Legionary: The Scourge of Thracia (Legionary 4)

by Gordon Doherty

  ‘Aye, that is true,’ Zosimus chuckled. ‘Though some of us at least need to focus on that alone. This place is nothing like the great barrier we expected. If we’re to stand any chance, it has to become just that . . . a barrier, a blockade.’

  Pavo realised the big Thracian was looking to him and Sura. In his time in the legions, he had been dutifully led by officers who would position the centuries, devise the formations in a field battle and architect the defences in a blockade. Several ranks had stood between him and such discussions, but here, he realised he had to be part of it. Gallus was gone, Geridus wallowed in malaise within his fort, and Zosimus and Quadratus alone could not be expected to formulate their strategy.

  He eyed the valley floor, the high ground of the fort plateau that he stood upon and the section of the southern valley side that bulged as if to meet it, then at the Via Militaris squeezing through the gap below. The narrow passage and the high ground were theirs to exploit. His mind began to dig at every feature of the landscape: the near-skeletal beech trees further along the valley side, the flat-spot on top of the southern bulge, the pock-marks on the Via Militaris where flagstones were missing. ‘There are things we can do here, things to make our numbers count for more.’

  Zosimus’ eyes grew hooded and he nodded. ‘There certainly are. Come on then, let’s hear it?’

  ‘Could we block the pass?’ Sura mused first, his gaze fixed on the valley’s narrowest point between the fort spur and bulge on the southern valley side, opposite.

  ‘Given the time we’ve got we could throw up a timber wall, maybe,’ Zosimus mused, stroking his jaw. ‘That would keep our lads busy, certainly, and we all know the Goths don’t like walls.’ Then he turned round to eye the fort with disdain. ‘Though we should repair this place as a priority,’ he said, tracing out the broad, shuddering crack in the fort’s southern wall with a finger and then along past the crumbled battlements and the listing towers.

  Pavo nodded. There was much to be done and so precious little time to do it. He heard Quadratus and the recruits panting as they returned up the scree path, and decided that a look around the southern valley side might spark some further ideas. As the recruits spilled back onto the plateau, gasping, spitting and wheezing, Pavo stepped up, setting down his helm and slipping his swordbelt and mail off. ‘And off we go again,’ he said, waving them with him. He ignored their groans and hoarse protests as they followed him back down the scree path, knowing that the pain in their limbs and lungs today meant more strength and speed in the days ahead.

  Seven repetitions of this gruelling run they undertook, and by the end of it even Pavo struggled to gather in enough breath. By evening, his muscles had stiffened and he devoured two bowls of the spicy stew Cornix had prepared. As he ate, he heard the recruits talk of their day, some slapping others on the back in congratulation as if their training was complete now. A wry grin forced its way across his lips, and he saw Sura, Quadratus and Zosimus – sitting by the fire with him – grinning likewise.

  Six days passed like this. Running, intensive sword and formation practice, plumbatae throwing, repairs to the fort, timber hewing and gathering for the wall and foraging to fill the fort’s stores. The relentless effort – leading the marches, shouting them into place until he was hoarse and rising before dawn to ensure everything was ready for the day ahead – kept Pavo’s mind from darker thoughts, and during those days he took heart in how much the recruits improved: they were no veterans – not by any stretch of the imagination – but at least now they held their spears and shields well. And the first calluses came by that sixth day; now they handled their swords with a degree of confidence, and each knew their place in the ranks – some even taking to correcting the others and ensure they were exactly one arm-width apart. But as he headed to his tent on the plateau on the sixth night, exhausted, he wondered how raw the scars of the fraught battle at the Great Northern Camp were in their minds. The chaos on the banks of the Tonsus came back to him: the screaming, the flashing Gothic blades, the blood. He had developed a tolerance to sights such as those. The soldier’s skin, they called it. But to the young lads it would have been raw, visceral, terror incarnate. And to those who had turned and fled, shame would be in that vile mix. They had hidden their fears well in these last days, though he had heard them chatting nervously about the approach of this feared Gothic Reiks and his horde. As he retired that evening, he even heard one ask another: when Farnobius comes, will you stand?

  ‘You will have to,’ Pavo mouthed to himself as he slumped onto his bed, ‘else Thracia will fall.’

  This black truth troubled him until well after dark. It was only some hours after the rest of the legionaries in his tent had fallen into a chorus of snoring that he too fell into a deep, dark sleep.

  Pavo felt the heat of Constantinople’s summer sun sear his skin. The shackle seemed to gnaw on his ankle and Tarquitius’ cries of glee were piercing. He felt the slave-trader unlock his chains, then felt the seas of hands pass him down like an animal to his new owner. This time, however, Pavo did not struggle. This time, he kept his eye on the spot at the rear of the Augusteum. This time, he saw the shadow-man earlier than usual.

  Who are you? he mouthed, his eyes blazing under a dipped brow as he beheld the dark form. He noticed how the figure seemed poised, ready to spring from the darkness and into the writhing masses of the square. Just then, the hand of Tarquitius’ bodyguard wrapped across his mouth. He felt himself being dragged from the square, but refused to look away from that spot. The shadow man watched his plight.

  Act now! Pavo shouted, shaking the bodyguard’s hand from his mouth. Come, buy me, mock me, slay me – do whatever you came to do . . . just show yourself!

  At this, the shadow-man stood tall . . . and walked away.

  The pink light of dawn woke Pavo. For once it was not with a start. He looked around the contubernium with a frown, angered at this persistent riddle. It is a dream and no more, he scoffed, longing to believe he could accept that. He sat up, his blanket falling from his bare chest, and noticed Cornis, Trupo and Auxentius stirring too. The urgency of all that was going on at this pass suddenly came to the fore.

  Not a moment to lose, he thought, then rose with a groan, stretched his weary muscles, drew on his tunic and swept his woollen cloak around his shoulders. As soon as he emerged from the tent, he swiftly drew the cloak tighter as the morning chill bit at him. The plateau, the fort and all of the tents erected here in its shadow were shrouded in thick frost, glinting in the early sunlight. He heard the first groans coming from within the other tents. The recruits had been forewarned about ambulatum practice today – essentially full-step marching but with maneouvres thrown in too, each century tasked with outflanking the other and using the terrain to their advantage. Another day of relentless training, he mused, and we must work faster to fortify this damned pass, he realised, eyeing with dismay the roped outline of the yet-to-be-started timber stockade across the valley floor down below. Up here on the plateau, the huge crack in the fort’s southern wall had at least been mended with rubble and mortar, but the repair of the eastern and southern battlements was a laborious and slow job and the double gateway on the western wall still lay open and gateless. They were days behind in their plans already.

  A moment later, another dark, cold thought gnawed at his belly. It had now been a week since Gallus and Dexion had left to ride into the grim westerly lands. What if . . . he felt panic swirl in his breast, but caught it like a hornet, feeling it sting and thrash . . . then crushed it. The effort left him drained, only moments after waking. But he couldn’t dwell upon it, knowing that every moment of every day was crucial.

  Quadratus emerged from his tent too, groaning and stretching, then emitting a furious buccina-cry of sorts from his buttocks. ‘I’ll get the lads to work,’ the big Gaul said, then nodded up and along the steep northern valley side to the advance lookout post there, ‘you go and put Zosimus out of his misery.’

  Pavo stalked t
o the rear of the plateau and then on up the steep embankment of the valley side and to the east, the scree and frosted moss underfoot crunching with every step and his breath clouding in the air as he climbed. A true buccina cry keened behind him shortly afterwards, and Pavo heard the recruits stumbling from their slumber and coming together for roll-call. When he reached the top of the valley, he heard the distant bleating of mountain goats and sheep and the chirruping of dawn birdsong. Not a soul to be seen on this bitterly cold upland . . . except one.

  He beheld the solitary form sitting in the dug-out shelter beside an unlit beacon. Zosimus’ cloak was clasped tightly around his shivering shoulders and his face was framed perfectly by the white linen scarf he wore tied around his head. His nose, lips and cheeks were a shade of indigo, his eyebrows speckled with frost like the earth around him. His face was bent in a scowl that said in no uncertain terms: harumph!

  ‘Change of guard, sir. Quiet night?’ he offered.

  ‘Eh?’ Zosimus started, turning to Pavo. ‘Ach, you know, pretty dull,’ he said, letting go of his life-or-death grip on his cloak so it fell round his back. ‘Don’t know why I bothered with this,’ he shrugged, stood up and stretched somewhat stiffly, grunting with every cracking joint. ‘Stewing, I was.’

  Pavo noticed the centurion’s blue fingertips but thought better of goading him any further. He gazed around the morning horizon and then down into the steep Succi Valley, his gaze coming to the pinch-point of Trajan’s Gate from where he had come. ‘Emperor Trajan most probably stood here,’ he mused, ‘nearly three hundred years ago. Maybe he even had similar conversations?’

  ‘Maybe,’ Zosimus replied with a shrug. ‘Or maybe he waited down there in the shiny new fort, unable to speak because he was sucking on a whore’s tits and drinking Falernian while some lackey stood up here, freezing his cock off and standing watch?’

  ‘I can take the next night watch up here if you like?’ Pavo offered with a chuckle.

  ‘Why, so you and that bloody lunatic can cause some sort of ruckus?’ Zosimus nodded to the fellow sentry on the tip of the southern valley side. From here, Pavo could just about make out Sura’s blonde hair poking from the shallow lookout burrow by the ash thicket. Zosimus chuckled at his own jibe, before breaking down into a coughing fit then bringing up and spitting a greasy ball of green-grey phlegm. ‘Nah,’ he continued, ‘truth be told, I’m just glad to be away from Quadratus. He might be a tent away, but his foul gases know no boundaries.’

  Pavo produced and offered a parcel of salted meat and hardtack to his centurion. ‘Busy day ahead. I thought you might appreciate this for the walk down?’

  Wordlessly, Zosimus took the parcel and tore off a chunk of salted mutton in his teeth, then offered Pavo the hard tack. Pavo crunched into this and both men squinted into the sun, rising from the eastern end of the Via Militaris. The skyline of inner Thracia seemed at peace, serene. What a wicked illusion, Pavo mused, wondering just where beyond that horizon the bastard Farnobius was.

  ‘We reckoned two weeks,’ Zosimus mused, his thoughts clearly attuned with Pavo’s.

  Pavo scratched at his scalp and nodded. It had been a week since the Roman rider and the pursuing Hun had come to this valley. He thought of the Goths, their number and their aptitude for moving in vast hordes at pace. ‘Then we should prepare as if he will arrive sooner.’

  ‘Agreed,’ Zosimus replied stonily. Then his mood lightened a fraction. ‘And we’ve been doing just that - did Quadratus tell you?’

  Pavo’s frown was answer enough.

  ‘We spoke to Geridus last night, him and I. The Comes has agreed to cede command of his century of archers to us. He asks only that he can keep six of them back . . . no idea what for,’ the big Thracian shrugged.

  ‘But the rest are ours and that’s what matters,’ Pavo said, lifted by this news, ‘seventy four more men with which we can plan the defence of this place. An extra seventy four pairs of hands to put the timber stockade in place.’ He too wondered for a moment why Geridus had kept back six men. He looked west and down the valley side, along to the fort. From this lofty vantage point, he could almost make out the hide-covered shape atop the fort’s southern gatetower. Whatever it was, it was big. And Geridus was particularly protective about that tower, keeping it locked at all times. The tower with the odd mass atop it, the six archers being held back . . . and that infuriating tink-tink noise that had disturbed his sleep on some nights – all these oddities in this strange world of Geridus swirled in Pavo’s thoughts until he thought his head would burst.

  More perplexing was the Comes’ continued lethargy; the man’s malaise was almost mocking the efforts of every other soul at this damned pass. What had caused such loss of self-belief? Some haughty officers had branded him a coward for his non-appearance at Ad Salices, and Geridus had accepted this as his lot. Yet the century of archers obeyed and respected him absolutely, and men do not follow cowards so readily, Pavo mused. And the other half of his legend – the genius that had earned the title ‘Master of the Passes’ was exactly what they needed right now. Guile, guts and confidence. The aged Comes was something of an enigma. ‘Just what are you, old horse?’ he muttered.

  ‘We’ll get through this without him, despite him, even,’ Zosimus remarked, following Pavo’s gaze.

  Pavo felt a twinge of pity for Geridus, though he was not sure why. ‘He is no Barzimeres, sir.’

  ‘Aye, but his spirit is gone,’ Zosimus said, holding Pavo’s eye, ‘and a broken commander is just as dangerous as a bad one.’

  Pavo considered backing Geridus again, but decided there were greater battles to be fought with the precious time they had. ‘The real problem we have is manpower. Geridus’ archers are a welcome resource, but we need more if we are to have any hope – not just to build these defences in time but to man them.’

  ‘Aye, we do,’ Zosimus agreed. ‘Our lads are stronger now, they know how to stand in a line, shield-to-shield. But even then we need another few hundred men at least if we’re to have enough spears to stand across the top of this timber wall and face Farnobius . . . Goths only fear walls that have legionaries atop them. So aye, reinforcements would be a fine thing, but we’re relying on the tribunus and the primus pilus to bring such help to us when they return . . . if they ret-’ he stopped, following Pavo’s instinctive and pained glance to the western horizon. ‘They’ll be back,’ Zosimus said in his best attempt at a concilliatory tone.

  Pavo showed no emotion, but felt the big Thracian’s gesture of support like an arm round the shoulder. ‘I hear what you’re saying: any officer worth his salt would hope for the best and plan for the worst?’

  ‘Exactly,’ Zosimus said.

  ‘Then perhaps we should try to talk with Geridus again: as a Comes he must know of places near here where we can draw extra men.’

  Zosimus sighed, his eyes drifting over the fort and the principia within its walls. ‘We can but try. I’ll speak to him when I go back down to the fort – I’ll try and sort out a meeting today, at the end of your stint up here.’ Then a dry grin spread across his face. ‘Who knows, the old bastard might even share some of his wine with us. It’d only be fair, given that I’ve spent the night up here, guarding his bloody pass, all alone with no bloody thanks or-’

  Suddenly, a serrated, baritone bleating sounded just paces behind the big Thracian.

  ‘Mithras’ balls!’ Zosimus yelped then swept out his spatha, only to see a grumpy sheep eye him with disdain and utter another guttural, tortured bleat. ‘Think that’s clever, do you?’ he made as if to swipe the beast with his half-eaten stick of salted mutton, sending the creature into an ungainly flight off across the valley side. ‘Any more of it and you’ll be tomorrow’s ration!’ he called after it. Satisfied that he’d put the sheep in its place, the big centurion wandered off down the frosty hillside back to the fort. Pavo watched him go, then settled in the dug-out shelter Zosimus had spent the night in, and gazed out to the east. Thoughts of all the plans that
lay half-finished and of the recruits’ readiness, or otherwise, for battle scampered across his mind. But one thought marched to the fore as he imagined what lay beyond the eastern horizon.

  Bring your horde, Farnobius. I will be going nowhere.

  This thought gave him but a heartbeat or two of focus, before he found his gaze drawn back over his shoulder to the west. His mind flashed with images of his brother and Gallus lying undiscovered on the perilous western roadside, grey, torn by savage blades and ruined by the carrion crows. ‘Why did you let me find him?’ he addressed the skies over Trajan’s Gate as if some deity hidden there might respond. ‘Why, only to snatch him away days later?’

  He closed his eyes and tried to block out the black thoughts.

  Ride swiftly, he mouthed.

  At noon that day, Pavo sat with Quadratus, Zosimus and Sura around Geridus’ table. The aged Comes was slumped in his chair by the fireside. His iron-grey beard did well to hide what little expression there was on his tired features, and his bald pate glistened with a fine film of sweat.

  Zosimus’ report was brief: ‘It has been a week and Tribunus Gallus has not sent back reinforcements. We have just two centuries of legionaries: most of whom have but weeks of training behind them, and they lack mail shirts, helms or decent boots. Saturninus could not hold the five northern passes with thousands of veteran legionaries, so how can we hope to hold this one with just this handful of ill-prepared men? Farnobius approaches with five thousand men. We will be obliterated. More, if this pass falls then Gratian’s western army will be diverted into a war with Farnobius’ horde. They will not be able to come to the aid of the Eastern Empire. The matter is simple: we need more men.’

  An eternity passed, and it seemed as if Geridus did not care to respond.

  ‘You think I can conjure fresh men?’ he said at last in his throaty burr, watching the flames and swirling his wine cup. ‘From what – the dirt on the valley floor? I have given you all I possess, have I not?’ He waved a hand, irked and clearly well-inebriated. ‘My archers are yours and my riders are right now doubtless ringed by Quadi bandits on the westerly road!’