Centurion Gallus turned once more to face the recruits. ‘We will be moving in to reinforce Centurion Brutus and his men, who I’m sure will have the situation under control by now. I’ll be leading these ten fine legionaries and my optio, Officer Felix, will be leading you. I expect you to do your legion proud.’ Gallus then turned to Felix and gave him a nod. ‘Form a column, marching at triple time.’
The countryside lay silent but for a whistling spring breeze. The sweet aroma of woodsmoke rolled across the meadows and cornfields from the smouldering remains of the nearby villa. Brutus gritted his teeth, his fists clenched as he scanned the emptiness around them. The legionary by his side shivered, yet the air was warm.
‘Bloody Vergilius!’ The centurion growled. ‘The whoreson never even visits the provinces he supposedly commands. Yet us lot are punted out because some bloody Goths have torched his bloody summer villa. Bloody sheep-shagger should be out here to deal with it himself!’
The corn rattled again, as if teasing the puzzled twenty. He turned, unnerved as the horses shuffled.
‘He can sense something,’ the rider whispered to his centurion while eyeing the swaying fields.
Brutus stroked his own mount, ‘Easy, boy.’
The wind died at that instant, and Brutus’ mount’s ears pricked up. He whipped his head up to see dark shapes rise from the crops along their flank. Leather cuirasses, conical helms, bows and longswords all around him.
His hand fell to his scabbard, but the roar to call his men to arms never came, as the sharp, cold punch of a Gothic arrow into the centre of his chest toppled him from his horse. Brutus felt his body crumple to the ground, and a sensation of at first warmth and then a trickling cold snaked through his limbs. As he lay prone, his fellow riders rallied in vain as the Goths picked them off like ripe fruit. One by one their bodies toppled around Brutus. Forty Goths, the estimate had been. He had seen at least a hundred in the instant before he fell. Shivering, he thought of the twenty Gallus had promised to send out behind them – half of them recruits, too. Only Mithras could save them now.
The fighting slowed and stopped and then the Goths closed in on him. Have to get back, to warn the legion. The words echoed in his head as the Gothic warriors glowered down on him, their leader raising his sword over Brutus’ chest. The centurion’s roar of defiance came out only as a gurgling whimper as he slipped into the blackness of death.
The quiet farmlands surrounding the Moesian highway lay dotted with slaves and workers, tilling the soils, tending the crops. Occasionally, the clop, clop of carts echoed along the flagstoned roads as the estate owners surveyed their progress. The land seemed to be at peace in this pleasant spring afternoon. And then a feint murmur grew into a rumble of hobnailed boots on flagstones. The workers stopped, heads appearing above corn stalks like wildlife, darting to find the source of the noise. Their eyes fixed on the tight bunch of legionaries haring along the road. This could only mean one thing. Trouble.
Gallus jogged at the head of the twenty. Chin up, he ploughed on, eyes scouring the fields for the tell-tale signs; a flash of armour or a cloud of smoke. Deep inside, he knew the ten veterans behind him would be needed, and the ten recruits behind them; well they would be spear fodder at best.
The iron shutters had fallen over him as soon as the report came in. The report of the raiders was fuzzy at best, coming from a hysterical local wine merchant. The merchant expected a decisive show of force. In truth, the XI Claudia had seriously lacked manpower for over a year now, and a sizeable portion of the experienced legionaries who remained had been pulled to the scenes of various Gothic incursions all along the banks of the Danubius over the last few days. Indeed, the merchant’s jaw had dropped in disbelief as he watched the straggle of twenty marching from the fort.
Some way down the road, Gallus’ nostrils flared as the fresh country air took on a distinct smoky haze. He slowed to a walk, raising his hand, eyeing the now deserted fields. The monotonous crunch died to a gentle padding. The column looked around uneasily. To the north, sleepy tendrils of smoke crept up from a sea of blackened stumps. Gallus grimaced; one less villa for Dux Vergilius; just how would the fat, incompetent bastard cope? He flicked up a hand.
‘Slow advance, ready shields.’
The corn crackled as they pushed through towards the smoky ruin, the stalks whipping them at face height. Every legionary footstep sounded foreign as they approached the grounds of the estate, until they broke clear into the villa grounds. Centurion Gallus raised his hand once more to indicate a full stop, and then proceeded alone.
The grass underfoot crunched, giving way to ash as he approached. Then his eyes fell on the carnage spread across the blackened earth. A scarlet tangle of bodies like a giant’s entrails snaked across the dirt. In the centre lay Brutus, eyes gazing heavenward and his teeth clenched in grim determination. Gallus stared through the scene as an echo of the pain he used to feel raked at his heart, but the steely coldness prevailed. His head dropped and the emptiness of the afternoon whistled around him.
‘Optio,’ he called, his voice steady.
Felix padded up beside him, and then stopped dead at the sight.
‘We’re in way over our heads, Felix.’
‘How do we play it, sir?’ Felix replied, gulping.
‘Cool, Felix. If those whelps over there see this, we don’t stand a chance.’
With a grunt, Centurion Gallus pushed his shoulders back, and brought his head up. The gentle Moesian plain now felt like a predator’s lair, the bones of its last meal strewn across the ground. He considered his stance and facial expression before turning back to the column of twenty that now looked so vulnerable. They had to be protected, yet at the same time they had to be steeled for the reality of the situation. He grimaced in frustration – there was no way of sweetening the truth. But he would have to play it in some manner or their already questionable morale would disintegrate.
‘Centurion Brutus and his party have been slain by the invading Goths. They cannot be far from here. Before we return to honour the bodies of our dead, we must find them. Find them and crush them!’ He punched a fist into his palm.
Gallus glared at the soldiers without emotion; the veterans reflected the stony expression, but the recruits stood wide-eyed and pale, some craning to see over the centurion’s shoulder. Apart from Pavo; his face was wrinkled, eyes glassy and distant. The lad had indeed connected with the rough diamond Brutus, it seemed. The centurion’s eyes narrowed; that’s what happens when you let personal feelings in.
‘Form a column. Proceed at double time!’ He bellowed, burning with an itch for revenge.
A persistent, cool mist swirled across the ever-restless Danubius, blocking out the spring sunshine and encasing one tired old stone bridge in a damp chill. Two watchtowers stood on either side of the southern bridgehead, the wooden guardhouses on top splintered and rotten. One auxiliary manned each tower, cold and tired as they approached the end of their half-day stint. After their chat dried up, about two hours into the shift, only fear staved off the cold. The Gothic raids had spread along the frontier like wildfire, and the vastly depleted centuries of the V Macedonia legion had been pulled apart, century by century, to meet the threat. Thus, the fortlet fifty paces back into the mist lay absolutely empty apart from their two sleeping colleagues, when a fifty was the usual skeleton garrison. The four men stationed here were the wafer-thin link in the border system with the neighbouring XI Claudia.
Drusus, the auxiliary atop one of the towers glanced across at his equally isolated colleague, then busied himself poking the fire in the brazier, stamping his feet and blowing into his hands. Why in Hades was he out here? Then he remembered his little ones, at home with his wife, days away by cart. At least they were warm and safe and well fed every night. A job is a job, Drusus thought to himself, chuckling through chattering teeth.
The clatter of a plate falling from his colleague’s tower jolted his senses back to the cold, cruel present. The other
auxiliary grinned by way of apology. Drusus turned back to the bridge with a shake of the head. But this time the blood stilled in his veins.
He gripped the edge of the watchtower, his eyes scraping at the mist. Every hair on the back of his neck stretched and shivered as the unmistakable rattle of horse hooves – thousands of them – dulled the roar of the river. He swapped a glance of terror with his colleague. There were no friendly crossings scheduled today – surely this was the next raid. He darted a glance to the fortlet – no time to get there, and no point. He closed his eyes, mouthing a prayer to Mithras.
A gruff Gothic voice broke through the fog. ‘Ave, good Romans!’
Drusus blinked open an eye, then shared a glance of confusion with his colleague.
‘Who goes there?’ The first guard called, feebly disguising the primal fear coursing through his veins.
Slowly the mist twisted, rippled and parted. Through the ghostly curtain, emerged a bustling but ordered column of Gothic horsemen; ten wide, and what was beginning to look like infinitely long, they poured slowly from the nothingness and into the bounds of the empire. Helms tucked underarm, they were a sea of flowing blonde locks over leather armour.
The man at the head of the column, hair tumbling down from a classic topknot, a bristly blonde beard, a leather patch over his left eye and silver hoops hanging in number from his ears, raised a hand to salute the Roman guards. ‘I am Horsa of the Thervingi. I come, as promised by Lord Fritigern, with my men in aid of Rome and her people.’
Drusus stared, speechless.
Horsa now raised both hands to his sides and flashed a grin at each of the towers. ‘Do we have permission to enter the empire?’
Gallus raised his sword, instantly stopping his men. The dark figure that had risen from the corn stood stock still, topknot whipping in the wind, spear glinting in the sunlight.
‘Ready yourselves, men!’
Then, like the teeth in a predator’s jaws, equally towering figures rose up all around them – hundreds of them, like a foreign crop in the corn. The moment of calm that followed stretched intolerably; they were waiting on the Romans to make a move, to expose their jugular. On foot, he thought; not the mounted elite. Still enough to butcher his twenty with ease.
‘Sir?’ Felix whispered beside him.
‘Athanaric’s men! Only bloody politics could see us have one of his men in charge of the new legion while he sends his grunts pouring over our border to raid as they please!’ He gritted his teeth together – this was the reality of it all. ‘Shield wall,’ he barked, his unflinching gaze on the central Goth.
His blood raged at the impotence of the situation, sickeningly similar to the Gothic ambush in Bosporus – forced into a shield wall again. But it was the only option – draw the buggers in and then hit them with ice-cold iron, for all it was worth. At least it would trim the Gothic numbers for the next detachment sent out to deal with them.
‘Form a shield wall,’ he barked, ‘no gaps or you’re dead!’ He pulled the new recruits who dithered into the wall tightly. As he finished, the zipping noise of an arrow was followed by the sucking, gurgling noise of a recruit suffocating and drowning in his own blood. The small square of men collapsed in a clatter of shields and swearing into a tight square. The sharp rattle of arrowhead against shield filled the small box they had made. Gallus listened, furious. ‘They’re playing with us, but they’ll come,’ he grumbled, hand flexing on his sword hilt. Gradually, the frequency of the hail slowed. Gallus’ ears pricked up at the sound of shuffling grass.
‘On my call,’ he growled, darting a concrete glare at each of the recruits. ‘I want you to push out of this square with as much force as you can muster. We thin their number then we can fall back into a square. This is all we’ve got. Make it count.’
Pavo, crouching beside his Centurion, fumbled to dig his feet into the earth. A hairy set of knuckles grappled his arm; the face of Zosimus filled his view, forcing Pavo’s arms through the handle of his shield, into a barging posture.
‘If you want to live, do the same,’ Zosimus spat to the nine other recruits. The recruits on either side of him scrambled into a similar poise.
Gallus rested the fingers of one hand on the earth. His call would see them live or die. A fraction too soon or too late…it didn’t bear thinking about.
The tremble in the earth stopped. Gallus’ eyes widened.
‘Break!’ He barked. Then, like a tormented lion bursting free from its cage, he pushed upwards and outwards, letting a hoarse roar of caged fury escape from his lungs.
Like an amphora shattering, the neatly formed testudo square burst apart into twenty iron fangs, sinking into the thick blanket of snarling Gothic infantry only paces from them.
For Pavo, time slowed as they broke from the square. The order was simple; kill or be killed. A low-pitched roar poured from Zosimus by his side and he felt the quivering limbs of Sura on the other side of him. Then, as they each sprang outward, he was alone. He thrust his shield arm forward, waiting on impact with the Gothic lines. Instead, he fell helplessly through them as two Goths parted in front of him then those behind converged on him as he fell to the ground. A blood-spattered blade swung right for his eyes.
Fire ran through his veins and he buckled himself under the swing – the flat of the blade clattering from his forehead. Ignoring the dull pain, he scrabbled backwards, rolling behind the second line of Goths. Their third line hared in on him as he stumbled to his feet – no escape.
I’m not going out alone, he growled, swiping his sword round the hamstrings of the first Gothic line. Two men fell, snarling, clutching their legs, blood adding to the already grotesque carpet of red mud and gristle. His gut lurched at the sight – blood spilled by his own hand; never had he hurt another person so brutally. Then a scream whipped his senses back to the here and now. Pavo saw the legionaries trying to fall back into a square, but the Goths had swarmed amongst them. Legionary recruits roared out in their death cries as the Goths scythed them down. Pavo stumbled back to fight alongside them, but then the second Gothic line cut him off.
The warrior at the centre thrust his sword point towards Pavo’s gut, forcing him into a stumble, dropping his sword. The next Goth had swung his sword high and wide and was now bringing it scything at Pavo’s head. Flat-footed and defenceless, Pavo braced for the strike that would end it all – only the pain and darkness never came. He heard the popping noise of the Goth’s spinal cord being severed, and then a head, complete with stunned expression, rolled across the scarlet mire. He glanced up to see Centurion Gallus.
Gallus headbutted the second Goth, before turning to execute a saving parry on his own flank.
‘No time to sit around and think about it, soldier. Get your sword and watch my back.’
Pavo shook the fog from his mind, snatched his sword from the slimy red muck, and thrust himself back-to-back with his centurion. Looking up, the hopelessness of the situation hit him like a hammer – hundreds of Goths jostled around them, eager for blood.
‘Take him down, soldier!’ Gallus roared beside him, nodding to a bloody and crazed Goth who raced in on them, screaming, with a sword raised above his head.
Pavo felt the phalera weigh heavily around his neck. He gripped his spatha, then lurched forward and thrust it up through the gut of the warrior before the man could execute a swing. The warrior’s warm guts washed over his arms as he sunk down to the sodden earth, eyes bulging and then dimming, face sliding past Pavo’s as the body dropped to kneeling. Pavo planted a foot on the man’s shoulder and wrenched his sword free again, barely recognising the guttural war cry that rang out as his own.
Horsa sucked in the smoky tang that spiced the warm afternoon air. His horde of foederati remained at a halt as their leader examined the landscape with a frown. Then he locked on a feint plume staining the horizon.
The auxiliaries at the bridge had pleaded with the foederati to be swift to three different locations – all under heavy attack by rogue
Gothic raiders. Horsa sent two detachments of five hundred riders to check on each of the reported disturbances to the west, while he and the remaining thousand had set off at haste to locate the site of a raid on a government villa. The blustering, dark column of smoke in the distance looked a likely candidate. He raised his spear, and pointed to the horizon.
‘We have activity nearby. Be ready to engage hostile forces. Move out, half gallop.’
The swarm of horsemen hurtled forward. The smooth grassy plains slipped beneath the thunder of the foederati as they charged towards the activity on the horizon, which slowly grew clearer and closer, to reveal what looked like a pool of choppy water stained red in the sunlight. As they drew closer, the sparkling water became blood-stained armour, and the crash of waves became bitter screaming and iron upon iron.
Legionary Page 15