Legionary

by Doherty, Gordon

  Horsa’s frown remained until he spotted a Roman plume billowing in the wind. He raised his spear to the swarm of raiders. ‘It’s Athanaric’s men – treacherous bastards who don’t deserve to call themselves our kin. Show no mercy, men. Ahead, full gallop!’ He roared, straightening his eyepatch before lowering himself in his saddle. The foederati thundered forward.

  The biting crowd of Goths were oblivious to the foederati until they were but seconds from their backs. They smashed into the Gothic rear, spilling around the circle with their far superior numbers. The Goths, stunned and packed in so tightly they could barely raise their weapons, began to panic.

  Horsa powered into the Gothic mass, skewering man after man, careful to retain his spear. The roars of terror dropped off to be replaced by the grunts, gurgles and panting of exhausted warriors. Horsa glanced up after every kill – the billowing plume still stood, working its way closer to him, though surrounded by fewer and fewer intercisa helmets. Horsa hoisted his spear back to strike at the next Goth. Then the blade of another rider’s sword came bursting through the front of his intended foe’s throat.

  The battle was won.

  Dripping crimson from head to foot, the plumed centurion grimaced, panting and shaking. By his side stood five legionaries, one bore a smaller plume than the leader, next to him stood a towering man, a short man, and next to them two smaller, younger looking men, all sodden in the carnage. All around them, a soup of intestines, bone and flesh bubbled.

  Horsa stumped the handle of his spear into the ground and used it to dismount. He walked over to face the centurion.

  ‘Ave, good Roman. We come to serve the XI Claudia!’

  Chapter 28

  The cobwebs of blackness drifted from his mind and Pavo winced. Every inch of his body screamed. He prised open an eye to survey the familiar ceiling of the barracks, and as a waft of chill air danced over him, he pulled up his hemp blanket and for once appreciated the warm comfort of the damp and scratchy straw mattress.

  The weary journey back to the legion fort had been trance-like, with the remaining six Romans hitching a ride on the mounts of the foederati. Nobody spoke. Pavo had stumbled into the barracks and collapsed into a deep, thick sleep. That had been morning, and he had no idea how much time had passed. It was clearly night, going by the warm glow of torchlight from the courtyard. Shuffling his head around on the pillow, he could see the barracks were almost empty; just the shape of Sura in his bunk accompanied by steady, low snoring.

  The voices in his mind squabbled with memories of the battle, and reluctantly, he allowed them to speak. He closed his eyes, squirming as the rhythmic scything of the bloody business still echoed in his ears. Every one of the recruits apart from him and Sura were now dead. His stomach tightened as he recalled them sitting in the mess hall that morning, laughing, relaxed and warm. Then he wondered if fate could have been kinder and had Spurius along on the mission, but he shook the dark thought from his head. Then he thought of Brutus.

  He had not seen the remains of the centurion and his party, but the image of the red and white gore coating the field would never leave him. The man was a brutal sadist, no doubt, but absurdly he was one of the warmest people Pavo had ever known. Guilt traced his skin when he realised that he didn’t even know if Brutus had a wife or a family. All he knew of the man was that his father was a slave. Pavo touched the phalera and vowed never to forget the centurion.

  He prised himself from his bed, feeling the bite of the night chill on his legs as they touched the flagstoned floor. Managing a hint of a smile as he sidled past the snoring Sura’s bunk, he threw on a heavy cloak and pushed open the barrack door. Outside was chilly; guards whistled as they strolled in the courtyard and the battlements, but otherwise all was still and silent. As he approached the mess hall, a muted rumble of banter escaped the cracks in the hefty timber door.

  He pushed open the door to be hit with a welcome blast of hot air, then squinted at the deep orange glow pulsating from the hearth. All around the mess hall, recruits and legionaries were slumped in inebriation and muttered in muted tones. Men had been lost today and the usual raucous drunkenness was off the menu. The door swung shut, thumping, and all heads looked up at Pavo, their faces sombre and tired.

  Pavo felt his throat turn to dust and his cheeks burn. Was he expected to say something? If so, what on earth could he say to comfort or inspire at a time like this? He gulped. Then Centurion Gallus stood up, opening a hand to the vacant stool at the table. He was dressed pristinely in full armour, the only one in the mess hall to wear more than a tunic and boots.

  ‘Join us in having a drink to remember the comrades we have left behind,’ Gallus spoke quietly, but it sounded stern, like an order. The scarred figure of Zosimus pushed the vacant stool out with a filth-encrusted leather boot.

  Pavo moved to take the seat with a nod. Gallus eyed him sombrely as he did so. Ice cold, Pavo thought, I’ve nearly died beside the man and he still looks at me like a leper. His heart ached for poor Brutus.

  The low murmur soon picked up once again and Pavo found a fresh jar of ale placed in front of him. He looked around the table as he gulped at the cool, bitter liquid. Any banter with the older, grumpier legionaries was hard at the best of times. The ale will help with that, he figured, taking another gulp.

  Gallus rubbed his stomach and raised a hand to the kitchen staff.

  ‘Bring on the food, whenever you’re ready.’

  Pavo suddenly realised how hungry he was. After the chaotic fight with Spurius the night before and the comfort-free night in the cells, he hadn’t eaten since early that morning, and only the rush of the battle had kept him on his feet through the day. Now, his mouth watered as the kitchen door opened and the meaty tang of roast pheasant coiled out and around the tables. In the few months that he had been with the XI Claudia, the staple diet of beans and stew had gone past the stage of monotony and into sheer awfulness – this meal was going to be a good one. He was jolted from his gastronomic trance when Centurion Gallus clipped the edge of his cup with a follis, bringing all heads up.

  ‘You all fought bravely today. Not just bravely, but effectively. We took out ten veterans and ten recruits this morning.’

  Pavo’s senses keened and he fixed on the centurion’s words.

  ‘Only a handful of my veterans made it out of that death trap of an ambush,’ Gallus sighed. ‘But that two recruits scraped through as well tells me that they are either damned good,’ he paused, eyeing Pavo with that iron stare, ‘or bloody lucky!’

  Pavo blushed as a chorus of muted laughter filtered around the hall, along with a gentle slap on the back from Avitus. He took a swig of ale, begging its bitter wash to flush away his discomfort. Then, a steaming joint of pheasant was plonked in front of him, the skin roasted and glistening as the meaty juices trickled onto the bed of beans underneath.

  ‘To our lost comrades!’ Gallus boomed, lifting his ale cup.

  ‘To our lost comrades,’ the hall replied in unison.

  To Brutus, Pavo echoed in his mind, sipping from his cup. He gazed into the swirling liquid, watching the bubbles rise up and disappear like a never ending tide, like legionaries charging into the field, he thought sourly.

  ‘Our legion is severely depleted, soldier.’ Gallus spoke. Pavo started – the centurion had sidled up next to him, unnoticed. ‘Firstly from the harvesting of our second-line officers by the I Dacia and even more so by these Gothic raids in the last few days. We are looking to our recruit pool to reinforce our number – we need at least fifteen hundred infantry. You are going to be joining my century. The first century.’ He paused for a moment, watching Pavo’s face for a reaction. ‘I’ll have my eye on you, soldier, I have a feeling it’s best to keep the troublemakers close.’ He held Pavo’s gaze. ‘And one more thing; your sparring partners, Spurius and his big mate…’

  Pavo craned forward.

  Gallus’ expression was like stonework, ‘…they’re gone. Off with the I Dacia. Seems Trib
unus Wulfric likes the fiery ones in his ranks.’ The centurion shook his head, eyes distant for a moment. ‘Anyway, as you were.’ With that, he was gone.

  Pavo stared into the space Gallus had been seated. At once shocked, embarrassed and euphoric, he knocked back another mouthful of ale. The punch of the golden liquid now swam like a delicious torrent through his mind as the words sank in. Nothing darkened his horizon now. Nothing. No Tarquitius, no Fronto, no Festus, no Spurius. He felt giddy at the sensation of relief.

  ‘Anyway,’ Felix cackled, having surreptitiously flanked him on the other side, ‘that means I’m your optio, so you’d better not go drinking too much of that ale and making an arse of yourself in front of me now, lad.’ He motioned towards the other veterans around the table. ‘And over here are your brothers from today; Zosimus and Avitus. I don’t think you’ve met Quadratus?’ A blonde, moustachioed giant, rivalling Zosimus in stature, grunted over the rim of his ale cup. ‘You’ll be in our contubernium; so you’ll march with us, drink and eat with us, and share a tent with us…so you’d better not be a farter.’ The optio glared at Quadratus, who shot back an open-mouthed look of innocence.

  Pavo had barely given the legionaries each a nod of greeting, when a bowl of swirling garum and dates was set down next to his pheasant. He followed the delicate hand that held the plate, all the way up the slender arms – and there was that fresh, milky white fresco-like face of Felicia, the barmaid from The Boar and Hollybush; bright blue eyes framed in amber locks tumbling down over her ample breasts. Did she remember him from the night he had compromised the integrity of Zosimus’ balls?

  ‘Er, thanks,’ he simpered, ‘you work here too?’

  ‘Volunteer, actually,’ she spoke briskly and then turned away.

  ‘Leave it, Pavo,’ Avitus whispered, ‘her brother died in our ranks a few years back.’

  Pavo looked back at her, eyes heavy. ‘Goths?’

  Avitus hissed back. ‘Like I said, leave it!’

  Felicia caught his gaze again as she worked her way around the table. ‘Was there something else?’

  ‘Eh…’ Pavo stammered, ‘Any chance of another ale?’

  ‘Another ale? Don’t know about that – I don’t want you starting a fight again tonight,’ she scowled. At this Zosimus cocked an eyebrow and examined Pavo’s face again, then shook his head.

  Pavo’s face burned and his heart sank. ‘No,’ he offered, ‘I’ll be making sure we all behave tonight.’

  A mock gasp of indignation from the legionaries was followed by a pitying shake of the head from the barmaid, her features melting into a sarcastic grin.

  ‘You? But you’re only a recruit,’ she sighed.

  As she turned and slinked away, Pavo’s neck boiled with humiliation, yet his eyes hung on every swing of her broad hips. The stifled sniggering of Pavo’s companions rumbled into harsh cackling. He turned on them, his teeth grinding. All the faces were wrinkled in hilarity. Then the barmaid drifted past behind Zosimus. She winked at him. His heart skipped a beat, his jaw fell open and the tension fell from him like a stone.

  ‘I think she might have guessed that you like her,’ Avitus sniggered.

  Pavo, lost for words, raised his eyebrows in defeat.

  Felix cast an arm round his shoulder. ‘You’ll get used to her tearing you to shreds. It means she likes you.’

  Pavo grinned.

  ‘Trust me, I would know,’ Avitus added eagerly.

  Pavo frowned.

  Chapter 29

  Gallus watched the activity on the dockside pensively, sipping water from his cup. What he would gain from this he wasn’t sure, but his gut told him to come here and see this new legion set sail. Sitting alone on a bench outside the dockside drinking hole he was, for the first time in months, dressed as a citizen, not a soldier. For a moment, his thoughts wandered; the absent weight of his scabbard and spatha felt like a missing limb. It felt strange, it let old memories back in.

  He shook his head and turned back to the water’s edge. So the I Dacia legion was almost ready to ship out, to begin their role as a roaming sentry legion, sailing the lower Danubius and the western Pontus Euxinus. Their fleet was supposed to complement the Classis Moesica, but in reality the rickety collection of triremes that the limitanei used to patrol these waters would be the mongrel herd hanging on to the stern of this immaculate new fleet.

  Having ravaged the XI Claudia for officers, the ships of the fleet were already well-manned with legionaries, their armour as pristine as the trireme timbers were fresh. Now they would head upriver to collect Fritigern’s mercenary hordes. It galled Gallus to think the Roman peasants in his ranks were being clad in rusting, ancient armour while the Goths they fought to protect the empire from were being dressed in the finest, freshly tempered scale-plate vests. He wondered just how strong the borders could be if the same investment was made into the limitanei ranks.

  The sixty vessels cut their moorings and drifted free of the dock wall. At this, the gathered crowd roared in farewell. Once in the current of the mighty Danubius, the ships engaged their triple banks of oars, and then began to row upstream, with the power of the remiges winning against the current of the river. Gallus squinted, sure the fiery locked figure on the head trireme was glaring back at him. Wulfric.

  The fleet gradually disappeared as it slipped upriver towards the late afternoon sun. The limitanei of the Danubius were well beyond cracking point now that the I Dacia initiative had begun. Once the Bosporus mission set sail, the empire was wide open. The thought chilled him to the bone.

  Wide open.

  Chapter 30

  A bitter gale rampaged across the vast Bosporan plains, torturing the fresh snow, never allowing it to settle for longer than a brief instant before whipping it back up in a never-ending cycle of blinding, stinging white. This absurdly late snowfall had coated the land just two nights previous, blotting out the spring sun.

  Amalric shivered violently, pulling his furs tight, swishing his blonde locks around his neck and gripping his thighs firmly into his mount to draw in even a fraction more heat from the beast. His face was so cold it almost obscured the blue stigma spiralling across his jaw. Allfather Wodin, the great god, had deserted them; so was this the end for the Greuthingi Goths of Bosporus? He eyed his King, Tudoric, mounted next to him; the proud man wore the cold expression of a defiant leader – what more could he offer in these bitter circumstances? Then he surveyed the hastily assembled blizzard of infantry lined up in ranks behind them; men of all ages clad in the best leather and iron armour that the Gothic communities of the region could gather. The finest swords, shields and bows were on display and every one of them stretched proudly to their full height, topknots billowing in the icy gale. This was it, end of the line. All or nothing; to go for broke against the massive shadow staining the other end of the plain, or sit here and die. These demonic horsemen had poured in through the narrow neck of the peninsula, massacring, pillaging and desecrating everything in their path. The Gothic people had been brushed westwards like litter. Here it came to a head; Amalric and his army were now trapped in this icy waste. Nowhere left to run. The flat-faced yellow predators circled their stricken prey.

  The Gothic women and children stood to the rear, armed with clubs and daggers, shivering and sobbing. The Gothic fleet, sent to rescue them, had never turned up. Thus, their only option had been to turn around and face their dark pursuers. But their tormentors did not take the bait. For days, they waited, watched as the Goths froze and starved. Gradually, the defiant morale of Tudoric, Amalric and the army had ebbed.

  Amalric knew that their number could not hope to win this battle, and the war drums played by the Goths took on a dirge-like quality. At the last count, seven thousand stood in waiting behind him for inevitable death against the estimated twenty thousand baying, lasso and spear wielding cavalry and spear infantry.

  As he scoured the shadow of his enemy one more time for any hint of hope, he noticed what looked like a mirage in th
e snow; a tiny black shape rippling towards him thought the raging blizzard. His senses keened.

  ‘An emissary?’ Tudoric suggested to Amalric.

  ‘I implore you, my king – be wary of these dogs,’ Amalric replied, ‘they may not even know the meaning of the word emissary.’

  ‘I don’t think I’ve ever trusted anyone less,’ Tudoric agreed, issuing a wry grin to his second-in-command. ‘Unfortunately we have no option but to parley. Train the best archers on our guest. Should I not return – you are king.’

  With that, Tudoric spurred his horse into a canter towards the approaching horseman.

  Amalric was stunned for a moment and then cursed silently; his king was brash, too brash at times. He raised an arm to the line of chosen archers, the men who could kill accurately from the horizon, the front line of the Gothic forces. In unison, they picked arrows and nocked their bows, before arching their chests and raising their weapons to meet the required trajectory to perforate the approaching horseman.