‘Probably some local peasant lowlife,’ Gallus continued. Pavo noticed Gallus’ eyes dart to the Goth – the centurion was provoking him.
Until now, the Goth had watched, with his brow wrinkling as he tried to follow the Greek dialogue. At this slur, he started and glared at Gallus, his pupils dilating. He opened his mouth to say something, when Zosimus hammered his fist onto the man’s jaw, spinning him into a dazed silence. Pavo stumbled backwards a step as the power of the blow went through him.
‘Easy, we don’t want to kill him,’ Gallus hissed. ‘The idea is to get him talking?’
Nerva cocked an eyebrow. ‘A Goth? Those riders were no Goths.’
Gallus sighed. ‘Exactly. And if these riders are on the peninsula, then we need to know what the situation is with them and the Goths. Remember what we saw, sir, on the reconnaissance? The mass Gothic migration, the war graves. There’s a conflict here on a scale we never imagined.’
Nerva punched the desk, setting the lantern jumping. ‘Pitched headlong into chaos, you mean. Does the senate ever do it any other way?’ The tent fell silent as Nerva rubbed his raw eyelids and then pointed into the face of the Goth. ‘Get him to talk, if it’s the last thing he does!’
‘Oh, he’ll tell us how things stand here, sir. They’ve had years to familiarise themselves with the landscape,’ Gallus grumbled. At this, a flash of anger rippled across the Goth’s face.
‘This place was only ever yours through conquest,’ the Goth spat, his massive frame bristling. ‘You must accept that we won these lands when you could no longer govern them.’
The tent fell silent and the tension swelled. Nerva stared stonily into the eyes of the Goth, who held the gaze and returned it with venom.
‘A civilised tongue on a Goth this far into the barbarian wilderness?’
The Goth relaxed the furrows in his brow and sighed deeply, closing his eyes. ‘We are not a people too proud to adapt and change when the world is obviously changing around us. Your culture still echoes in these lands. Or at least it did.’
Nerva seemed mesmerised by the Goth’s words. ‘What do you mean? What was happening out there tonight before we landed?’
‘A people were dying,’ the Goth winced, his head dropping into his chest.
‘What people? Give me the facts and I’ll give you a quick death!’ Nerva snarled.
The Goth raised his head again – tears were streaming down his filthy and bruised face, trickling into the stubble that flecked his jaw and masked the blue stigma. ‘My name is Amalric, prince and heir to the great King Tudoric…and probably the last living soul of the Greuthingi Kingdom of Bosporus, a kingdom that now lies cold and dead like its king.’
Nerva and Gallus shot a frown at each other. ‘This land is overrun with your kin!’ Nerva protested. ‘Your Gothic hordes were plentiful not half a year ago.’
The Goth looked up again with an expression of incredulity. ‘Since then they came like a plague. This land is defenceless now.’
Nerva finally let his frustration boil over. ‘Do you expect us to stroll into a trap?’ He spat, striding forward, nose to nose with Amalric. ‘Do you think we will take the word of some beggar – claiming to be a prince – that the Goths are gone and the armies of Rome should abandon caution and march happily to claim this land?’ His eyes bulged, red veins throbbing in their whites.
Gallus drew a sharp breath through his nose. ‘That’s not quite it – I think he’s telling the truth, sir.’
Nerva stopped his rant on the spot, and fired a searing glare at his chief centurion. ‘Gallus?’
‘As I said, sir. The Gothic hordes we sighted. They were undoubtedly fleeing these lands…’
Nerva jumped in to cut him off. ‘That’s in their nature, Gallus! They roam; they don’t take pride in cities and civilisation like the empire. But you don’t seriously believe that they upped sticks and buggered off into the sunset, leaving this place for Rome to come and reclaim her?’
Gallus held his face firm and expressionless, biting back the temptation to snap back at his tribunus. For all he the qualities he admired in Nerva, the tribunus’ stubbornness was challenging to say the least.
‘Sir,’ Gallus spoke gently. ‘He’s talking of a plague that has wiped his people out.’
‘Disease?’ Nerva eyed the filthy Gothic prisoner with a sneer.
‘No, not disease. A plague of conquerors, sir. The dark riders tonight. We were assured there were handfuls of them, scattered raiders from Scythia maybe. But I feel it, I know it…’ Gallus composed himself, ‘…I think that advice was so far off the mark. An army of conquest has scattered the Gothic Kingdom that thrived here just six months ago.’
‘Gallus,’ Nerva cut him off, ‘You’d have to be talking about a force large enough to wipe out the Gothic armies. Do you know how preposterous that sounds? An army that size couldn’t possibly hide from our intelligence.’
The Goth raised his head once more. This time his eyes had dried, and he wore a wretched smile across his face. His head tilted right back, and his mouth fell open as he let out an exhausted belly laugh.
‘Hunnoi,’ he called aloud, before laughing to himself once more. Pavo felt his ears prick up. The Goth continued. ‘Mighty Rome does not know of the Hunnoi! I look forward to meeting you in the afterlife.’
Nerva scowled, then gave Zosimus the nod. The Thracian brought his tree trunk fists crashing down into the side of the Goth’s head. Pavo staggered backwards again, shuddering at the crack of the Goth’s cheekbone shattering. As the Goth fell into unconsciousness, the laughter stopped dead. Gallus sighed in frustration, glaring at the satisfied legionary.
Nerva growled under his breath. ‘Put him in a tent and put a guard of three on him tonight. He’s got plenty more talking to do.’
Gallus turned to Sura and Pavo. ‘Take him outside and arrange a watch for him.’ He nodded to the flap of the tent.
Pavo heaved at the dead weight of the man, his mind turning to the welcome prospect of bed and a solid, uninterrupted sleep, but something buzzed in his mind, nagging him. Then, as he pulled open the tent flap, a blast of cool air rushed over him. As if splashed with cold water his mind clicked into clarity, and he released his grip on the Goth, turning back into the tent; Gallus and Nerva, who had only begun a private conversation, stopped and turned to Pavo in confusion.
‘Pavo!’ Sura hissed behind him.
‘Soldier?’ Questioned Gallus.
‘What are you doing, you’ve been given an order?’ Quizzed Nerva.
‘Hunnoi,’ he whispered. Nerva and Gallus looked at each other with matching cocked eyebrows. Pavo shook his head. ‘Hunnoi. The Goth spoke of the Hunnoi.’
‘And?’ Nerva replied wearily. At the tent flap, Zosimus swore and hoisted the Goth’s unconscious body over his shoulder.
Pavo continued. ‘Have you ever read Ptolamaeus sir?’
‘The strategos?’ Gallus replied.
‘No. Claudius Ptolamaeus, the Geographer.’ Still blank looks from Nerva and Gallus. ‘The libraries of Constantinople are packed with his scrolls – I read a lot of them when I was a…when I was a bit younger,’ he blushed. A brisk sigh from Nerva spurred him on. ‘Ptolamaeus wrote of a people, nomadic horsemen, to the northeast of the Scythians, always moving southwest, called the Hunnoi, or the Hun. He spoke of them being intent on conquest…’ He paused to consider his next statement, his eyes drifting into the lantern-light. ‘…and driven by a love of destruction. He said they lived to drink the blood of all who stood in their way.’
Nerva’s eyes narrowed as a wind rippled around the tent. The lantern flickered in the momentary silence and then the tribunus nodded as if pulling himself from a trance. ‘Report to my tent tomorrow after first roll-call. Despite your poor disciplinary record, you can be of some value, it seems.’
Pavo squirmed.
Nerva continued; ‘And as we are in no fit state to continue talking tonight, I suggest we leave it at that. On your way, soldiers.’
/>
They pushed out of the tent and trudged back to the neat lines of contubernia tents, now almost all pitched.
‘Nice one,’ Sura shook his head. ‘I hope you know what you’re doing?’
Me, too, Pavo prayed, glancing up at the crisp starlight above.
Chapter 45
A mild breeze swirled around the campsite of the XI Claudia. Memories of the carnage and chaos of the night before had softened a little in the morning light as the refreshed legionaries milled around the tents and campfires, their eyes puffy from a precious but short spell of sleep. The night watchmen were now staggering to their tents to catch up on that precious commodity.
While the other seven of his contubernium bantered and ate outside, Pavo sat cross-legged inside the tent. After returning from Nerva’s tent, he had collapsed into his cot and fell into the thick fog of sleep instantly, only for the dark dream of his father to wake him after only moments. This time, his father had beckoned him from the sandstorm, as before, until the empty wells of his eye sockets were fixed on him again. This time though, Father’s lips had moved weakly. He had mouthed something…then grasped Pavo’s forearm.
He had woken, bathed in a clammy sweat with a yelp, only for Zosimus to voice his disapproval in a string of muttered obscenities. After that, the morning meeting with the tribunus had played on his mind all night, and despite his body crying out for a long, thick sleep, he had lain, open-eyed, while the other seven of his contubernium snored incessantly, or in Quadratus’ case, farted violently. But as he was in with the veterans, he dared not complain.
He brushed at the mail vest frantically – still the rust clung to it like shield glue. ‘This is hopeless!’ He hissed, throwing the weighty vest to the floor to begin on his dull, battered helmet again. He only had a few more moments to attempt to bring his gear up to a presentable state – then he would be standing in front of the tribunus of the legion, expected to talk and to advise. His stomach shrivelled. Ignoring the latest hoot of laughter from outside, he spat on the cloth and rubbed vigorously at the crown of the helmet. Yet all his work that morning had managed to bring up was a dull shine at best – even the tip of the iron intercisa crest was bashed into a smooth curve instead of the sturdy sharp fin it was supposed to be. He eyed the muddy heap that was his tunic and sighed, hanging his head and letting his aching hands drop to his sides. It was hopeless. He leant back, resting his head on the foot of his cot. His mind buzzed with the fog of three days awake. So tired, he thought. Calm settled over him and his mind swam with the memory of Felicia’s warm body wrapped around him.
His eyelids fell shut.
Outside the tents of the first century, Optio Felix gulped at his broad bean stew, chuckling to the ‘most-debauched-tale’ contest that had been struck up on a whim between Zosimus and Avitus. Quadratus and two younger legionaries alternated grimaces and chuckles as each man put dignity to one side in front of their colleagues purely in the name of one-upmanship.
‘…and then her grandmother joined in as well!’ Zosimus offered, his face wrinkled in determination that his unsavoury story would beat anything Avitus could conjure up.
Gallus strolled towards the contubernium, refreshed and fed. His face dropped as he picked up on the details of the conversation, and he veered towards Felix. ‘Sorry to draw you away from the hilarity, Felix.’
‘On the contrary, sir, thanks. I think I might be about to hurl up my stew if I listen to any more of that! Honestly, have they no shame?’ The optio winced.
Gallus chuckled. ‘Where’s young Pavo? Is all this soldier’s talk too much for his guts? He’s got a big meeting this morning – Nerva’s tent.’
Felix nodded. ‘Yes, he’s in the tent, thinks he can spruce up his legionary gear so the tribunus will promote him to emperor.’
‘Aye,’ Quadratus chortled through a mouthful of stew, ‘I told him you can’t polish a turd!’
‘Well he can turn up in silver armour if he wants, but if he isn’t at the tribunus’ tent before Nerva turns up then he’s dead meat.’ Gallus surveyed the camp, his eyes locking on to Nerva, making his way back to his own tent from the canteen area. ‘Well he’s late as it is. I’ll sort him out,’ he muttered, striding towards the contubernium tent. He grabbed the leather flap, and whipped it back to release a pungent cloud of sweat and farts. Coughing sharply, he pulled his head back, ‘Mithras! You boys need to see the capsarius – smells like a dead rat in there – you want pulled through with a spruce tree!’ He spluttered to Felix and the rest. Quadratus stared back in a wide-eyed protest of innocence.
Ducking inside the tent, Gallus eyed the setup; all of the cots were empty and made up apart from one at the far end. The slumbering figure of Pavo, slung half on the cot and half off, snoring like a boar, brought Gallus’ blood to boiling point.
Gallus gritted his teeth and booted the side of the cot. Nothing stirred. Again he booted the cot so the bundle of blankets flapped up in the air. Yet still nothing. Pavo’s mouth hung open, his face a picture of total serenity.
Gallus crouched down next to Pavo’s ear and rested his elbows on the side of the cot. ‘Pavo,’ he called in a honeyed tone. ‘Breakfast has been served – care to join us?’ At this Pavo’s face curled into a full smile, and he grunted happily. Gallus’ face twisted.
‘Now wake up you little turd before I have you stoned to bloody death!’ He roared at full centurion volume, whipping the cot up and over. Pavo tumbled onto the dirt floor, flapping at the edges of his blanket as he sprang to standing position in a flash. Gallus stepped backwards, his face pointed in rage.
‘Reporting sir…duty calls!’ The bewildered Pavo stammered.
‘Duty calls? We’ve been here before, soldier. What in Hades kind of way is that to address your centurion, your primus pilus?’ Gallus retorted, his voice laced with fury.
Pavo’s eyes rolled as he adjusted to his surroundings and he blinked at the thick matter that had collected in them. Gallus allowed a deliberate silence to pass.
‘Sir…I…oh, bugger,’ Pavo grumbled as he shook his head clear. ‘I’m sorry, sir I was only trying to…it will never happen again.’
‘Too bloody right. We all had a long wait for sleep before last night, and you’re no better than any of us,’ growled Gallus. ‘I’ll tell Nerva you were waiting on me. So be outside the tribunus’ tent by the time I’ve had my morning turd, Pavo,’ he snapped. ‘If you’re late for that, the tribunus gets to hear about your performance.’ Gallus whipped around to leave, and then barked back over his shoulder with the slightest hint of mischief, ‘And sort your kit out – it’s a bloody disgrace!’
As Gallus disappeared through the flap, Optio Felix came in before Pavo could take a breath.
‘Get moving, Pavo!’ He roared.
As Pavo stumbled around the tent to gather up his gear, his mind reeled – he burned with shame but felt an odd spark of…elation; the ice-cold centurion had torn strips from him, but the way he done it was almost human – like the way he would talk to the veterans. He grasped his kit in both arms and hopped through the tent flap into the brilliant blue morning. He just had time to note the circle of grinning legionaries awaiting him before torrents of icy cold water crashed into either side of his head and for a moment he felt as though he was underwater. His ears cleared and the sound of roaring laughter filled the void, and he blinked away to see the grinning faces of the legionaries of his contubernium. Spotting the buckets behind the backs of Avitus and several others, he pointed and opened his mouth, but before he could protest, Felix butted in.
‘Pavo. Tribunus’ tent. Remember what the centurion said – he’s probably wiping by now.’
‘I’ve got an appointment with the tribunus, let me through,’ Pavo stuttered.
The larger guard of the two looked at his colleague with a raised eyebrow. ‘Got an appointment, apparently.’
The smaller guard replied. ‘Getting his teeth checked is he?’ Before bursting into a snigger, shared by the other guard,
who added.
‘Aye, bog off, son, the tribunus is busy.’
Pavo felt his blood boil. The delayed rage from his rude awakening and subsequent humiliation now came steaming to the surface. ‘The primus pilus sent me, and he’s in a foul mood. So let me through or you’ll have him to deal with!’
Suddenly, the first guard stood at attention, his face rigid, stepping to one side. ‘Sorry, sir!’ Pavo grinned – that had shown him – then moved one foot forward to enter the tent, when a hand slapped onto his shoulder.
‘As you were, soldier,’ Gallus nodded to the stiffened guard. ‘So you made it,’ Gallus observed coolly without looking at Pavo, beckoning him on through the tent flap.
Inside the tent was pleasantly warm, with a small fire smouldering in a brazier. Nerva’s cot lay dishevelled, the blankets lay knotted across the floor - maybe the tribunus had had a restless night too? However, Nerva sat at his table in an incongruously crisp, white tunic, his jowls quivering as he muttered to himself, staring at the map. His hair was still wet and combed neatly back from washing, and despite a slight bagging under his eyes he looked a different man from the tired, irritable figure he had cut late into the previous night. Pavo glanced down at his own filthy kit – a stark contrast to the tribunus. At Nerva’s side, the equally transformed figure of Amalric was seated, free of chains, and wearing his cleaned blonde hair tied back from his narrow features. He too wore a clean legionary tunic and apart from the cuts and bruises on his face and arms, he looked alert and fresh. His expression was one of keen interest in the maps and papers that Nerva had spread across the table.
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