Pavo’s sense of unease grew for a few moments, as the tribunus and the Goth remained engrossed. Then Gallus shuffled impatiently, before offering a polite cough to announce their presence.
‘Gallus,’ Nerva smiled. ‘Come in, draw up a stool.’ He beckoned with his hands before lowering his head into the maps again. Gallus drew a timber stool from the side of the tent and sat across from Amalric. Pavo stood still, realising his name had not yet been mentioned. He was not keen on committing another foolish mistake today.
Nerva traced a finger over the map and Amalric nodded in agreement and Gallus craned over the parchment for a better view. Looking up, Nerva began; ‘We have some vital new information about our surroundings from…’ he stopped, staring up at Pavo. ‘What are you doing, boy? I told you to draw yourself a stool!’
Flustered, Pavo dropped his starchy legionary pose and stumbled over to the table, swiping at the remaining stool. A boy, he repeated over in his head, they think I’m just a boy! Then, pulling his seat in, he bashed the edge of the table, sending a goblet of water near the edge of the map spinning precariously on its base. Gallus quickly wrapped a hand around the stem of the goblet, and shot Pavo a look of wide-eyed disbelief, before turning back to Nerva, who took the goblet and placed it on the ground with a shake of his head.
‘As I was saying, we have some vital new information about our whereabouts and the local populace now. Last night was fraught and some things were said which should not have been said.’ Amalric looked both Gallus and Pavo in the eye in turn. ‘Amalric has sworn loyalty to the empire. As long as we are an enemy of these…Hunnoi.’
‘Can he prove his loyalty, sir?’ Gallus spoke firmly, holding the Goth’s gaze. ‘I mean, the Goths have a history of backstabbing us. And remember Brutus, sir? We are already relying on them for nearly half our manpower – maybe we should be more cautious in allowing them to influence our strategy?’
Pavo’s mind flashed with the gritty images of the battle in the countryside – Brutus would be with them now around this table were it not for the Goths.
‘Amalric has made his intentions clear, Gallus. A common enemy has wiped out his people, and he offers us his knowledge of their abilities and weaknesses. And remember that the Goths who raid over the Danubius are of the Thervingi – pawns of that belligerent whoreson Athanaric.’
‘But his very people,’ Gallus continued regardless, stabbing an accusing finger at the Gothic prince, ‘the ones on this land, the Greuthingi, slaughtered half my first century on the reconnaissance…’
‘We were fighting for our lives!’ Amalric barked – his tone was of frustration rather than rage. Gallus braced and the air grew thick with tension. ‘I do not know of what happened to your century, but my people – and remember all of them are dead now – were being hunted like animals. Is it any wonder they attacked a unit of foreign soldiers on their land?’ A silence ensued, Gallus and Amalric holding each other’s gaze. Finally, Amalric continued; ‘Turn your mind from distrust, Roman. Your people will be ground into the dust like mine if you cannot.’
Gallus raised his eyebrows and turned to Nerva.
‘We are in no position to bargain, Gallus. Last night made it clear how thin our intelligence is on this sortie – we need him and he’s offered to help. Bear with me on this one.’
Amalric spoke at Gallus across the table. ‘Centurion – my race consists of heroes, dogs and nobodies, just like yours. I don’t presume to justify the actions of the Goths you talk of who attacked your men. All I care about is finding and finishing those who slaughtered my wife – slaughtered her in front of my eyes.’ The Gothic prince punched a fist into his palm, his words fizzing through clenched teeth.
Pavo watched as Gallus and Amalric stared at each other and something changed in the atmosphere around the table. The Goth’s eyes were glassy, his lips trembled, and Gallus wore a wrinkle of pain on his face – a rare insight through the centurion’s wall of iron. Another silence ensued.
‘Then I’ll go with that,’ Gallus spoke at last. Then his face fell expressionless again as he leaned over the map. ‘Let’s see what we can thrash out.’
Nerva visibly relaxed and pulled his stool in closer to the map. ‘Amalric has told me more than we would ever have worked out in months of roaming this peninsula aimlessly.’
Pavo and Gallus pulled in closer.
‘First of all, and most importantly, we know where we are. Well you might have guessed we are on the Bosporus peninsula, but now we know we are here,’ Nerva jabbed a finger into the map, at the right-most tip of the diamond-shaped peninsula, ‘around halfway up the eastern coast. That storm must have been a mighty one – pushed us right past the headland!’ he flicked his eyebrows up, eyeing the distance the fleet had been blown from the planned landing point at the southern tip. ‘Furthermore, Amalric has gone into detail about the Hunnoi that we spoke of last night.’ He glanced at Pavo, who nodded a little too enthusiastically. ‘They are known more commonly in Scythia and beyond as the Hun.’ Pavo felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. ‘They came here just over six months ago, and since then they have stopped only to rape the settlements in their path. The Goths haven’t been chased from this land…’ Nerva looked each of them in the eye, his expression grave, ‘…they never left.’
An icy finger traced Pavo’s spine, he touched the disc of the phalera medallion through his mail vest. This was life on the edge of a blade; the life Father had known until the last. He closed his eyes momentarily and imagined Father beside him.
‘We’ve got our work cut out here, gentlemen,’ Nerva continued. ‘Clearly, the Huns primarily make use of the mounted unit, and they ride with a skill and dexterity that is simply...’ Nerva shook his head in silence as he searched for the words.
Gallus puffed out a breath. ‘…it’s impressive, sir. They ride as if they were born on the saddle.’
Nerva glanced at him, his eyes distant, before continuing. ‘This is the key; they number over fifteen legions, some twenty thousand riders and infantry.’
‘Twenty thousand?’ Pavo gasped, unable to bite back the exclamation from his lips. ‘They outnumber us five to one!’
Nerva, Gallus and Amalric turned to him in distaste.
‘Perhaps a sentiment you should not share,’ Nerva spoke firmly. ‘It’s not numbers that win battles. Roman military skill and bravery has seen the imperial armies over taller hurdles than this, boy.’ Pavo felt the skin on the back of his neck burn. ‘In any case, whether we should face them or not is a moot point as things stand. We have no means of retreat – the fleet is crippled. In any case, I’d rather not attempt to cross the sea again only to arrive in Constantinople with our tails between our legs, with a shattered navy and a hugely expensive failure of a mission as our only gifts to the emperor.’
Pavo felt smaller than a mouse. The tribunus was still pent-up with frustration inside and he had simply lit the fuse. Gallus cut in to spare him a thorough bollocking.
‘So the question is – how do we make best use of our numbers? It has to be strategic engagement. We surely cannot afford a pitched battle against their number of cavalry on the open terrain inland.’
Nerva firmed his jaw.
Gallus had said it perfectly, Pavo thought – the same sentiment as his own but put tactfully. But the tribunus wanted the moment as his own; ‘We will move inland, at a quick march, via a series of strategic points that Amalric has highlighted on our maps. We may be able to make use of the towns and ruined forts that are dotted around the landscape. This will allow us to do three things; measure the true size of our opponent’s forces, collect the resources needed to repair our ships and finally,’ he turned to Amalric, ‘round up any Gothic survivors – Amalric has promised me they will fight alongside us on this. Ultimately, our goal is to reach the old citadel of Chersonesos as originally planned,’ he drew his finger from the landing site to the bottom of the diamond, ‘just to the west of the southern tip of the peninsula. It will take
us about two to three days to get there. We have no idea of the state of the place – it’s been off the trade routes for years because of pirates. It remains our best chance though – Amalric tells me that the citadel remains standing, with crumbling but functional walls. The place was a large Gothic trading centre until the Huns fell upon it three months ago – they tore everything of value from the place and moved on. Crucially though, the citadel has a dock. If we can establish a bridgehead there, we can repair our ships without fear of attack.’ Nerva leaned in, drawing the other three closer to him. ‘This is the crux – If we can get our fleet operational then we are no longer limited to infantry mobility. With our ships we can land anywhere around the peninsula and put these Huns on the back foot. Moreover, we can send for reinforcements should we need to.’
Gallus shuffled in his seat. ‘I like the end result, sir, but it’s getting there that worries me. How will we protect ourselves while mobile? If we get caught in the open by the Huns, a marching infantry column of just over two thousand – three hundred of those injured and sick – we would not stand a chance.’ He glanced to Pavo.
‘I can’t disagree with you on that, Gallus, they’d cut us to ribbons.’ Now Nerva glanced at Pavo, the merest hint of forgiveness traced his features. ‘This is where we need to use the foederati wisely. They number at fifteen hundred going by this morning’s count,’ Nerva paused to double-check this on his notes, then he frowned, ‘although that includes the Roman recruits who joined them, who will need to take some swift training in the arts of husbandry. They cannot slow down Horsa and his men. Between us, I expect Horsa and his men will be the first to land on Hun spears, and any recruits lagging near the back…’ Nerva trailed off with a shake of the head.
Sura, Pavo’s skin prickled.
Nerva composed himself and continued; ‘The foederati will split into several smaller detachments, each of which will perform a swift reconnaissance in each of the alternative routes to our next waypoint. The infantry will then proceed swiftly to the waypoint deemed safest, all the time covered by the foederati detachments. As for the fleet, well, all of our ships are crippled apart from the captured pirate quinquereme, yet we cannot abandon them. So the crew will rig them up as best as they can and make a series of short trips along the coast to stay as close to us inland as possible. One century of infantry from the third cohort will move up the coast to track the fleet’s movement, to protect the landing point of each trip. When we reach Chersonesos, we should be able to bed ourselves in and find a supply of timber to repair the fleet, and then all of our options are open again. I realise this means that we are spreading ourselves even more thinly. Though frankly, I don’t see that we’ve got any other options.’
‘Then we must go with it,’ Gallus nodded.
‘I’m with you,’ Amalric asserted.
All three nodded in conclusion and Nerva made to roll up the map. Pavo felt the familiar burn of words dancing on his tongue.
‘What if the fleet doesn’t make it to Chersonesos?’ He croaked, gulping. The three scrutinised him – almost as if they didn’t understand. ‘I just mean – if the Huns are so mobile and so numerous, and they obviously have the jump on us in terms of our positioning and…’
‘Get to the point,’ Gallus cut in firmly.
Pavo stammered. ‘The Huns could engage our fleet at any of the landing points along the coast. If they do – we’re stranded.’
Nerva nodded, his jowls hanging in a stern sincerity, but the glint of panic was there, too. ‘Problem noted, soldier. Do you have a solution?’
Pavo shook his head silently.
Nerva turned back to Amalric and Gallus. ‘Once we have an accurate operational count, we can balance the centuries, and plan our order of movement.’ He nodded as he eyed his plans one more time. ‘By dawn tomorrow, we need to be on the move. The Huns know our position, so until then, we need a triple watch.’
Pavo was the last of the visitors to leave the tent. As he did so, Nerva grappled his arm. Pavo recoiled at the etching of barely disguised terror on the tribunus’ sweat-soaked scalp and face.
‘We all fear the same twists of fate, soldier. We can only ride the mount the gods provide us.’
Chapter 46
A crowd gathered round the entrance to the sprawling Hun camp as a dozen weary riders trotted in. Sipping cups of tepid horse blood, chewing on raw meat, they searched for a sign from the lead rider, who rode with a motley collection of staring, severed heads hanging from his mount.
Apsikal kept his broad yellow face expressionless, lifted his head high and raised a clenched fist in the air. Roars of delight then erupted from the warriors and their families, greeting the sign of victory – a Hun could never be defeated.
Apsikal glanced down and watched the ground roll past, but couldn’t hear the cheers. His head felt hollow as he contemplated his plan. Lie and live, tell the truth and die. He had told the truth the last time, and had barely escaped with the promise of death should he fail again. Only one Goth had slipped from their grasp, and he and his men’s lives now rested on a ruse to disguise that fact. The crowd parted as they moved on through the seas of yurts, towards that of Balamber.
Balamber was sitting on the timber platform erected on the clearing at the tent entrance, basking in the warm morning sunshine. His eyes were drawn to the approaching commotion, narrowing to identify the source. When Apsikal’s form shuffled humbly before him, Balamber’s expression hardened. Apsikal slowed to a halt and dismounted, his men following suit. Silence fell over the thousands who crowded round to view the meeting.
‘I have succeeded, Noble Balamber,’ Apsikal gasped, his head still bowed. An excruciating silence ensued, and Apsikal shivered as he felt the invisible dagger plunging for his neck as he stared into the earth below, but no, that would be too quick. Still nothing – he risked a glance upwards. The silhouette of Balamber craned above him with the sun casting a glaring halo around his form.
‘What happened?’ Balamber spoke softly.
Again, Apsikal looked up to address his leader, squinting his eyes at the blinding sunlight. ‘We hunted down the Goths, and we exterminated all of them…’ He pointed to the flank of his horse and that of his second-in-command – both bore rope lassos with twenty rotting, gaping heads strung together, misted eyeballs staring out at the world they had once known. ‘…every single one.’ His voice trailed off as Balamber stepped slightly towards the front edge of his platform and rose up to his full height. His form seemed to fill the sky. The noble eyed the grotesque specimens, and Apsikal felt his stomach lurch as he did so. He followed his leader’s eyes over each one; nineteen blonde and white-skinned expressions of horror, and one last one – features mutilated beyond recognition. Balamber’s eyes stopped on this one. Apsikal shot a glance at the head and then his leader – Balamber’s fists gradually balled and then his moustache twitched ever so slightly. Apsikal gulped.
‘To fail is one thing,’ Balamber mused with a quizzical tone, ‘but to lie to your noble leader?’
Apsikal felt a distant spark of realization – the most horrible end was coming for him at the speed of the fastest mount. He fell to his knees. ‘No, we have them, all of them…’ his words tailed off.
Balamber leapt down from his platform, thumping into the dirt to tower over the cringing Apsikal. He stalked over to the mutilated head, grasped it by the tufts of hair remaining on the bloodied scalp, and wrenched it up so the crowd could see. ‘Fine skin for a Goth, is it not?’ He roared, stretching the one remaining untouched patch of skin on the neck – a dark-yellow complexion.
Apsikal felt fear thunder through him, ‘We may have recovered the wrong head – there were many bodies. It was…’ he stopped short as a stone smashed against his forehead.
‘Die like a warrior, you grovelling fool!’ The thrower cried from the crowd. Apsikal tasted the metal wash of blood coursing from his nostrils.
Balamber’s face was swept over with a black expression. ‘Enough!’ He
roared to the crowd. ‘Apsikal will not be harmed…’
Apsikal looked up, his heart slowing to a controlled thunder. There was a chance he could survive! His mind scrambled as he searched for something to build on. ‘The Romans have landed! It was pitch-black when we clashed, however, we estimate a number of some three thousand and…’ Apsikal looked up again and tried to gauge his chances of being spared. ‘…and we can’t be sure about this, but their fleet looked crippled.’
Legionary Page 25