Legionary: The Scourge of Thracia (Legionary 4)

by Gordon Doherty

I had better be swift, he affirmed, fearing that the Roman might find shelter or comrades here. He hoisted his sickle and checked that the edge was keen. Keen enough to peel flesh, he mused, then kicked his pony into a gallop. The thunder of hooves on earth exploded into a loud clacking as the pony burst onto the Roman road. Veda leant from the saddle, holding the curved blade out, ready to swipe at the back of the Roman’s neck, almost tasting the scent of his bloodied wrist and shoulder in the air. Forty paces behind, twenty, five. He shrieked as he drew the blade back to swipe when, at the last, he pulled out of the blow. His nose shot in the air again, and his head switched to the small ash thicket on the southern valley side. There, a pile of fallen leaves rustled, something was hiding in there. Not an animal – something larger! Veda’s eyes bulged and at once he swung his composite bow from his back, nocked and drew with thumb, forefinger and middle finger. As he took aim, two silver figures burst from the leaves and in the same movement, hurled something at him.

  The first lead-weighted plumbata pierced his chest and tore his heart in two. The second ripped his jaw from his skull. His arrow loosed askew as he was thrown back from the saddle. For Veda, the hunt was over.

  Pavo staggered forward as the dart leapt from his grip, leaves falling from him and a grunt escaping his lips. Sura roared by his side, loosing likewise. The darts hammered into the Hun rider before he could loose his bow, and the arrow shot skywards as the rider fell back in a cloud of blood. Instantly, Pavo swung away from the corpse, his muscles tensed as he looked down the valley and off across the grasslands from where the Hun rider had come, sure this one was just the first of many. The streaking, scudding clouds overhead played tricks with his eyes, casting shadows across the hills like onrushing warbands. But the land was empty.

  ‘Just one rider?’ Sura said, panting by his side.

  Pavo frowned, then glanced over his shoulder at the hobbling Roman the Hun had been pursuing. The man had fallen to his knees by the roadside, a handful of paces away. They could tend to him in a moment – first, there were bigger questions to be answered. ‘Why would a Hun rider be out here, alone? They ride in packs.’

  ‘Not another bugger to be seen!’ Zosimus called down to them from his lookout post – little more than a hole dug into the hillside to offer the sentries a modicum of shelter from the winds – on the opposite valley side. Cornix and Trupo were up there also, shielding their eyes and scouring the surrounding lands just to be sure. Eventually, they confirmed it. ‘Not a soul moves out there, sir.’

  Zosimus jogged down the valley side, his eyes still combing the land. ‘That’s what worries me,’ he murmured to Pavo and Sura. ‘This advance watch was a good idea,’ he flicked a finger to each of the discreet lookout posts here at the start of the Succi valley, about a half-mile east of the pinch-point and the fort itself – Gallus had managed to convince the lethargic Geridus to establish this. ‘But still this bastard managed to ride within bowshot of us before we noticed him,’ he added, nudging the wrecked corpse of the Hun with his boot while Trupo and Cornix descended the northern valley side then came to help the wounded Roman to his feet.

  Pavo nodded. ‘If more of them were to come this way, they might have us before we can get word back to the fort.’

  ‘More are coming,’ a desperate, panting voice said behind them. They turned to the wounded Roman. His face was caked in soot and dirt, but still they could see the greyness of imminent death beneath. Trupo and Cornix could not support his weight and he crumpled to his knees. His head lolled on his shoulders and his eyes rolled back in their sockets.

  Pavo, Sura and Zosimus shared a chill look.

  ‘What did he say?’ Zosimus demanded.

  Pavo dropped to one knee and cupped the man’s head in his hands. ‘More are coming?’

  The man’s skin was damp with sweat and icy-cold, and Pavo felt the pulse on his neck weakening and slowing.

  ‘Who? From Where? How many?’ Sura added, joining Pavo in crouching before the man.

  ‘He has broken from Fritigern’s horde . . . with his men. Five thousand men. He is coming . . . to break this pass . . . to ravage the western cities,’ the man slurred. ‘He took the gold mines of Abdera a week ago.’

  ‘Who?’ Zosimus demanded.

  The man’s eyes flared as if recalling some nightmarish memory. ‘Far . . . Farnobius,’ he finished. His next breath escaped with a death rattle.

  Pavo stared into the dead man’s eyes, the last word ringing in his ears.

  A gentle hubbub of muttering sounded across the fort plateau as the XI Claudia centuries got into line, marshalled by Dexion and Quadratus as the big Gaul readied to outline the training they would receive over the next few months to take them from raw recruits to battle-ready legionaries. Gallus stood nearby, watching over them. He saw the young lads’ eyes flick furtively towards him again and again, looks of fear, admiration, awe. Gallus felt only guilt; guilt that he knew his heart was not here with them as it should be. They were to be trained to die for their brothers and here he was, mind constantly drifting to the west, wondering, hoping, longing for nothing other than his chance to seize revenge.

  As Quadratus strode menacingly back and forth before them, letting his silence stoke talons of fear within the young lads’ bellies, Gallus tried to concentrate on the job in hand. Martial rigour was one of the few things that eased his troubled thoughts, so he focused on the big Gaul’s crunching footsteps. One, two, three, four . . . he counted.

  Tink-tink-tink-tink. Came another sound, almost in time. From behind him? He blinked, frowned, glanced over his shoulder and around the plateau. Nothing. Then again, a moment later.

  Tink-tink-tink-tink. It was here and yet not here. Before him and yet not. Coming and going with the fresh breeze. Was this some trick of the Gods?

  As Quadratus gleefully started some vicious homily, Gallus turned away, sure this odd noise could be pinpointed. It sounded again – over by the fort gates, he was sure. He stepped towards it, ears pricking up, yet when he got there, it sounded again . . . to his left? And as soon as he turned round to face that direction, it came again – tink-tink – but this time to his right. He swung in that direction to see the juniper grove; only a thick mesh of trunks and branches. ‘What in Hades is that?’ he whispered, turning back to face the troops again. Then he froze as, from the corner of his eye, something snagged. It was a hunter’s instinct. Had something moved in there, amongst the trees? Cold fingers of doubt walked up his spine as he turned back to the grove. He saw that, indeed, a branch of one tree was quivering. He stalked towards the grove, his breath held. As he did so he heard something else: the faint snapping of twigs and bracken within. Deer? he wondered, peering into the shadows. He reached up to part the branches and look inside, when a shrill cry pierced the air from behind him.

  ‘Sir!’

  He swung round to face the cry, as did Dexion, Quadratus and all of the recruits. Three figures emerged up the scree path and stumbled onto the plateau. Zosimus, Pavo and Sura. The grave looks on their faces was enough to rid his mind of any other thoughts.

  Moments later Gallus and Dexion were inside the principia, craned over Geridus’ map table, imploring the Comes to act. ‘Given the starting point of Abdera and the estimated pace of a Gothic horde, the rogue reiks will reach this pass within two weeks,’ Gallus insisted.

  Geridus, seated as ever and outlined by the fire that blazed in his hearth, gazed at Gallus’ fingertip where it was stabbed into the map.

  ‘Five thousand Goths would swamp this pass,’ Dexion added. ‘You must see there is no doubting this.’

  Silence. Then a loud slurp as Geridus drained his wine cup before pouring some more.

  ‘Sir, every moment we let pass is a moment that this Farnobius and his army approaches. We must, must, act,’ Gallus demanded.

  Geridus swirled his wine cup, his expression unaltered.

  ‘Comes,’ Dexion tried again, ‘we need to bring reinforcements to this pass, or we need to fall b
ack to where we can find them. Either way, we need you to give the order. This pass is yours. On your watch it will stand or fall.’

  Geridus sipped his wine, his gaze drifting to the flames.

  Gallus and Dexion shared an exasperated look. Then, when the Comes drained his cup and poured another, Gallus nodded to the door. He and Dexion strode to leave.

  But a burring voice stopped them in their tracks. ‘Take my horses and my riders, then.’

  Gallus swung on his heel.

  ‘You do know the danger that lies west of here?’ Geridus added.

  ‘Quadi, chaos, an imperium in turmoil. Aye, you described it all too well,’ Gallus replied.

  ‘Then take my horses and riders and hasten word to the west. Do whatever you must to garner reinforcements for this cursed pass.’

  Gallus’ eyes darted, his mind combing over who from the Claudia would ride west with Geridus’ men. Himself and at least one other, he decided. ‘It will be done. I will lead the riding party personally.’

  Geridus’ left eyebrow arched at this. ‘Then you are a brave soul, Tribunus. For unless you are swifter and hardier than all my men who have tried until now . . . that westerly road will be the death of you.’

  His words echoed around the room. Gallus ignored the creeping chill they brought to his flesh. And it will be the death of the blackhearts too, he thought, knowing that only by going west could he ensure Gratian would come for Thracia. He cleared his mind of this momentarily and thought of the many men he would be leaving behind. ‘What will happen here?’

  Geridus looked up from the rim of his cup, his eyes rheumy and hooded from inebriation. ‘Here? Here the rest of the forces will remain. We have been tasked with holding this pass,’ the drunken veil slid away for just a precious moment, and his eyes brightened with a sad echo of long-lost vigour, ‘and that is just what we shall do.’

  Pavo stood with the two formed-up centuries of the XI Claudia. He watched in silence as eight of Geridus’ riders saddled their horses by the fort’s gateway then hoisted themselves onto their mounts. They were dressed in scale and mail vests, flowing red robes and helms. This, he could accept. But the rider at their head, he could not. Gallus was saddled on a tall steeldust gelding. The tribunus wheeled a hand around, bringing the eight equites into line behind him, then faced the formed ranks of the Claudia.

  ‘I will be gone for weeks, maybe longer,’ Gallus said.

  Pavo shook his head involuntarily. No, the voice inside said again.

  The tribunus met the eyes of each of his men and added. ‘Emperor Gratian will hear of the situation in Thracia. More, I will do all I can to summon and despatch reinforcements to this soil before this bold reiks approaches. When Farnobius comes, you will not stand alone. I promise you this. In the meantime, bolster the defences here, draw what manpower you can from the countryside or the nearest towns. This pass must hold.’

  Gallus and Pavo locked eyes for a moment. A gaze worth a thousand words.

  Pavo’s thoughts crashed together in turmoil. The tribunus was to ride west at haste, through Quadi-infested lands until he made it to an operational Cursus Publicus waystation or all the way to Gratian’s court itself. He alone knew of the tribunus’ intentions if he crossed paths with the Western Emperor’s Speculatores. And at equal pace, Reiks Farnobius was coming for the pass. The giant who had slain Felicia was coming here. Pavo could stand and face the whoreson. Anger and angst lashed against one another as he beheld these twin concerns.

  Gallus said nothing as they remained in that gaze, but the tribunus’ words from their chat a week ago surfaced in his mind.

  Face the past, face the nightmares. Strike them down!

  Pavo offered him the faintest of nods and the tribunus replied in kind.

  Clopping hooves and the spluttering of a horse sounded behind Pavo. He barely noticed the noise, until he saw a look of guilt cross Gallus’ face, the tribunus dropping his gaze at last. Frowning, Pavo turned to see the source of the noise. It was Dexion, walking a black mare through the ranks and over to join the outgoing party.

  ‘Dexion?’ Pavo gasped, clutching at his brother’s reins.

  ‘I have to go,’ he whispered to Pavo, clasping his shoulder. ‘The legion can defend this pass without me. By the Gods, you have survived long enough before I showed up! I will bring Gallus back. Both of us will return, I promise you this.’ His tawny-gold eyes grew glassy, then he turned away and vaulted onto his mount, heeling her over to Gallus’ side. Pavo beheld this, the last of his kin, readying to leave. His chest and throat swelled and seemed set to burst with some plea for the pair to stay, but he knew they were right. Someone had to take word west.

  ‘In my absence, you have the legion,’ Gallus said soberly to Centurion Zosimus.

  ‘Sir!’ The big Thracian replied with a salute, his craggy features betraying not a droplet of fear.

  Gallus and Dexion threw up a hand in a valedictory salute, and the formed ranks saluted them in reply. Pavo felt the gesture was akin to hurling a rock at the pair. But there was no time left. They had to leave, and leave they did, snaking from the plateau edge and off down the scree path at a walk. Once on the valley floor, he heard Gallus roar; ‘Ya!’ and the small riding party swung onto the Via Militaris and broke into a gallop for the west. He watched Gallus’ black plume and Dexion’s white plume as long as he could discern them. Finally they were gone and their dust cloud faded along with the thunder of hooves.

  His lips moved just enough to whisper;

  ‘Mithras be with you both.’

  Chapter 15

  Just an hour later, the legion had eaten and a steely air of determination had settled across the fort spur. There was much to do, too much. But it had to start without delay. Pavo set down his barely-touched bowl of stew and bread and strode over to face the few centuries of the legion, standing by the juniper grove alongside Zosimus, Quadratus and Sura. The sea of youthful eyes that beheld them were beset with trepidation. Their bodies were still without enough muscle or carrying too much fat, and their stances and positions were wrong. Most troubling of all was that they now had less than two weeks to correct these life-or-death faults.

  Zosimus was the first to break the silence.

  ‘Allright you skinny runts; you think the last few weeks have been hard?’

  A few nodded, their more savvy comrades nudging them with elbows to stop them.

  ‘Ha! Well let me tell you that you’ve had it easy so far.’ The big Thracian centurion punched a fist into his palm. ‘Now it’s time to make legionaries out of you. Now you’re going to know what it feels like to pass out from pain.’ He stopped and let a foul grin spread over his anvil jaw, striding over to the ranks and leaning a little closer to come eyeball to eyeball with Cornix. ‘Now you’ll long to make it to the end of the day and enjoy a mouthful of soggy hard tack!’ He strode back and forth. ‘Running should sort you out, down the scree path to the Via Militaris then up the southern valley side. Once you get up to the top,’ he paused, the evil grin returning, ‘you come all the way back. Optio Pavo here will have a nice little surprise for you when you return, won’t you?’

  Pavo read his cue and stood a little straighter. ‘Yes, sir! Now, you heard what the centurion said: strip down to all but your boots and tunics, into line and . . . ’

  Zosimus hurried over to their head as the recruits barged into each other in a panic. ‘ . . . move out!’

  The jostling recruits followed Zosimus off the fort plateau and down the scree path towards the valley floor and the Via Militaris. As the big Thracian’s rhythmic encouragements faded, Pavo and Sura set about hammering chest-high stakes into the earth in a rough grid formation for sword practice. Pavo felt each thump numbly, his mind still in a scattered mess.

  ‘They’ll make it,’ Sura said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Dexion, Gallus, they’ll make it to the West.’

  ‘How can you be so sure?’ Pavo panted, lifting up the next stake.

&nbs
p; ‘Think of what Gallus has been through before. Then think just how angry he’s been in these last weeks. Now, who do you fear for most – Gallus and Dexion, or the poor Quadi who might dare to stand in their way?’

  ‘I know who my coins would be on,’ Quadratus chuckled, joining them in their task.

  Pavo frowned at the pair, then broke down in dry laughter, before helping hammer another stake into the ground. The recruits returned a short while later, gasping, some staggering. The portly Trupo was the most spent of all, his face a shade of puce. Pavo and Sura ushered them into the forest of stakes, tossing wooden swords and shields to each as they passed.

  ‘And take your positions, one man to each post. Shields high, swords to the right and thrust, hack, feint, stab!’

  The clack-clack of spathas delving into timber and the resultant spray of splinters went on for some time. Pavo saw how they held the weapons with fear and discomfort. The blisters would have to come soon, so the calluses could quickly follow, he mused. After that, familiarity with the blade would not be far behind. After an hour of this, Quadratus theatrically stretched his arms and yawned. ‘Hmmm, I quite fancy stretching my legs. Who’s with me for another run?’ The sweating, trembling recruits looked up, aghast. Silence. ‘Ah, that’ll be all of you then.’ With a chorus of muffled whimpers, they fell into line behind Quadratus. Off they went again down the slope from the fort and on up the southern valley side.

  ‘Mithras, I remember those days,’ Sura commented, piling up wraps of plumbatae darts for the next bout of training as he watched them go, ‘legs like rock the day after.’

  ‘Aye, and brains like dung,’ Zosimus said with a snort. Then he sighed. ‘Running will make them stronger and faster, but two centuries against five thousand?’

  Pavo curled his bottom lip. ‘If nothing else, training them hard will keep their minds from what is to come.’