Legionary

by Doherty, Gordon

  Gallus eyed the dux; upon stepping off the gangplank of the Aquila and onto the city docks, a messenger from Senator Tarquitius had brought the good news; the senate was willing to back the proposal to send an invasion force back to the Bosporus. Since the senator first had Vergilius’ ear over a year ago, the dux had been obsessed by the prospect of the XI Claudia going on the offensive. Cheap rhetoric, other officers had called it, but Vergilius’ eyes had sparkled as Tarquitius spoke of the military legends of ages past. The wine loving, palace dwelling dux was in charge of the limitanei legions all along the eastern Danubius, officially. And despite the dux’s ineptitude he also held a dual post as Magister Militum per Illyricum, incredibly making him master of the nearest sibling dux – the dux of Dacia Ripensis. All this made the incompetent sot Vergilius the one man linking the armies of the north with Emperor Valens himself. And all because he embraced the Arian strand of the Christian faith, Gallus mused – at least that was how Nerva had put it, but the thick gold cross hanging around the dux’s neck lent weight to the theory. Yes, Christianity was enshrouding the empire from the top down it seemed, while the rank and file stayed true to Mithras. But as the dux had spiralled upwards incoherently and unchecked, it was the men below him like Nerva, the tribuni who led the individual legions, who truly held the borders together.

  Gallus glanced across to Evagrius, who was using the small, curved knife to crack the shell in front of him. Breathing an inner sigh of relief, he followed suit. The emperor didn’t seem too interested in his food, prodding at the shell without conviction. Then he looked up to address his guests.

  ‘So let’s not wait for the sun to set before we hear of it; what happened over there? I’ve heard rumours of warring Gothic factions and ruined forts. Those people just won’t settle, no matter how much we throw at them,’ he mused, eyeing a faded scar on his forearm.

  Gallus perked up at once, sensing all eyes falling on the three of them, but he held his silence and looked to Tribunus Nerva. He had fought alongside Nerva many times since he had been a young man, mainly along the Danubius frontier, fending off Germanians, Goths, Suebians and Alamanni. Ten years junior to his commander, Gallus looked to him as a role model; unfailingly, Nerva had shown himself to be willing to throw himself into the heart of the battle and risk his life on the front line. After so long, Gallus could even overlook the older man’s failings, his stubbornness and blinkered approach to tactics.

  As Nerva began to recount the reconnaissance report, Gallus looked across to the emperor. Valens too held an awesome record of military success behind him in his rise to the throne – a welcome buck in the trend of feckless emperors that had seen the empire crumble in the years before his ascension. Although the empire lay fractured between the East and the West, with men like Valens at the helm there was always hope.

  Nerva’s tone changed and he slowed as he broached the point of the dark riders on the peninsula.

  ‘There is an issue with an unidentified people that Centurion Gallus encountered. Only small parties were ever sighted, but they were heavy cavalrymen, and there is the possibility that it is they, and not rival Goths, who are driving out the local populace.’

  Gallus felt words push at his lips. But, knowing it was against all protocol to speak over his tribunus, especially in front of the dux and more so the emperor, he bit his tongue. He was jolted, though, as Senator Tarquitius spoke out sharply, cutting off Nerva mid-sentence.

  ‘This region has been in the wilderness and in the hands of barbarians for many years now. We have to expect a variety of unknown peoples in the region. What would be a concern would be if they were in a great number. Fortunately, the reconnaissance reports only small bands of these people,’ he paused just long enough to stir the inevitable question from other side of the table, but again continued just as the breath filled Gallus’ lungs, ‘but in the event of a larger force, the recently commissioned comitatenses legion will be patrolling into Scythia and beyond. The I Dacia will be a fine addition to the imperial army, and they could easily come to the aid of the XI Claudia if need be – eh, Vergilius?’ He nudged the dux, who simply looked up from his empty cup, eyes red in inebriation.

  Gallus’ mind spun as he took in the politician’s words. A new field legion in the current climate? He glanced at Nerva, also wearing a wrinkled brow.

  ‘Comitatenses?’ Nerva gasped. ‘Forgive my bluntness, but they don’t come cheap. Thousands of men needing rigorous training in field combat, and then armed and armoured in the best equipment we have.’

  ‘All hail the I Dacia!’ Vergilius boomed, wine spilling from his raised cup.

  The emperor shot a glare of contempt at the dux and then sighed. ‘Indeed, this will seem a rather violent steer away from recent policy. But,’ he added, looking up with a glimmer in his eyes, ‘we have new resources.’

  Gallus eyed the emperor; Valens wore a steady expression that betrayed little of his thinking. That itself told Gallus a thousand things about the man.

  ‘Tell them, Vergilius,’ Tarquitius nudged the dux again.

  Vergilius snapped his fingers and a slave darted over to fill his cup with unwatered wine. Then he spoke, his words were rounded and over pronounced with the effects of alcohol. ‘The Thervingi Goths to the north of the Danubius are split. Their two would-be kings, Fritigern and Athanaric,’ he pulled a wide-eyed and sardonic expression, ‘are tearing at each other. It’s a bloody power struggle – but all the better for us.’ The dux grinned, bringing a chorus of sycophantic laughter from the senator. ‘But it gets better; after years of battering our weary limitanei, Fritigern has seen the light,’ the dux raised a finger high as if addressing the forum, ‘and has agreed to become an ally of the empire. With his allegiance, we have access to thousands of highly skilled Gothic fighters, who can form the basis of this new legion, and many more.’

  ‘More foederati? With all due respect, my emperor – Gothic mercenaries cannot replace Romans,’ Nerva spoke firmly, addressing the emperor and hiding his anxiety well.

  ‘Seeded with the better Romans from our legions, they will become effective Roman troops,’ Vergilius interrupted. ‘The XI Claudia must have a few prime candidates for Roman role models?’

  Gallus had to bite his lip once more while Nerva waited in vain for support from the rest of the table before replying. ‘We have some fine soldiers, indeed. But we can’t afford to lose any manpower. Our number is below eight hundred already – we can barely call ourselves a legion anymore. And what of the cost – the cold, hard gold required to pay for this new legion,’ he paused momentarily, ‘and our expedition?’

  Vergilius spun his chalice and he gazed at the wine lapping the rim. ‘Ah yes, the reconquest Bosporus.’ The dux leant forward keenly. ‘Well, our holy bishop has solved one of those problems for us – the Holy See will fund both initiatives...entirely. A gift from God, if you will!’

  Gallus’ eyes darted across the face of the bishop; his features lay settled in a peaceful smile under a pure white crop of hair, his expression in direct contrast to that of Nerva, whose features were pinched, lips wriggling in search of a reply.

  Valens cut through the tension, his voice steady and unaffected by the wine. ‘Let us proceed with the reconquest of Bosporus. The empire needs to move outward and forward. With their specially commissioned fleet, I trust that the new I Dacia legion will be within sailing distance of the peninsula to support the XI Claudia, should they be needed?’

  ‘Indeed, they will!’ Vergilius cut in.

  Tarquitius coughed, leaning across the face of the dux. ‘Permit me, Emperor. There was the…other element to the Gothic truce, too?’ Then he turned to Vergilius again.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ the dux slurred, ‘While Fritigern has chosen the path of a wise man; Athanaric remains relatively cold to us. But he knows the value of diplomacy - he has offered to supply an able strategist from his own court to lead this new legion.’ He nodded vigorously at the widening eyes of Nerva, ‘Wulfric may not be Rom
an, but he is highly capable from what I hear, and what’s more,’ he grinned wildly again, ‘this move guarantees us a truce with Athanaric’s Goths. A vital prerequisite to any expedition to the Bosporus given the temporary fragility that would leave our borders in.’ The dux’s words had become staccato and bullish as he finished, his face reddening and his eyes watering.

  A gentle smile rippled across Bishop Evagrius’ face, and Senator Tarquitius raised his chalice.

  ‘To Tribunus Wulfric and his new legion, the I Dacia,’ he toasted, ‘and to the Bosporus mission!’

  Emperor Valens remained expressionless.

  Gallus glanced to Nerva; concern swirled on their faces.

  Chapter 16

  The town of Durostorum glowed like a beacon on the banks of the Danubius as the blackness of night set in. Legionary watchmen stood alone in the darkness atop the watchtowers stationed at every third of a mile along the riverbank – alone, but all too alert to the barbarian danger that lurked on the northern banks. There hadn’t been a raid in days now, and that meant trouble could not be far away. All the while, behind them, the town’s nightlife rumbled on in a heady cocktail of noise and colour.

  At the centre of the town, The Boar and the Hollybush inn, sporting the traditional vine leaves and ale stirring pole emblem at its open doorway, was bursting at the seams. Built of hefty stone blocks and roofed in the local thatched style, the inn looked like it had stood on that spot in the town centre for a thousand years. A pair of kithara players plucked an upbeat ditty and a pair of timpani rattled out a jangling rhythm. Legionaries and townsfolk packed the hay scattered ground outside, ale being ferried out to them across a sea of hands to a chorus of cheers while a tang of roasting goat, stew and stale vomit permeated the air.

  Inside, Pavo sat at a long table, gripping a goblet of half-watered wine. He was surrounded by a mob of rather seasoned legionaries from the XI Claudia; scarred, burnt, grizzled and proud of it. Having returned from their mission to the far-flung land of Bosporus that morning, they were keen to hit the town. To say they were rowdy would be somewhat of an understatement; every so often, the table rocked and jumped, tipping goblets and vases to the chorus of raucous laughter as the legionaries would regale their colleagues and the assortment of local women with tales of their sexual misadventures.

  Pavo’s head swam as he drained the last of his cup. With each sup of wine, his nerves had dulled – almost to the point where he felt up to joining in with the banter. One more mouthful first, he reasoned giddily, tipping his cup back and letting his mind fill with the obscenities he could use to litter his sentence. As he tilted it back down, the curvaceous figure of the young redheaded barmaid again filled his view and at once, his mind emptied. Beautiful.

  ‘Roll your tongue in, Pavo,’ Avitus cackled. ‘Think you’d never seen a pair before!’

  Pavo turned to the short, bald veteran who had introduced himself a short while ago. ‘As if! Worked my way around the best lookers back in Constantinople, I did!’

  ‘Course you did, lad. Course you did,’ He slapped a hand on Pavo’s shoulder.

  As a slave, he would often wonder at the beautiful but sour-faced senatorial stock who would visit Tarquitius’ villa with their fathers, yet they would merely eye him in distaste like a scraping from the sole of their sandals. One ‘outside’ chore had been a bit special though; two years ago, at The Eagle, near the Hippodrome, he had just returned from a surveillance mission for the Greens. Having stalked a top man of the Blues as he drunkenly staggered back to his home, Pavo watched as he pulled the key from the tiny crevice by the shutters; that information had been like gold dust to the Greens. And the buxom lady, at least twice his age but with curves in all the right places, who was plonked onto his lap as a reward, seemed all too happy to congratulate him. For some time that evening, he had felt alive like never before, as they hungrily thrust against each other again and again. Afterwards though, it had been awkward – what was there to talk to her about? How could a slave hope to entertain a free woman? She had quickly bored of him and just as fast as his spirits had soared, they plummeted again as he trudged back to Tarquitius’ villa and the slave quarters.

  This girl, though, she was different.

  Emboldened by the wine, he sneaked a wink at her. To his absolute delight, she responded with a smile, amber locks tumbling across her milky white face. Then he noticed Sura standing behind her, making a thrusting gesture with a look of pained ecstasy on his face.

  Enraged, Pavo wobbled to his feet, slapping a palm on the table to steady himself, when he felt a hand grip his forearm. The bull-like legionary to his left glared at him. His battered nose wrinkled in distaste as he looked Pavo up and down.

  ‘You with us?’ He grunted as he lifted his goblet to his lips with his club-like fingers, the smallest of which was missing a half above the knuckle.

  Pavo allowed the initial wave of fear wash over him and then gulped the dregs of his wine to fuel a reply. ‘Yes, I’m with the Claudia,’ he said with a forced casualness.

  The legionary raised an eyebrow, wrinkling his forehead. ‘Which century?’

  ‘Er…’ he started, sensing all eyes on him. No point in lying. ‘I’m one of the new lads…still deciding which century to put me in.’

  The legionary stared at Pavo, his face stony, and the rabble around them fell silent. Suddenly the legionary’s face creased as he bellowed in laughter. ‘You’re a recruit! You’re not with the Claudia yet, lad!’ He roared.

  Pavo’s skin burned and he shot a glance to the barmaid – she hadn’t heard, he noted with relief. Then he glared back at the gnarled tank sitting next to him, feeling his veins run rich with wine now. ‘I’m as good a fighter as any of you here, and we’ll be recruited into the centuries in the next few weeks!’

  The legionary pointed the stump of his little finger at Pavo. ‘This is the sign of a legionary; someone who has seen some action, and left a bit of himself on the battlefield to prove it. You’re a raw recruit, no good to anyone yet. Eh, Avitus?’ He retorted with a half-smile, winking to the smaller legionary across the table.

  ‘Leave it out, Zosimus. I bet he could kick your arse!’

  Pavo knew he was being toyed with. He decided to play the game.

  ‘Is being an ugly whoreson also necessary to be a legionary?’ He grinned, eager to keep the banter flowing. The huge legionary’s face fell stony – and then grew scarlet. It was possible he had gone a little too far.

  ‘Right, you little bugger, outside now!’ He slurred at Pavo, shooting to his feet. The gathered troops all let out a roar of drunken approval that broke down into a gaggle of laughter.

  ‘Come on! Everyone outside to see Zosimus getting his arse whipped by a recruit!’

  With a collective whoop, Pavo found himself being lifted from his feet and swept outside by the exodus of legionaries.

  Sura had been returning from the bar with two fresh goblets of wine. He had made a witty gesture behind the woman Pavo had been eyeing all night – all in good faith, he thought – and then all Hades had erupted. He watched, stunned, as Pavo was washed outside by the wave of chanting legionaries, and closed his eyes.

  ‘Oh bugger!’ He murmured.

  ‘Is that your friend?’ A soft voice asked. It was the fiery vixen.

  ‘Aye – always getting himself into bother,’ Sura sighed, brushing his hair back from his eyes subconsciously.

  ‘There are an awful lot of men angry with him,’ she mused.

  ‘Aye, he needs my experienced hand to guide him through life,’ Sura chuckled, arching his brow and puffing out his chest. ‘So what’s your name?’

  She looked cross. ‘It’s Felicia. And yours?’

  ‘Decimus Lunius Sura, unofficial king of…’ he began uncertainly.

  ‘Well, Sura,’ she cut in, ‘aren’t you going to help your friend?’ She was definitely cross.

  ‘Well, I…’ he began.

  ‘There’s a horse out the back,’ she cut him sh
ort again, pointing to the open shutter behind the bar. ‘Bring it back before dawn.’ With that, she planted her lips on his. After a lingering moment, she leant back. ‘Off you go now.’

  Sura’s eyes grew as she cut through the crowd to the bar. After a moment, he shook his head clear and he stumbled back from the crowd to make for the black of night via the shutter. As he climbed out, he looked back, still bemused.