they have melted into the countryside already. It might take months to find them all, and by then, the Praesental Armies will have arrived. That is what we must focus on. That is what we must prepare for.’

  ‘Not quite,’ Alatheus said, his voice even and confident. ‘Yes, were we to chase over Thracia, hunting down numerous hiding bands of men, we would soon fall foul of the Praesental Armies when they arrive. But the Romans do not stay scattered for too long. They always converge upon their grey-walled cities. That is where the remainder of the Thracian legions will be headed. As the predator, we should attack the nest of our prey.’

  Fritigern felt the well-worded response like the back of a hand striking his face. His chest itched as he sought some equally wise rejoinder, but before he could, the massed warriors of the alliance broke out in a babble
. ‘To the cities!’ they cried.

  Fritigern struggled to conceal his ire, knowing that Alatheus had judged the will of the people to perfection. ‘Then we should take what food, fodder, arms and armour can be harvested here,’ he nodded to the Roman grain sacks, mail and helms already being piled nearby, then eyed Alatheus and Saphrax. This horde is not only yours to manipulate, he seethed. ‘Then we should descend to the south, fall upon Thracia’s cities like Allfather Wodin’s wolves, show the Romans that we are not a people to be controlled or corralled, but a great race that is to be feared.’

  Now the watching horde broke out in a tumultuous crescendo of joy and hubris, cheering their Iudex as if the idea had been Fritigern’s in the first place. Fritigern noticed Alatheus and Saphrax’s eyes grow somewhat hooded.

  The giant Farnobius stalked before the horde now, hefting his axe then chopping it down into the dirt. ‘And as we march south, I shall lead the vanguard. The lands from here to the Hellespont lie open to us now. It would be an honour to lead my forces over the Roman walls,’ he gestured to the Huns and the Taifali riders who followed him, ‘and to destroy the last of Thracia’s legions . . . ’

  Now Fritigern’s eyes grew hooded. So this herculean warrior considered the steppe riders to be his, and his alone?

  Farnobius scooped his hands to either side and filled his lungs to continue. ‘I will-’

  ‘Reiks Farnobius!’ Alatheus cut in, an edge of steel to his tone. ‘The Iudex will decide how and when we advance.’

  Fritigern did well to disguise a wry smile. Farnobius was a ferocious dog, and one that even the scheming Alatheus was struggling to keep under control. He stepped forward, staring Farnobius down. The colossus bowed in a reluctant show of genuflection, his dark glower showing little deference. Then came that sharp twitch of the head; a troubling sign – like the first indications of some madness within.

  Fritigern turned away from Farnobius, filled his lungs and called out to his horde. ‘Now, my people, tend to your wounds and fill your bellies. Then sharpen your blades and ready yourselves to journey once more. A great bounty awaits us in the south!’

  Farnobius remained where he stood, skin burning with shame as Fritigern, Alatheus and Saphrax turned their back on him, strolling off to discuss their next move. The countless eyes of the horde hung on him, no doubt mocking him like the scorned child he had been treated as.

  As the crowd dispersed to pore over the wrecked remains of the Roman camp, he wrenched his axe free of the dirt and eyed the blade’s edge. It needed honing, he realised. He wiped the blood from the hilt and recalled the day he had been given this weapon. The orphaned boy-reiks, Vitheric, had bestowed it upon him as his guardian and protector. Yet he had allowed Alatheus’ poisonous tongue to convince him to betray the lad. He had helped Alatheus and Saphrax take the boy from his tent and drown him in the Danubius to claim the title as senior Reiks’ of the Greuthingi for themselves. The babbling of the River Tonsus behind him, taunting him. He closed his eyes, only to see the staring eyes of the boy in the blackness there, underwater, gawping, hands outstretched as if pleading with his protector. Then the pallid, lifeless stare of death.

  Only now he realised what a mistake that had been. He glowered at the backs of Alatheus and Saphrax. I could have drowned the boy-reiks myself and taken his place, he thought. Guilt bit at his heart for allowing such a thought to cross his mind. He shook it off. But then those jackals would be no master of me.

  A bestial rictus grew on his face.

  Aye, my only mistake was to share power.

  Chapter 8

  The land echoed with a crunch-crunch-crunch of boots as the XI Claudia hastened west. Seventy nine recruits had fallen in the chaos at the Great Northern Camp. Now just two centuries-worth remained, and most of those marched with their heads down, knowing they had survived only because they had fled.

  At the back of the marching column, Pavo stared into the broken flagstones and scattered grit of the ever-deteriorating Via Militaris flitting past underfoot. His boots grated on his callused ankles, his pack and shield gnawed at his shoulders, and the linen focale scarf he wore around his neck had slipped, allowing his chain mail to grind against his neck. Yet he felt nothing.

  Nothing.

  His knuckles were white, clutching the strip of red silk, shaking. He had barely eaten in the two days since the Great Northern Camp had been overrun. The scent of pine in the air stoked a dull, gnawing hunger and the creeping fatigue of the march was quick to ally with it, but he felt no urge to tend to either.

  She’s gone?

  He mouthed the question again, looking up and around the furrowed clouds in the mackerel sky. Carrion hawks danced on the zephyrs above, cawing and shrieking, ignorant to his question. He glanced at the countryside around them: tracts of rippling grass and rustling groves of dark, Macedonian Pine that offered no answer; sombre grey granite monoliths that gazed back in silence. Then the fresh October wind strengthened and searched around and under his armour as if in reply.

  It was like a scourge of sorrow, an unseen shade drawing a rake across his heart, utter solitude despite the hundreds of men who marched just ahead of him.

  Just then, a chorus of weak whimpers broke out over the winds. Pavo glanced up, seeing one of the young recruits hobbling, but doing his best to stay in step with his comrades. A clear thought leaked out of his despair: to go and help the lad, or berate him? He chose to do neither, instead returning to his introspection. The clank-clank of his spatha, a lethal weapon that could have been used to defend her, seemed to be mocking him.

  She needed me. I wasn’t there.

  He felt a wave of sorrow come again, then braced, determined not to succumb to it. He had shed not a single tear since her death. You don’t deserve to grieve, he thought. You deserve only shame.

  A series of yelps sounded, wrenching him from his melancholy. He glanced up the column, marching four abreast. Some thirteen ranks ahead, a hobbling recruit had stumbled out of line, red-faced and gasping for breath, wincing when he put weight on his right ankle. Sura, marching just behind Centurion Zosimus mid-column, jogged back to hoist the injured legionary to his feet and marched with him for a few paces to get him back in his stride, before falling back to the rear of the line to march alongside Pavo.

  ‘Pavo, these lads have been thrown into the flames here. They’ve not even had basic training,’ Sura said, flicking a finger over the rearmost of the two centuries the recruits had been hastily formed into. Pavo’s mind flashed with memories of the gruesome training he and Sura had endured on first enlisting with the XI Claudia. Four months of loaded marches – twenty miles in five hours and forty in twelve, through boggy and hilly ground, and carrying ridiculous iron weights and bags of sand added to their packs to compound their misery. They had endured this and emerged as hardy recruits, callused and expectant of the rigours of a march. These lads, it seemed, had been drawn straight from their homes. Indeed, it was only now that Pavo noticed how many of them had dark bloodstains seeping through the lacing on their boots – their ankles doubtless rubbed free of skin.

  ‘I heard them talking last night,’ Sura whispered. ‘They don’t believe in themselves. One of them even dismissed himself as a coward for not standing firm at the Great Northern Camp.’

  ‘In the end, nobody stood firm,’ Pavo muttered. ‘Not I nor you nor anyone else – veterans or recruits. We all fled. That is why the camp now lies as a broken ruin. The only Romans who remain there are corpses,’ he said, almost choking on this last word.

  ‘I heard them saying they thought they had let us down,’ Sura added, flicking his eyes towards Gallus, Dexion, Quadratus and Zosimus and then to Pavo.

  ‘They let nobody down,’ Pavo shook his head. ‘Their empire failed them. Put them at the front of a battle line with a spear and expected them to know what to do? It is no wonder they are broken.’

  ‘They’re not broken,’ Sura cut in swiftly.

  Pavo looked up, snapped from his mal
aise by his friend’s urgent tone.

  ‘They need you to encourage them and train them,’ Sura continued. ‘They need you to inspire them . . . sir.’

  Pavo conjured something like a smile to his face. The effort was akin to drawing a stuck wagon from a morass. ‘I know things are getting bad when you start calling me sir,’ he replied.

  Heartened by this, Sura clasped a hand to Pavo’s shoulder. ‘We keep going, we do our duty at this pass, then when Gratian’s armies are with us we’ll march against the Goths. We’ll find that bastard Farnobius and we’ll give him what he deserves.’

  ‘We?’ Pavo said.

  ‘Me, you, him,’ He flicked a finger forward to the front of the column. There, Dexion marched by Gallus’ side, head hung low. ‘He’s even worse than you: angry like a bear with a thorn in its bollocks.’ From here, Pavo noticed how Dexion wore a dark scowl whenever he switched his head left or right. It had been the same in the past nights, when he and his brother had sat together, both quiet and lost in memory.

  ‘But you said we. You as well?’

  ‘She was like a sister to me, Pavo,’ Sura replied. It was one of those rare moments when his friend’s impish veneer faded. ‘You might not have wept for her . . . yet. But I have.’

  Pavo nodded, straightening his marching stance, tucking his focale in under his mail shirt and taking in a lungful of air. ‘Back to the front of the century, Tesserarius,’ he said stiffly, with a faint smile of acknowledgement.

  Sura returned the tepid look with a welcome, relieved smile. ‘Aye . . . that’s more like it.’