Legionary

by Doherty, Gordon

  Sura heard the order and made to spur his mount on, but he was snapped out of his daydream as he realised the column was slowing down rather than speeding up. Looking up, he saw Horsa – still twisted in his saddle. But something was wrong. The Gothic captain looked as though he had been struck by lightning. Sura traced the captain’s line of sight; there, right up on the lip of the valley to their left, an endless line of dark shapes rose with a chorus of thundering hooves. Huns, countless in number, swept towards them.

  Suddenly, right behind Sura, came a guttural roar of pain. Icy fear ripped through him. He spun his mount round; two foederati were in file behind him, the closest with a pallid face, blood rushing from his mouth and down over his tunic and over the spear tip bursting through his chest. The man behind him grimaced, ripping his spear back. In the same instant, cries of pain rang out all around him; in a blur, the foederati started slaughtering one another. Sura spurred and bucked his horse in a panic at the sudden chaos, only instinct brought his shield around his flanks – rebuffing two spear-jabs. His limbs like wet sand, he glanced around for Horsa, hacking at the two swords focused on him.

  ‘Treacherous dogs!’ Horsa roared.

  Sura’s wide-eyed gaze flicked to Horsa, and then to the closing jaws of the Hun attack, now only paces away and with lassos spinning and spears and bows raised, poised to fire.

  ‘Ambush! Return to the legion!’ Horsa screamed, hacking his way around the edge of the chaos.

  Sura locked eyes with Horsa, who gritted his teeth and roared, pointing his spear back in the direction of Theodosia. A handful of loyal riders gathered around their leader, fending off blows. Horsa roared, but whatever he said was drowned out in the thundering of the Huns, and he swept past Sura. But Horsa was being driven away from the path to Theodosia, the Huns herding him and his party back up the valley. A hissing shower of arrows spat past Sura and without another thought, he too was off at full pelt behind the Gothic captain.

  The sun now stretched high into the blue, birds raced across the plains around Theodosia and the cicadas chattered incessantly. But while the wildlife hunted and played, the legion shuffled uncomfortably in both the heat and the non-appearance of their foederati scouting parties. Even the pack mules brayed in thirst at the rear. On the front line of the first century, just behind the officers, three figures baked in the sunlight.

  ‘Bleeding joke, this is,’ Zosimus huffed, pulling his helmet off to scratch his dark stubbled scalp and wipe at the waterfall of sweat on his forehead.

  ‘Come on, come on,’ Avitus grumbled, ‘give the order to go back into the town!’

  Pavo felt sweat race down his back, matting the rough fibre of his scratchy tunic under his oven-like mail shirt. They had been standing outside for far too long now. Surely, something had to give. Legionaries had strolled around, chatting after a while. Gallus had quickly whipped them back into line though. But now even the primus pilus was shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Shielding his eyes with his hand, Pavo looked to the south again for any sign of movement; just lush green rolling hills, pines rippling in the lofty zephyrs and the occasional darting deer. His eyes flicked back – something had moved. Red leather and iron. The foederati had returned.

  First one division, then another emerged from the heat haze. More poured into view behind them. They trotted rather than galloped, and Pavo counted them – only four divisions.

  ‘Do they think we’ve got all day?’ Spat Avitus.

  ‘We’ll make them walk from now on in, see how they cope with it, lazy buggers! I’d happily sit on my backside on one of their horses all day,’ Zosimus chipped in.

  As the foederati approached, Pavo strained to see which of the five was missing. Going by the directions they approached from it was the one he dreaded. Sure enough, Horsa and his men were the ones. The four divisions fanned out in front of the legion. Pavo’s brow knitted as he watched the approach.

  ‘Foederati!’ Nerva bawled. ‘Proceed to check-in.’

  The foederati practically ignored the tribunus’ orders and continued their lazy amble up to the officers. A grumble of insults and moans grew from the assembled legion.

  ‘Silence!’ Gallus snapped.

  Pavo watched as one foederatus nudged another, who finally broke into a trot forward. He respectfully dismounted, but then strode past the officers, ignoring them to address the entire legion.

  ‘I bring sad news. Captain Horsa has been slain.’

  Gallus stepped forward to reprimand the Goth’s disregard for protocol, but it was too late; a wave of groans swept across the legion.

  ‘His path to Chersonesos was clear, but he attempted to cross onto our path on his return. Just as he sighted us, the Huns descended on him – he and his men didn’t stand a chance.’

  ‘All of them, dead?’ Nerva stammered.

  The Goth nodded, his lips tight and thin.

  Pavo felt a cool ripple of dread wash through his limbs. All of them? Then Sura would not be returning from this far-flung land. None of them would be at this rate. The phalera weighed heavily on the thong around his neck.

  ‘How many?’ Gallus quizzed.

  ‘Three, maybe four thousand.’ The Goth’s face remained expressionless.

  Then where are the other sixteen thousand? The question screamed in Pavo’s head.

  ‘And how did your men return intact?’ Nerva replied to the Goth. ‘If the Huns intercepted Horsa on your path then surely you would have been caught up in it too?’

  The Goth nodded in agreement. ‘He saved us; his men absorbed the impact of the Hun charge while we sped to their aid, but Horsa waved us back – roared at us, demanded we escape and get back to the legion.’

  Nerva nodded. ‘A good man till the end.’

  Gallus remained steely faced. ‘You weren’t in too much of a hurry. Did you lose them?’

  The Goth looked up, his face betraying indignation. ‘Of course we lost them; do you think we would lead the Huns right onto the legion? We slowed only because our mounts are exhausted from the flight.’

  ‘Very well. Let’s hope you shook them off well enough,’ Gallus replied icily, eyeing the foederati horses for signs of fatigue.

  Pavo noticed as the centurion’s eyes narrowed at the Goth.

  ‘But you must make haste. Our route was clear. Round the last valley by the coast,’ the Goth barked, swerving past Gallus and Nerva, now addressing the legion again. ‘If we move quickly, we can slip past the Huns.’

  The legionaries rumbled into a chorus of agreement.

  ‘Enough!’ Nerva roared. ‘And you’ll not speak over me again or I’ll have you in chains!’ He spat at the Goth. Then he turned to his primus pilus. ‘What do you think, Gallus?’

  Pavo watched the centurion – their eyes met briefly.

  Gallus’ eyes darted momentarily across the ground by his feet, and then a grimace spread across his lips. ‘We have no other option, sir. In lieu of better intelligence, we have to move. Again we must go with what little we have.’

  Nerva nodded briskly and without hesitation looked to the Goth. ‘Form up your men on the wings.’ The tribunus then turned to face the legion. ‘Form column, move out!’ He bawled. With that, the tribunus leapt onto his mount.

  Pavo turned over the facts in his head; Sura was dead. His friend was dead. A sickness hovered in his stomach, not at the loss, but at the lack of emotion to go with his thoughts – the soldier’s skin. Ashamed, he tried to visualise Sura’s face, gritting his teeth as the legion bristled for the march. In front of him, just as the Gothic riders had ridden clear of earshot, Gallus leaned in to Nerva and whispered something. The tribunus looked unsure, but Gallus persisted. Eventually, Nerva nodded and turned back to the men.

  ‘Double line. Foederati on the wings and narrow on the front!’ The tribunus called.

  Pavo’s ears picked up as he visualised the formation. His mind spun back to the formations drill with Brutus on the training ground; a double line would mean abandon
ing the column they had marched in so far for a slower but more defensible shape. The infantry rustled into the formation as he thought it through – the second and third cohorts would make up the wider back line, with the auxiliaries joining the first cohort on the front line, with the foederati close on either flank of the front. Then he noticed Gallus flick a hand signal, four fingers extended and fanning out, to the leader of the pack mule train; carrying the tents, palisade stakes and artillery kit, the mules would come along at the rear. The meaning of the hand signal wasn’t clear to Pavo – but the primus pilus would know what he was doing. He looked to Gallus, but the centurion faced forward now, cold and still. This new shape meant the foederati were pinned in with the legion – no more free roaming on the flanks of the column for them. At once, fear and pride gripped him. Gallus was buying into his theory of the previous evening. He prayed he hadn’t got it wrong.

  A shield boss rammed into his back, knocking his breath out and tipping his helmet over his eyes.

  ‘Move it!’ a voice barked as the cohort advanced.

  Stumbling forward, Pavo muttered an apology, pulling his chin straps tight. He glimpsed round at the formation. No doubt about it, this was an insurance policy. Maybe his theory wasn’t altogether correct, but if there was some seam of truth in there, this move might give them half a chance.

  Then he thought of Sura and tightened the grip on his spear.

  Chapter 54

  Balamber roared the horde onwards, who cheered in reply like an innumerable pack of starved wolves. They had formed now into two loose wings, numbering nearly ten thousand each, and the ground rumbled violently as they made their way towards the network of hills and valleys. Balamber rode beside the turncoat foederati captain, who was explaining the situation with the legion as he fingered the gold cross hanging around his neck.

  ‘The valley is steep and narrow, but flat at its bottom. At either end you will have a plain large enough to swamp them and block their escape,’ he purred, pointing to the hills by the coast. ‘Their column is perfect for a flanking strike – we will cut through them like a knife through oil.’

  ‘This tribunus, Nerva, he will not suspect?’ Balamber asked.

  ‘Absolutely not,’ the foederati captain affirmed. Then his eyes dropped from the stern gaze of Balamber. ‘Nerva is a spent commander. Good in years past, but now he relies too much on those outdated glories. His keenness of instinct is gone and he’ll lead them blindly into your hands…and onto your spear tips!’

  Balamber continued to stare at the foederatus after he fell quiet. ‘Something else you want to tell me?’ He asked quietly.

  The Goth’s eyes widened and he licked his lips. ‘The rider, Horsa,’ the foederati captain answered grudgingly, ‘he presumed to lead us. But he’s an excellent rider. If your men don’t catch him and he returns to the legion first to warn them…’

  ‘You’ve seen the skills of my riders. Do you think any man could outrun them, or avoid their arrows for that matter?’ Balamber growled inside as he remembered the blubbering excuses from Apsikal.

  ‘Of course not, Noble Balamber,’ he replied sheepishly.

  ‘And in any case, the final piece of the jigsaw is nearly in place, is it not?’

  The foederatus looked puzzled momentarily, then a grin curled across his features. ‘Indeed, Noble Balamber. Contact has been made. They will be in place at the allotted time.’

  ‘Excellent. This XI Claudia will be crushed from every direction.’ Balamber turned to face the rolling landscape in front of them. ‘When this Roman legion is destroyed, we will descend onto the great River Danubius. There they have left themselves stretched and vulnerable. We will flood into their proud cities, bearing their precious standards with their tribunus’ heads upon them. Their walls will tumble and their blood will stain the streets. Before the winter falls twice more, I will sit on the throne of the empire. Tengri wills it from his realm of the sky.’ He pulled a handful of the gold crosses from his purse. ‘Some in this scheme believe they are the puppet master when they are in fact the puppet.’ The foederati captain nodded, his eyes glimmering at the treasure. ‘Don’t concern yourself over the whole affair, rider. All you need to know is that when I have achieved this, you and your warriors will form a new wing in my armies.’ He traced a finger along the edge of one cross. ‘Who can stop me,’ he grinned, ‘when I have a path into the Roman heartlands paved with gold from God himself?’

  Chapter 55

  The pace was relentless. Sweat lashed from every brow and throats rasped like sand in an urn. The sun pushed against them, growing hotter and hotter until now, just after midday, soldiers began to lag and only the officers croaking out to rally them punctuated the rumble of their march.

  Pavo winced as his mail vest scythed into his shoulders with every stride. The scrap of cloth stuffed in there to relieve the pressure had slipped out, sweat-sodden and bloody, miles back. His water skin sloshed mockingly – full but no time to stop and take a swig from it. The apprehension of earlier had been consumed by the brutal labour of the march – probably an army trick to distract the ranks from falling morale, Pavo thought. Then he realised he had dropped back a pace. A harmony of curses rang out as a boot caught on his heel and the disruption rippled back behind him.

  ‘Come on, Pavo,’ Avitus hissed, looping an arm round his to pull him level. ‘Centurion’ll boot your balls if you show up his first century.’

  ‘Any idea how far now?’ He panted.

  ‘I reckon we’re over halfway,’ Zosimus groaned, his face red as beetroot.

  Halfway sounded like there was still a marathon ahead of them, Pavo winced. Every stride felt like a sack of lead was being added to his belt, and his vision began to shrink to contain just the heels of the legionary in front of him. In the periphery, yet another yawning valley rolled up ahead of them. Maybe it was his fading grip on reality, Pavo wondered, but this one seemed steeper and narrower than the rest. He noticed the two foederati wing leaders had sidled over to converse with Nerva. Eventually, the tribunus nodded.

  ‘Foederati, over the hilltops!’ Nerva barked from his mount, firing fingers in either direction up the sides of the valley. At once, the two wings shot free of the legion and up a side of the valley each.

  ‘What the…’ Pavo spluttered as he saw Gallus’ head dart left and right in shock at the unplanned move.

  ‘Not to your refined tactical manoeuvring taste is it, Pavo?’ Avitus gasped.

  ‘No, it’s just that, this formation,’ he panted, ‘we wanted the foederati close and in front for a reason.’

  ‘Oh did we – and how do you know?’ Zosimus mumbled.

  Pavo opened his mouth to reply, but a cry from the front cut him dead.

  ‘Full halt!’ Gallus had both hands raised and stuttered to a stop. The legion bunched up clumsily, but within moments they were still.

  ‘What in Hades?’ Nerva cursed at his primus pilus, wheeling back round, stood out on his own at the front of the entire legion. ‘What’s going on, Gallus? Fall in behind me,’ he hissed.

  ‘Get back in line, sir. Trust me…’ Gallus held his stance, his eyes darting around the tips of the valley on either side. ‘…sir!’

  Nerva stayed motionless, twenty paces ahead of the legion.

  Pavo’s skin crept as he glanced up – the foederati wings had disappeared over the lips of the valley. ‘This is it,’ he shuddered.

  ‘Eh?’ Avitus and Zosimus grunted in unison.

  Pavo stiffened. ‘Get ready.’

  ‘Gallus,’ Nerva bawled. ‘Get the legion moving at once.’

  Then, the hum of the breeze and the chatter of the cicadas died, and a dreadful whirring replaced and swamped it. At once the sky darkened, shafts rained toward the legion from the valley top in their thousands, like a storm cloud from the underworld.

  ‘Shields!’ Gallus cried.

  The legion broke out into a chorus of cries, and then rippled into a roof of ruby-red as they turned their shields up
as the deadly rain battered down on them. Screams pierced the air – hundreds of them, where soldiers were too slow. Then the rain slowed, and Pavo sneaked a glance out from under his shield. His eyes locked on the solitary figure of Tribunus Nerva up front; he and his mount took on the appearance of some grotesque effigy, peppered with arrow shafts, his jowls limp and his eyes shocked and staring at the legion. Silently, the Roman tribunus slid from his mount, crashing to the earth like wet sand.

  Pavo blinked in disbelief. Paranoia was gone. The nightmare was upon them.

  The sky lightened momentarily and then again was black. Every wave of arrows tore more screams from the ranks. He looked to Gallus, crouched under his shield next to Felix. This was the life-or-death moment.

  ‘It’s the recon ambush all over again, Felix; we need a way out of this.’ Gallus cried over the rattle of the lethal hail.