Felicia wore a mischievous grin.
Pavo swayed on his feet, nearly as drunk as his foe, who could barely hold his head up. The cool of the night air swirled around them, numbing Pavo further.
‘I’m going to show you…’ Zosimus murmured into his chest, waving a finger wildly in the air.
Pavo surveyed the situation as well as his cloudy head would allow him; surrounded by a circle of massive legionaries, grinning in drunken anticipation – a sea of teeth and sparkling eyes. This wasn’t the time to display the techniques that Brutus had been teaching him, they would have to wait. If he were to back down, he would look like a fool in front of this circle of what he hoped would be his future colleagues. Only a swift, telling blow would do. The jaw, neck, and stomach presented themselves as likely places that would down the inebriated figure of the legionary. Then the failsafe popped into Pavo’s head from the afternoon with Brutus. He took one step forward, and then swung his right foot with all his strength and coordination straight into Zosimus’ groin.
A cushioned thud sounded and the crowd of legionaries let out a chorus of ‘oooh’s’ and then fell silent. Zosimus simply let out a whimper before crumpling to the ground.
Pavo stood back. How many times had that little manoeuvre saved him, he marvelled.
‘There, I showed him; I am worthy of the Claudia!’ He roared confidently, jabbing a thumb into his chest. The circle of legionaries turned to him, grinning like sharks. Pavo gulped.
‘All moves are fair play at The Boar, surely?’ He pleaded.
‘Yep,’ one of the circle grunted, ‘and we’re about to show you a few more.’
‘Get him!’ One of them roared, and at once, they sprang towards him. Pavo ducked under the myriad shovel hands that shot out to grab him. A smash of legionary heads from above triggered a chorus of enraged roars.
Then a voice called out. ‘Pavo! Grab my hand!’
Pavo glanced through the forest of legs, his head swimming; Sura pelted towards him on horseback, hanging from the saddle, holding out an arm.
He rolled between the legs, throwing himself directly in front of the horse’s hooves. ‘Whoa!’ he cried, skidding back from being trampled and grasping the lifeline of Sura’s arm. His shoulder groaned in protest as he was whipped from the ground and crunched onto the tough leather saddle.
‘Mithras! Talk about a taste of my own medicine,’ Pavo grumbled as a sickening pain spread from his groin.
Sura spurred the mount into a bolt and the legionary rabble slipped into the darkness behind them with a chorus of curses. ‘Next time I think you should only take on a century, rather than an entire legion of veterans, single-handedly,’ Sura slurred as they made for the legion fort.
Pavo let out a chuckle, feeling suddenly invincible.
‘Oh, and you’ve got Felicia to thank for this one!’
Pavo felt a wave of jealousy burn his neck. ‘The barmaid?’
‘Aye, we were chatting for ages. Nice girl…good kisser.’
‘Just shut up and ride!’
Chapter 17
Gallus stood in front of an ornate, polished bronze mirror. He fastened his cuirass into place and then took to polishing the dulled sections of the breast moulding. It was very different from his day-to-day battered and rusting mail vest, but anything that wasn’t pristine in the Imperial Palace would mark him out as a wretch from the border legions. He saw the metal shine up at last and gave a sigh of semi-contentment, his eyes setting on his reflection – his gaunt features looked even colder than he had remembered and the flecks of grey by his temples seemed to have multiplied into definite streaks. How long since that face had bore a warm smile. Olivia. He rubbed his eyes. He pushed the memory back.
He turned his thoughts to the previous evening. The feasting had ended before sundown after a seventh course of stewed dates and yoghurt, but the chatter had rolled on late into the evening as they had sampled more and more of the delicious range of vintage wines from the imperial cellar. He wasn’t a big alcohol drinker, but had been wary of causing offence refusing the slave-girls who constantly buzzed around the table and he had soon come to appreciate the potency of the stuff.
Valens, the man behind the purple cloak, had proven to be a surprisingly warm character once the business of war and politics had been addressed. The bishop, of course, maintained a holy sobriety. First impressions of this man suggested that he might be a harmless character, but his eyes had a glint of impeccable sharpness in them that Gallus could not quite gauge as being cunning or simply alertness. The presence of Tarquitius at the table had caused the majority of the alcohol abuse. His constant calls to sample more of the fine wine had always been answered, though Gallus had noted with a keen interest that the man himself took to diluting his portions with up to five parts water while the dux by his side took his wine neat. Tarquitius persisted in moving the subject of conversation back to the military situation along the Danubius, and it was clear that agendas were being pressed more forcibly as the night wore on. Whether it concerned the XI Claudia’s fortunes crossed his mind a few times, but in the end, the wine carried his thoughts away.
Satisfied that he was impeccably polished, Gallus pulled at the chamber door and stepped into the towering hallway. This place was designed to make a man feel smaller than a mouse, and it worked. As usual though, he straightened his back and held his head high, marching confidently past the occasional sneering candidati. Then he came to an open caldarium, where the playthings of the emperor and his retinue lay strewn; cups, clothes and shoes scattered everywhere. Then, as he passed the pool, a group of giggling girls sank into the water to hide their naked breasts from him. Gallus afforded only a batted eyelid before moving on – years of celibacy had taught him precise self-control. To kiss Olivia’s sweet neck one more time he would forgo all other pleasures of the flesh. He stepped over the mixture of goblets and robes punctuating the floor, while a single unfortunate slave darted around in a vain attempt trying to reinstate perfection before Valens could lay eyes on the mess.
Gallus moved on past a particularly stern looking candidati, through to the garden terrace. Valens leaned on the balcony overlooking the city, his purple robe billowing gently in the spring breeze as he surveyed his capital through the heat haze. Beside him, a pair of slaves waited patiently with a vase of what looked like iced water and fruit pieces. There was no sign of Nerva, Tarquitius or the bishop.
‘Come and see this, Centurion,’ Valens called.
Gallus took a deep breath, shook the fog of his hangover from his mind and walked from the cool interior of the palace and out into the baking morning sun to join the emperor at the edge of the balcony. The air was sharp with the salty tang of the waters of the Propontus and the docks below fizzed with activity. All excitement centred on a fleet of some fifty newly constructed triremes lined up against the harbour wall, boarding planks linking them to the dockside. Slaves scurried back and forth across them laden with cargo like a train of ants. Near the first ship – a grand looking thing, painted with an emerald boar emblem – stood a stocky, red-haired figure, in full gleaming decorative armour. Wulfric, Gallus assumed.
‘You’re a man with the heart of a soldier…a true Roman,’ Valens enthused, cupping an arm around Gallus’ shoulder. ‘This is Rome as it used to be, and can be again. The transport fleet for the new I Dacia legion.’ Valens chirped, brushing his palm across the scene below.
‘The new legion? It’s been mustered already?’ Gallus asked.
‘Well, just the command structure…and the supporting navy, of course. The fleet is being prepared to move up to the Danubius delta, and will select recruits for the new legion along the way.’ He shook Gallus’ shoulder firmly. ‘Only a core will be sourced from your legion, so don’t worry. And I’ll see that your fort is supplied with plenty of new recruits.’
Gallus suppressed the meld of protests that swam into his mind; stripping the borders to create one floating legion? How many places could this one legio
n protect at once? He bit his lip and searched for a different tack. Then he noticed something under the veneer of Valens’ enthusiasm. The emperor had shrewdness in his eyes, almost as if he wanted to coax a reaction.
‘And what of these Goths who are to be supplied by Fritigern?’ Gallus played along.
Valens’ lips curled a little at the edges, and his eyes keened, locked on Gallus’ face. ‘Then the fleet will move up the Danubius to pick up Fritigern’s men. Once they are kitted out, we are ready to deploy the legion. Quick responses to any border attacks, Centurion,’ he purred, ‘that’s the key to keeping the rest of the northern tribes back – send the fear right through them with swift, decisive action!’
Gallus nodded, but he could sense now that Valens was definitely testing him, and the rhetoric was deliberately cheap.
‘And Wulfric?’ Gallus nodded to the armoured figure at the dockside. One of Athanaric’s best men, standing like a peacock in the heart of the empire.
‘That’s our man,’ Valens nodded, his face dropping. ‘By all means I’d rather have your tribunus in there to lead them; any Roman would get my vote, but politics wield the heaviest sword. Damn it if that’s not always the case.’ The emperor’s tone was laced with a trace of venom. ‘An emperor can no longer rule as one.’
Gallus felt his mouth run dry. Fritigern’s men filling the Roman ranks made him uneasy, but this one man of Athanaric’s filled his heart with trepidation. ‘Do you trust the Goths?’
Valens turned to him; his face had fallen stony. ‘Do you?’
Gallus searched Valens’ cobalt eyes; did the emperor share his doubts? ‘I tend to mistrust until trust is earned, my emperor.’
Valens’ face curled into a sardonic smile. ‘A wise philosophy, Centurion. And one I fear I should follow.’
Gallus shifted uncomfortably.
Valens turned back to the docks, but his eyes stared a thousand yards. ‘Well, Centurion Gallus, I have a lot of thinking to do. But the question is valid; do we trust them?’
Gallus shuffled in discomfort as the question hung unanswered.
Finally, Valens spoke. ‘We have to, Centurion, we have to.’
Chapter 18
Brutus leapt backwards under the swipe of the wooden sword and then dropped to his left side to steady his fall. Like a locust, Pavo hopped forward and rested his sword in Brutus’ ribs.
‘Surrender?’ Pavo chirped. Now this was being alive!
A gust of afternoon air coated them both in a red dust and Brutus glared up at him, his face boiling in a scarlet fury. Pavo gulped at the bloodshot eyes of the centurion, before the craggy face broke down into a heaving cackle.
‘You nippy little bugger! I knew I could teach you a trick or two. Here, give me a hand up,’ he grunted, offering his tree trunk forearm. Pavo reached out – and felt Brutus’ sword in his chest before he even knew he had made a mistake.
Brutus pulled him in so the two were face to face. ‘The men you will fight will be dirty buggers; they’ll try every trick in the book to open you up and spill your guts.’ Brutus pulled him closer. ‘So heed my words, don’t ever be nice to anyone with a sword in their hand. Not even me.’ With that, Brutus released his grip.
Pavo closed his eyes and shook his head. ‘You’re right. I’d be skewered by the likes of Spurius by now.’
‘That arrogant little turd? You know enough to pummel the shit out of him now. He’s a decent lad who’s got problems, but he needs to be taught a lesson, I reckon. The trick for you is to get him on his own, without that grunt of his trailing him around – that Festus one is pure animal, stone cold – slice your throat for a follis.’
Pavo shot a glance down at his own body – still gangly despite the training. Brutus shook his head.
‘Forget all the muscle bollocks; he’s had the same training as you. The only edge he ever had on you was sheer bloody arrogance and the ability to fight dirty. And that’s what I’m telling you that you have to do. Kick him in the balls and make him thank you for it before he even thinks about attacking you.’
Pavo laughed. ‘Actually, I’ve had a bit of practice at that recently.’
‘I heard about you lowering Zosimus’ chances of having children. Top soldier he is, and I’d doubt my chances against him on the battlefield, but the man’s a lumbering fool whenever he visits The Boar. He got what was coming to him.’
‘So he isn’t out to find me and break my neck then?’ Pavo asked.
‘He doesn’t even remember who kicked him in the nuts! All of his friends do, but they won’t tell him,’ Brutus waved his hand dismissively. ‘They find it hilarious!’
‘I might venture back to the inn sometime soon then,’ Pavo mused.
‘Why are you so keen to go back to that hovel anyway? It’s got to be the wine or…a woman?’ Brutus jibed.
Pavo’s eyes widened as he tried to think of a way out of the subject, when out of nowhere a shout rang round the yard.
‘He’s after the one with the big tits!’
Brutus and Pavo looked up. Sura, swinging his sword, swaggered towards them, chuffed with his timely entrance.
‘The barmaid? Ah, a fine choice, well known to the Claudia,’ Brutus mused.
‘And to me,’ Sura added casually.
Pavo felt a burning in his chest. He made to stand up and retort, when the centurion slung his training sword round to point at him.
‘Two against one it is!’ Brutus roared and then winked at Sura, who reached into his scabbard with a grin.
Pavo rolled his eyes and then flicked to battle mode. He kept his eye on Sura who threw his sword from hand to hand, while tracking Brutus with darting glances as the centurion darted around behind him.
‘See that patch of horse shit over there, Sura?’ Pavo quipped. ‘You’ll be wearing it!’
Sura let out an exaggerated hoot of laughter. ‘Nah, because you’ll be eating it.’
‘Listen to the gladiators, eh?’ Brutus chuckled. ‘Couple of sheep-shaggers!’
Pavo grinned as he realised they were both off guard. He let his legs buckle under him, and pivoted on the spot, bringing his wooden sword hacking into the hamstrings of Brutus. Pavo’s sword spun from his hand, tumbling across the yard behind Sura, while the centurion unleashed a howl of pain and toppled to the sand, hugging his legs.
‘Twice in a day? You’re on latrines for life, lad!’ he cursed through gritted teeth.
‘Ha!’ Pavo chirped. Then he turned to Sura; his friend stood, stunned.
Pavo glanced at his empty hands and then at Sura – his friend was in no mood for mercy. He gulped back his doubts and stalked forward.
‘All right,’ Sura chuckled, tossing his sword from hand to hand. ‘Come on then, I’ll try and not leave you with too many bruises – might need you fit to come and collect me after I spend the night humping Felicia.’
Pavo skipped and slowed towards his friend, until they were almost within touching distance. Sura ducked to the right, going for the kill on Pavo’s left. Pavo ducked outside of the would-be blow. As the wooden blade scraped across his skin, he cupped his hands together and brought them crashing down on top of Sura’s outstretched arm. The sword toppled from his hand, and Sura stumbled to the ground with a howl and then a flurry of swearing.
‘Another kill.’ He calmly stated, inspecting his fingernails.
‘What in Hades have you been teaching him, Brutus?’ Sura moaned.
‘Brutus?’ The decked centurion roared. ‘It’s sir, you little runt!’
‘Sorry, sir,’ Sura added sheepishly. ‘Fancy teaching me some of that,’ he coughed, standing up. ‘I much preferred it when he fought like a pregnant donkey.’
Chapter 19
The docks of Durostorum swelled with bodies as the impressive I Dacia fleet dropped anchor. Having sailed up the western coast of the Pontus Euxinus, they had drifted inland via the Danubius delta that morning. The market traders flocked from their usual spots deeper in the city at the promise of heavy legionar
y purses.
A hot and very bothered Centurion Brutus barged his way through the mob towards the magnificent flagship’s berth – the crew swarming like ants to dock the vessel. The heckling of market traders rattled in his eardrums as he navigated the throng in the claustrophobia of the intense midday heat.
At last, he burst into precious space and a cool breeze bathed his glistening skin. Brutus marvelled at the trireme; freshly hewn and treated timber; fresh linen sails emblazoned with an emerald boar; gleaming ballistae perched on the decks like coiled snakes and a small wooden archer platform hung about one-third way up the main mast. Most striking was the prow, with a massive, sharpened-iron ramming prong, sparkling in the sunlight. Brutus had only heard of this new mobile army of comitatenses via Nerva’s memorandum that had arrived just this morning from Constantinople. He hadn’t thought too much about it, but this fleet looked very capable – someone had poured plenty of gold into the initiative. Surely not the emperor though, he reckoned. Valens had only weeks ago denied the XI Claudia a troop transfer request for fifty experienced fighters to replenish their scant number.
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