Legionary

by Doherty, Gordon

  Chapter 12

  The senate house echoed with the daily rabble as Tarquitius took to his feet. He had studied the faces of this collection of grey-haired men; happy to be part of the hustle and bustle, to rise to comfortable mediocrity, but never more. A purple-fringed toga and a seat on the marble steps was enough for them. Tarquitius’ hair, or what he had left around the sides, was still flecked with the gold of youth, and here he was, about to surpass these old men.

  A hundred minor debates simmered as he decided it was time for them to take notice. Taking the golden effigy of an eagle from his cloak, he carefully screwed it on to his staff. A smirk rose from one corner of his mouth as he stood.

  ‘Senate of Constantinople,’ he said quietly, making no impression on the rabble as he stepped onto the circular floor space.

  ‘Senate of Constantinople,’ he barked this time. Again, nothing. His face betrayed a snarl as he hurled the staff onto the senate floor.

  ‘Senate of Constantinople!’ He bellowed. The clatter of the staff and effigy echoed throughout the room along with his lament. The squabbling voices died. Tarquitius strode down the steps and onto the floor, stooping to pick up the staff; all eyes were fixed on his movements. He felt ten feet tall.

  He burned his stare into each of the senators, circling the floor. Then, when they began to cough and shuffle in discomfort, he raised the staff horizontally with one hand at each end, before bringing it down over his knee with a crack. A collective gasp filled the room. Their faces said it all, he thought; lambs, not men of action.

  ‘Senate of Constantinople,’ he spoke in his original gentle tone. ‘The empire needs you now more than ever,’ he lied. ‘Her very existence hangs in the balance, far from here yet at the same time perilously close.’ Murmurs of concern rippled around the hall. ‘The great river Danubius to the north holds back a swell of barbarians and the Goths grow ever more restless along her banks. Their ferocity cannot be underestimated, but what of the countless tribes behind them, numbering millions upon millions, driving from the east.’ He stopped and let his echo reverberate and die. Not a sound in reply could be heard. ‘It is only a matter of time before our defences are breached. Your homes will be fired, your daughters raped.’

  At once, a rabble broke out. ‘Sit down, Senator Tarquitius. We have faith in our border legions,’ one of the senators yelped over the rest. ‘It is civil unrest in the urban centres that we must address today. The Christian fundamentalists have burned the Arian Church in Philippi!’

  Tarquitius continued as if the man had never spoken. ‘Ah yes, the border legions, the famous limitanei,’ he mocked, ‘scoundrels of the empire brushed to its borders to serve alongside cowering farmer-boys.’ He quickly dismissed the flitting mental image of Pavo and the briefest memory of the rasping crone in the market. ‘Trained in weeks and clad in rusting armour from ages past.’ He gazed at the brave senator, who foundered, his lip trembling as he sought a riposte. Tarquitius continued, now with a grave tone. ‘They match our aggressors neither in number, nor in ability.’

  Another senator cut in. ‘What are you here to say, Senator Tarquitius?’

  Tarquitius turned to his latest challenger. ‘Isn’t it obvious, my brothers?’ He looked up to the back of the senate room to the figure of Bishop Evagrius, silhouetted in the shadows of the archway entrance above the steps. He continued. ‘Rome builds, and thus she must protect herself. For we must stand up and roar back at our enemies.’ Evagrius emerged from the shadows, his eyes narrowed and piercing as Tarquitius’ speech intensified.

  ‘I ask you, my fellow senators, to commission a new legion. A legion born and bred to attack and destroy, not to sit on our borders peering nervously from behind expensive fort walls. A legion with licence to cross our frontiers and cripple these barbarian wretches; a legion of comitatenses, to allow our empire to throw off the shackles and breathe deeply once more.’

  The stunned senators looked to one another and sure enough, the rabble broke out once again. Tarquitius let it all wash over him. Aulus, one of the most senior and respected senators, stood up and shouted the loudest.

  ‘What you propose is simply not possible. The coffers are dry as it is, and we are already taxing the citizens too highly – reports of rioting in the Greek provinces come almost daily. We are all aware of the danger that threatens the empire from its borders, but in these difficult times we can only address this threat by further fortifying our borders.’ A handful of his peers rumbled in agreement.

  Tarquitius nodded seemingly in appreciation.

  ‘I will not argue with you, Senator Aulus, for what you say is fact. We all have our opinions on whether this is the best course of action. So let us decide this in the true spirit of the senate. Let us put it to the vote.’

  Aulus’ brow furrowed and his hands dropped to his sides as the room bubbled with a chorus of agreement. The senators shuffled to their feet to begin the vote. Tarquitius, however, was already hatching the next stage of the plan. His eyes met with those of Bishop Evagrius, whose gold had already determined the outcome of the vote. Both men afforded a sly smile.

  Chapter 13

  Gallus and his trickle of remaining legionaries, just forty-one souls, jogged across the plain approaching the eastern point of the diamond-shaped Bosporus peninsula, with the midday sun and verdant grasslands bringing welcome warmth to their hearts – the frozen wastes beaten back as the coming spring gradually reclaimed the peninsula. Zosimus lay happily on his stretcher, while four legionaries heaved him along at the rear of the column. It had been a torturous march.

  Avitus, having tethered a grazing mare – doubtless an orphan of war going by its decorated reins – came galloping up from the coast. ‘She’s here!’ He cried, punching the air in delight. This brought a roar of joy from the legionaries.

  The mast of the bireme became visible through the heat haze bathing the horizon, and slowly the ruby-red bull effigy that adorned the sails burst into view – at the sight of this the legionaries gave another whoop of joy.

  ‘I’ve never been so glad to be facing a long sea journey, Felix,’ Gallus sighed.

  ‘I’m with you on that one, sir. Can’t believe I’m actually pining for old Durostorum too – I’ll be straight into the town, no distractions, right into The Boar and Hollybush for my fill of that swill they call ale…and then there’s the women!’ Felix chuckled, stroking his beard with a distant look in his eyes.

  Gallus admired his optio’s enthusiasm, then braced himself – the Greek wouldn’t like this. ‘The delights of Durostorum will have to wait for a few more days, Felix. We are dropping off the men at Durostorum. Then me, you and Tribunus Nerva are tasked with reporting our findings…to the very top,’ Gallus replied.

  ‘Constantinople?’

  ‘The snake pit itself. Dux Vergilius will be there and,’ Gallus flicked his eyebrows up, ‘Emperor Valens too. Tribunus Nerva will speak to the emperor on behalf of the XI Claudia, so we just need to stay quiet and look soldierly.’

  ‘A meeting with the emperor, indeed…’ Felix puffed his cheeks out, subconsciously eyeing the filthy tunic he wore under his rusting mail vest, ‘…and then a visit to the alehouses,’ he cackled.

  The column of legionaries reached the sandy shore as the sun shone directly overhead. The group of fifty who had stayed behind to man the Aquila came splashing through the surf to greet their comrades. Their cheers dulled as they realised that more half of the inland party had been lost. The cold reality of life in the army. It took a gruff roar from Zosimus to right the mood.

  ‘Gimme some of that soured wine, mouth’s like a fart in the desert!’

  They descended into a bantering rabble, soaking tired feet in the cool waters. After a short while, Gallus made the call to start loading up the ship and fill barrels from a meltwater stream for the journey back to Constantinople.

  Later, the sun dipped into the western horizon as the Aquila readied to depart. Gallus stood at the stern, eyes scouring the landsc
ape as the boat pushed off. He churned it all over once again; the Goths, the riders and the phantom war that seemed to be all around them yet never there. Still there were no answers. Then the words of the mysterious warrior on the hilltop echoed through his mind.

  I am the first of the storm; my kin will destroy your people like a plague.

  A flash from the beach turned his head. His eyes widened; on the shore, from where the Aquila had set sail, a small party of the dark riders trotted through the foaming shallows. He gritted his teeth and hammered a clenched fist onto the lip of the boat.

  Felix came to his side, screwing his eyes up to scan the water’s edge. ‘What’s wrong, sir?’

  ‘I think we’ve been herded like cattle Felix,’ he hissed, pointing to the distant figures. ‘They’ve been right behind us every step of the way.’

  Chapter 14

  Pavo grimaced, blinking the sweat from his eyes under the afternoon sun. He gulped at the hot air, surveying the damage to the training dummy in the centre of the yard. The sorry heap of rags and sand bags hung in tatters. His hacking, stabbing and butting at it with his training sword had started shortly after lunch, when he sneaked from the back of the column sentenced to latrine detail. Spurius and Festus had kept a low profile for the last few days while Centurion Brutus had his eye on the situation. This presented Pavo a perfect opportunity for a little extra training – not the drill and formation stuff but robust, one-on-one fighting.

  And it was damned hard work. His sweat-soaked tunic clung to him like mail armour and his legs trembled; he gazed up at the dipping sun and slumped to the dust. Enough for today. He began the trudge back to the barracks, when he heard the unmistakable gruff laughter of Spurius from the latrines.

  Pavo turned to eye the dummy, envisioning the hulking figure of his nemesis. He tried to burn the menacing scowls of his tormentor onto the image. Whatever his problem was, there had to be an end to this.

  Snorting, he launched himself at the dummy, crashing the side of the sword into the imaginary Spurius’ midriff. He ducked under the would-be counter swing and then attempted to spring round to his opponents’ flank, but his legs betrayed him, tangling and casting him rather ungraciously in the dust. He sat up and wrung his hands across his stubbled scalp.

  ‘Idiot!’ He cursed, spitting dust.

  ‘Well done. Made a good job of defeating yourself there,’ a voice called out from the side of the yard. Pavo looked up, startled. Leaning on the short wooden fence was Centurion Brutus.

  ‘I’ve done my share of the latrine detail,’ Pavo stammered. ‘I was just trying to put in some extra practice.’

  Brutus snorted, strolling around the fence and onto the yard. ‘I don’t remember giving you a set number of latrines each to slop out?’

  Pavo reddened, his tongue welded to the roof of his mouth.

  ‘At ease, lad.’ Brutus spoke gently. ‘Numerius Vitellius Pavo, from the streets of Constantinople I believe. A freedman, too?’ Brutus cocked an eyebrow.

  Pavo still felt surprise when someone or something reminded him of his freedom, and the hot shame and invisible shackles of slavery still cuffed his mind. ‘Freed only so I could come here and be killed,’ Pavo sighed. ‘My father was a legionary, though,’ he added, puffing his chest out.

  ‘My father was a slave,’ Brutus stated, his face stern. ‘Worked himself to death, he did – bought freedom for my mother and I with his death payout.’

  Pavo gulped, scared to speak.

  Brutus pulled a one-sided grin. ‘You want to learn how to look after yourself properly, right?’

  ‘Right. I mean, yes, sir,’ Pavo replied, his mind spinning – the sadist wore just a hint of warmth on his craggy face.

  ‘I’ve served for over twenty years in the XI Claudia, each and every one of the battles I’ve fought in, I’ve survived, and the poor sods that have faced me have died. D’you know why?’ Brutus asked. Pavo shook his head. Brutus took his training sword from his scabbard.

  ‘Because I know how to use this, and, more importantly, I know when to use it.’ Brutus looked Pavo up and down, and then pointed over to the training dummy with his sword. He picked up Pavo’s shield and approached the beleaguered effigy. ‘You’ve got brains, lad, more than most of this lot,’ he swiped his sword over the barrack buildings. Then his face wrinkled a little, ‘going by that stunt you pulled when you nicked my sword…well…it’s either brains or stupidity.’

  Pavo felt his face flush.

  ‘But chucking yourself desperately at an opponent says a lot. It says you’re brave, maybe, but it tells your opponent you’ve run out of ideas. The barbarians of Germania and the tribes across the river – they all used to fight like that, and they’ve all been beaten…well it’s a different story now they’ve learnt!’ Brutus chuckled, stalking around the dummy, shimmying behind his shield. ‘Swinging your sword about like you’ve sunk a bath of ale shows an easy pick of kill points for me to exploit. I just need to bide my time,’ he grunted, ‘and while you’re all arms and legs, I can just strike decisively…once!’ Brutus suddenly appeared from behind the shield, jabbing up and into the dummy’s midriff. Sand spilled from the burst bag.

  Brutus turned, grinning at Pavo. He always wore that trademark evil grin at the training sessions. ‘Also notice that you’re exhausted, and now imagine I’m the next ugly whoreson in an enemy army of thousands, all queuing up to gut you. You simply don’t have the energy left to resist me. On your guard!’

  Pavo’s limbs roared in protest, but Brutus was poised and ready – no backing out. He sighed, got into a combat stance, and waited.

  The two men began to circle each other. Brutus’ eyes bulged, fixed on him, anvil jaw set like a carving. Pavo locked onto a slight dip of Brutus’ right shoulder – he was going to hit his left. Instinctively, Pavo dived, swinging his training sword into what he expected to be Brutus’ unprotected left flank. Instead, Brutus pulled from the faint, easily parrying the wooden blade; Pavo found himself flapping in midair, with both his arms wide out to his side, his neck and chest completely exposed. Fast as lightning, Brutus brought his sword down onto the centre of his chest with little more than a gentle tap.

  ‘Kill,’ he calmly called as Pavo slapped onto the dust. ‘Not a drop of sweat on my brow either, you’ll notice?’ Pavo again sat up in the dust. ‘As well as by-the-book legionary tactics, you’ve got to be a bit dirty, too, eh?’ Brutus grinned. ‘Spurius and his monkeys will have you for breakfast every single time you fight if you present yourself like that.’

  Pavo shuffled up to lean on his elbows at the mention of Spurius. So the sadist centurion did know what was going on.

  ‘I get it. Any chance of some more tuition?’ He croaked.

  ‘I’ve got other runts to batter into shape,’ Brutus said, ‘but I’ll teach you what I know. I can’t give you twenty years of legionary warfare experience though. That you’ll have to gain for yourself.’

  Pavo pushed himself to his feet up again.

  ‘Where do we begin?’

  ‘You should begin by calling it a day. You’ve learned a good first lesson – don’t be a hero – play safe and if you can, be a dirty bugger.’ Brutus scratched his head for a moment, his eyes darting around the sand. ‘You know what I mean…er…a boot in the stones is worth two on the feet…’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Pavo nodded. His skin prickled with pride and at the same time he had to suppress a laugh at the centurion’s clumsy metaphor.

  ‘And get back to cleaning the bogs – I want a pristine setup for my evening turd!’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Pavo sighed, his shoulders sagging.

  Brutus nodded briskly before marching off. Pavo hesitated for a moment before calling after him.

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  Brutus did not turn or respond.

  Pavo strolled from the training yard in the dying light, the slightest hint of support from his centurion and it felt like there was an army behind him. As he approached the latrines, he heard F
estus choking – probably cleaning out a particularly fetid latrine. He smiled. Perhaps the whole world wasn’t against him after all.

  Chapter 15

  Gallus stared at the ornate cutlery. He felt all eyes on him in the cavernous palace hall as he eyed the array of utterly foreign implements flanking the mysterious shellfish in front of him; it seemed like the zenith of the Roman Empire waited with bated breath on his choice.

  The Emperor Valens sat at the head of the table, dressed in a purple silk robe, his hair snow white and combed forward in the traditional style, dangling over austere, high arched brows and cobalt eyes. His seat was flanked rather ominously by two standing figures in white tunics, armed with spears and scabbards; the candidati, cream of the palatini and sworn to defend the emperor to the last. To the right, the aged Bishop Evagrius of Constantinople was seated beside the blubbery Senator Tarquitius. Facing the imperial and ecclesiastical lineup were, along with Gallus, the other representatives of the XI Claudia; Optio Felix, with his beard combed to two perfect points and Nerva, the jowel-faced, shaven headed tribunus, head of the legion. Unlike Gallus, Nerva had turned down the chance to wear full military decoration and instead he wore simple red robes and his usual intense expression on his face – one that always made Gallus a little nervous, given the tribunus’ firebrand reputation. One last figure made up the table; the balding, rotund and ageing dux of Moesia, Vergilius – already glassy eyed and ruddy cheeked from quaffing wine, the crimson blotches contrasting sharply with his sparse and unkempt white locks.