Legionary

by Doherty, Gordon

  Balamber blinked the harrowing echo from his mind. He checked his horde leaders around him. They feared him more than they feared any foe, be they this ever-less distant empire of Rome or the proud dynasties of the Far East. He spoke gently. ‘A legion of Rome awaits us to the south. Their reputations do them a great service, but keep this in mind when we face them: they are not what they once were. Lambs ripe for the slaughter, if you will. Spill their blood and we open the gates to our destiny. Their empire is a land of bounty stretching to the far end of the world where the sun rests at night. And it will be ours!’ The horde leaders’ eyes glistened in longing and wonderment at his words. ‘You, as my most trusted men, will share in the cream of this bounty. Fight well for me, men, and share my honour!’

  ‘Rest assured, we will shed our own blood for you, Noble Balamber,’ one replied. The others rumbled in agreement.

  He smiled, trotting forward. These men would cut their mother’s throats at the sight of gold. And only the promise of gold would tame them.

  Balamber nodded to his personal bodyguard – a giant of a man who wore a huge ox-horn bound around his neck by a ragged leather strap. The bodyguard lifted the horn and filled his lungs. The deep, ominous moan that poured from it echoed across the landscape and was greeted with an animal-like guttural roar of over twenty-thousand Huns.

  The horde marched to war.

  Chapter 52

  A roaring fire punctuated the black of night as the grotesque pile of corpses was reduced to ash. All legionaries were posted to the empty houses and halls of the town, and only a few topknotted figures stood around the inferno in silence.

  Pavo rested his spear on the battlements and let his eyes rest on the crackling blaze – some brief respite from the monotony of sentry duty and staring out into the blackness of the plains. Amalric the Gothic prince had demanded for the gore-pile to be set alight as a pyre in some last attempt to regain the dignity of the dead. At first, Nerva had steadfastly refused, insisting the thing would be like a beacon to the Huns. Gallus had winced as he stood between the two while the whole legion watched. Pavo replayed the nerve shredding moment when he had been called up from the ranks to explain to Amalric that the Huns had left spies in the town, and that their position was compromised in any case due to the rider who escaped.

  Pavo sighed, turning to look out over the blackness in front of him. With only a tiny lantern tucked into the corner of the battlement, the Hun army could be assembled right out there, yet he couldn’t even see the ground from up here. He glanced down at his mail shirt, picking at the gore cladding it had taken on. A tiny piece of matted blood crumbled away, leaving a beautifully unblemished sliver of iron behind it. He pulled the thong with the bronze phalera free of his vest and eyed the writing longingly as always. His mind drifted to the heat wave summer of his childhood in Constantinople.

  Sitting on the doorstep facing onto the dusty lane of the slums surrounding the Gate of Saint Aemilianus, Father pummelled the scale vest relentlessly despite the blistering sun beating down on his back. Meanwhile, Pavo had cartwheeled back and forth across the lane from house to house, giggling with his playmates. ‘My father’s going to fight in the legions!’ He had cried, his chest puffed out. ‘My father will be emperor!’ His friends had eagerly joined his child-legion of six – armed with broom handles and wearing caps and bowls on their heads, they had marched on the forum. Or at least as far as the end of the lane.

  Pavo smiled, momentarily transported from the cool, dark battlement in this alien land. Then the cold hands of reality traced his spine as the dark memory returned; the gaunt, dead-eyed soldier who dropped the pitiful purse of coins in his hand – announcing the death of his father without a word of solace.

  Pavo shivered as a chill breeze washed over him. Enough, he chided himself with a chuckle, stay alert or you’ll be the legion idiot again! He blinked to stare out into the dark plains again, when a pair of hands stabbed into his sides. His heart leapt and his eyes bulged.

  ‘Allright?’ Sura sniffed.

  ‘In the name of…what d’you call that? Did you actually get any sentry training?’

  ‘Relax! Nobody can see diddly squat – we could be over in that inn there – Zosimus claims they found seven unopened casks of ale in the cellar,’ Sura frowned.

  ‘Aye, a cup of ale and the lash from Nerva – sounds lovely. Have you seen anything…’ Pavo’s voice trailed off as he saw the darkness swim on the ground below. ‘Sura, look!’

  The pair clamped their hands on the battlement, peering into the night. There it was; a rider.

  ‘Who goes there!’ Pavo yelled, grappling his spear. At once, the sentries all along the battlement jumped to attention and the call was echoed.

  ‘Foederati scout, let me in!’

  ‘Password?’ A cry came from above the gate.

  ‘Teutoberg!’ he hissed back.

  ‘Allright lads, let him in!’ One sentry bawled.

  Pavo and Sura craned towards the gate for a better look.

  ‘Could be Julius Caesar for all we can see,’ Sura tutted as they strayed from their sentry points, screwing their eyes up.

  ‘He’s a bit late isn’t he?’ Pavo reasoned. Sura nodded with a frown. The sun had set a long time ago –the scout had been due back just after dark.

  ‘Sura, Pavo!’ a voice barked. Both spun round to see Felix fuming back at them, with Quadratus glaring likewise a few paces back. ‘Is that what Brutus taught you? To be distracted by every coming and going, every little detail? Eyes forward, and stay at your post.’

  Pavo jumped to stand upright and stared fastidiously out into the blackness again. Sura scurried fifty paces along the wall to his post to do the same.

  Felix sighed. ‘Anyway, you couple of morons, shift’s over; we’re here to relieve you.’

  Flitting down the steps, Pavo caught a muffled mumbling from the gate – the jagged twang of the foederati. ‘Move,’ he hissed over his shoulder to Sura, ‘we might get an ear in on the report.’

  The pair burst out from the stairwell and into the gatehouse enclosure.

  A pair of foederati huddled with the scout rider and they talked in hushed tones in their native tongue. As soon as they noticed the entrance of the pair, they stopped, breaking apart. Two glared stonily at Pavo and Sura.

  ‘Move on!’ One barked.

  ‘Wait a moment, you’re in my wing, aren’t you?’ Sura ignored the two and spoke to the rider.

  The scout rider’s face was stern at first, and then he broke into a grin. ‘Sura, isn’t it? They’ve got you back on foot duty have they?’ He nodded up to the battlement. ‘Hah, we’ll make a rider of you yet!’

  As the rider spoke, Pavo let his eyes drift. Then something caught his eye, a glint of metal on a chain around the rider’s neck. His eyes keened.

  ‘Did you see me this morning?’ Sura roared. ‘I was ahead of Captain Horsa. You lot were well behind.’

  The rider laughed. A warm laugh. But as he did so the chain lifted, and the edge of a dull yellow cross peeked from his breastplate. Something was etched on its surface. The breath froze in Pavo’s lungs.

  ‘I’ll show you tomorrow, eh?’ Sura concluded, turning to Pavo. The rider roared in laughter again.

  ‘Come on!’ Pavo hissed.

  ‘Eh?’ Sura frowned. ‘What about getting a listen in on the report?’

  ‘Screw the report. Come on!’ He tugged Sura by the elbow and together they stalked away from the gate. At the first corner, Pavo turned in sharply.

  Sura glared at him. ‘Well?’

  ‘That cross,’ Pavo’s eyes darted as he rifled through memory.

  Sura frowned. ‘What cross? What are you on about?’

  Pavo gripped him by the shoulders ‘There’s no time. We need to speak to the officers. We could be in bigger trouble than we ever imagined.’

  Chapter 53

  Dawn had arrived. The legion stood on the plain outside the town’s main gate formed up and ready to march. Nerva
and Gallus stood to the fore, looking to the dim horizon for any sign of movement. The foederati scouts had set out before dawn in their five divisions to reconnoitre the second hop of their trek to Chersonesos.

  ‘That’s too long already, damn it!’ Gallus grunted.

  ‘If they don’t come back…’ Nerva trailed off.

  ‘Sir?’ Gallus frowned.

  ‘I’m just thinking aloud. If they don’t come back - for whatever reason - we still have to move, Gallus. The Huns know we’re here. I won’t let us hole-up here as a sitting target. This town simply won’t hold out against the numbers reported.’

  ‘The fleet is always there, sir. It might not be in any sort of shape to sail, but it could take us offshore. There have been no reports of a Hun navy.’

  ‘Then what – sit off the shore and starve? With no means of repairing the ships?’

  Gallus looked to the coast, far in the distance. He never thought it would be him who suggested it, but needs must. ‘Sir, may I suggest we call on the I Dacia.’ Gallus expected Nerva’s grimacing reaction. ‘As much as I hate to say it, sir,’ he checked to make sure that no legionaries were in earshot before continuing. ‘But as things stand we are positively buggered. Maybe we should put pride and reputation to one side?’

  Nerva chuckled – but his expression remained cold.

  ‘I hear you, Gallus. The pragmatist would admit we need help here; one legion was supposed to be enough to tackle a disorganised society of Gothic farmers and warbands, but instead we are being fed to the wolves.’ He dropped his distant gaze to his boots, shaking his head.

  Gallus glanced around nervously – body language like this would percolate through the troops. The Nerva he aspired to seemed locked away inside this cage of jangling nerves.

  ‘Sir?’

  Nerva looked up, his eyes red-rimmed and ringed with tiredness. ‘You are right. Despatch a messenger…no, two, send them on different routes, to the fleet. Whatever state the fleet is in, get that quinquereme sailing for Durostorum. We must put pride to one side and call for the services of ...Wulfric,’ he spat the name like a troublesome sinew of meat. ‘But they will not get to us for days, so we must attempt the hop to Chersonesos – we can bed in if we get to the citadel, but we cannot stay here.’

  Gallus felt a weight lifting from his shoulders – not exactly as he would have played it had he been in charge, but at least the tribunus had offered some compromise. One more hop to Chersonesos it would be, then; all money on the next throw of the dice. But the dark cloud in his mind remained. What if? Then he thought back to last night. Pavo and his friend Sura had turned up at his billet, babbling. It all sounded so outlandish – Horsa and the foederati had been bought by the Holy See? Pavo had been right before, he mused reluctantly. The lad seemed to attract trouble but was one of the sharper recruits in the legion.

  After issuing orders to two mounted auxiliaries, Gallus turned back to his tribunus. ‘Sir,’ Gallus started, fighting to keep the uncertainty from his voice, ‘do you have any concerns over the foederati?’

  ‘Concerns?’

  ‘Apart from the obvious. Yes they put their backs into the rowing, but they sneer at our boys, they don’t tow the line like Romans. I just mean…do you trust them?’

  ‘As far as I could throw them, yes!’ Nerva chuckled. ‘We’ve got to accept it, Gallus, they are not fighting for the empire. They’re after gold and gold alone – it’s a fact we have to live with.’

  ‘Whose gold?’ Gallus cut in.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘The emperor paid Fritigern for his allegiance I presume?’

  ‘Gallus, I don’t know where you’re going with this,’ Nerva quizzed.

  ’But he did pay them?’ Gallus persisted.

  ‘Well, yes. Standard policy these days – if you can’t beat them, buy them. Sadly. Look, Gallus, spit it out. I don’t want surprises later on.’

  Gallus watched his tribunus grimace in frustration; Nerva was brash, wanted it all out on a plate up front. ‘Okay, it’s a long shot, but it adds up, albeit roughly.’ Gallus glanced around to ensure nobody was within earshot. ‘Our foederati have been seen carrying marked gold. Nothing special there, but one of my lads – Pavo – recognised the marking.’ He leant in to the tribunus. ‘From the Holy See of Constantinople, sir.’

  Nerva’s eyes narrowed. ‘Interesting. That lad Pavo, he has a chequered history to say the least, no? In any case, it could be nothing – they might trade currency with the imperial coffers?’

  ‘I hope so, sir. I don’t know why the See would pay them on top of the emperor, and I’m not sure I want to know either.’

  Nerva’s eyes grew distant momentarily and then he grinned wryly. ‘Bishop Evagrius…’

  ‘Slippery as a snake in oil,’ Gallus nodded. ‘I doubt he would release a bent nummus unless there was something sweet in it for him.’

  ‘Well, I’d love to quiz them about it, Gallus, but they’re gone and we’re here,’ he sighed, casting a hand to the horizon over which the five divisions had slipped too long ago.

  ‘Maybe we should bed in here after all?’ Gallus nodded back to Theodosia.

  Nerva hesitated, then shook his head. ‘No, we move on. We’re almost there. The detachment shadowing the fleet is almost there. Stay focused, centurion, you’re made of stern stuff and I know you’ll see us through this.’ With that the tribunus wheeled away to address the legion, who rippled to attention.

  ‘Men, hold steady in your hearts, for we have arranged for reinforcements to bolster our mission. But the time to move is almost upon us – we head for Chersonesos. Our scouts will return soon. Prepare to march!’

  Gallus’ mind raced. If only he had pieced the theory together earlier. Perhaps he should have insisted on a Roman rider going on the next heartbeat run to check on the fleet. He watched the legion ripple into perfect ranks again, and then glanced to the horizon. What lay over those hills? A terrible apprehension gripped him.

  Horsa’s foederati scouting division trotted down into another lush green valley. Ahead, the hills rolled on into a few more valleys and then the sea sparkled in the distance. Hidden behind the hills down by the shore was the well-walled citadel of Chersonesos. Salvation for the legion was but a short ride away.

  Sura eyed the sides of the valley sleepily. The thick, dew-coated grass shimmered and swayed to the rhythm of the babbling meltwater brooks trickling down from the hills to the north. He sucked a breath in through his nostrils – sweet and fresh. The distance to Chersonesos had been a good many miles further than anticipated, and they had had no option but to slow the pace so as not to wear out their mounts. Really though, the scouting today had been quiet, just like yesterday. Only the stop to watch a fox-fight had disturbed the hypnotic gallop from Theodosia. Sharpen up! He muttered to himself, digging his nails into his palm. Pavo’s theory from last night seemed ethereal now after a night’s sleep and his initial fears had quelled somewhat. These riders were mercenaries all right, gruff buggers, but no more, he concluded.

  He checked his riding position – good, he was a comfortable distance away from the Goths around him. They had been none too appreciative of him the first day – too close, they claimed, kicking out at him and swearing in Gothic. Horsa had chided them and dropped back to ride with him, but the riders were never going to accept a Roman in their midst. He probably hadn’t helped matters by cheating at dice the previous evening, he mused. He glanced round at the riders again and their typical Gothic cavalry gear; leggings and leather boots, thick red leather tunics or chain mail vests, and then some who owned conical helmets. He felt suddenly all the more alien in his intercisa helmet and white, purple-edged tunic under his mail vest – stood out like a Roman from a hundred miles away, he surmised.

  Then, Horsa twisted on his saddle to address the men. ‘Okay, pick up the pace – we can take in some water and meat when we round on this city. But the legion will be expecting us by now so we need to be speedy and make a quick retu
rn.’