Pavo chuckled and clasped his hands to his friend’s shoulders twisting him to point him across the flagstoned square towards an ancient-looking tavern. Above the ale-stirring pole fixed to the wall beside the door was a timber plank bearing a stuffed bear’s head. ‘The Brown Bear. That’s the place you’re always telling us about, right? The one your stories always revolve around? Let’s go inside and you can bag us a free drink or two.’
Sura suddenly fell quiet. ‘Eh, nah, let’s… let’s head on into the southern ward – there’s a good run of taverns near the Hebrus Gate.’
‘Don’t be silly, this is the epicentre of all your,’ Pavo halted from saying nonsense, and instead said: ‘fascinating tales.’
‘Come on!’ the rest cajoled.
‘Relax,’ Pavo whispered in his friend’s ear, ‘no need to be the showman – let’s just have a good drink or two.’
With a series of playful shoves, they had Sura moving towards the tavern. Inside it was mercifully cool and dark, and the air was laced with the aroma of some spicy soup bubbling in a pot over a fire at the far end. Pavo blinked to take in the ancient-looking stone interior of low arches. The tables and benches were packed with carousers, singing, cackling and heckling one another. One fellow sat, staring into space with a sanguine smile, gazing through the brickwork in front of him, his head lolling slightly.
‘I’ll have whatever he’s having,’ Libo said, his tongue lashing out over his foul teeth in anticipation.
‘Make that two,’ Rectus agreed, his bottom lip curling in agreement.
‘Three,’ Cornix added
‘Four,’ Trupo agreed.
Quadratus and Zosimus looked at one another. ‘Just get a bloody barrel of the stuff,’ the big Thracian said with a grin.
Just then, the dazed fellow toppled back like a statue and crashed onto the floor, which raised a sarcastic cheer from all around him.
‘A small barrel,’ Quadratus reasoned.
They reached the bar and jostled to catch the attention of the maids serving behind it. After approximately three heartbeats of waiting, Sura said: ‘Look, this place is a bit busy, eh? Let’s leave it and come back another ti-.’
‘We’ll have one of the wine barrels,’ Rectus said confidently, shouting over Sura, the locals and others from the legionary camp crammed there, ‘and eight cups.’
A moment later and the eight were in a circle, lifting their drinks to their lips in unison.
Pavo saw each of them hesitate, and knew exactly what they were thinking. He raised his cup: ‘Come tomorrow, let Mithras walk with us, and Tribunus Gallus too.’
Zosimus grinned in appreciation, then raised his cup with a glint in his eye. ‘May the God of the Light and the Iron Tribunus march together, draped in the ruby bull.’
Quadratus grinned. ‘Tomorrow. Under the silver eagle. The living and the fallen. All of us, as one.’
A solemn silence hung over the group.
‘But today,’ Libo said, ending the poignant moment, ‘let Bacchus lead us on a merry dance!’
The eight roared appreciatively then took a deep gulp.
Pavo was the first to retch, spraying the potent mouthful through the air in a fine mizzle.
‘Mithras!’ Cornix wailed, spitting his back into his cup, his face and the lengthy scar wrinkling.
‘It’s a bit… strong,’ Libo said, his false wooden eye shifting up slightly in its socket as if to express its discontent. ‘But hey-ho, I’ve paid for it,’ he added with a grin, taking another gulp.
‘It’s definitely a sipper,’ Trupo agreed in a raspy voice, blinking and shaking his head, then testing his theory with a few small sips and a look befitting a man who had just sucked a lemon.
Pavo drank carefully, each drop burning as it coursed down his throat. Despite this, they bantered and drank one cup, then two then three, and soon the heady and viciously-tart wine was swirling behind his eyes and in his blood.
‘Right,’ he rasped, ‘so let’s see a bit more of this place.’
‘Agreed,’ Trupo said, eyeing the sturdy stonework and clasping a hand on Sura’s shoulder. ‘Where’s the bit where you punched a wrestler through the wall?’
‘And what about the silver plaque,’ Zosimus cooed, looking around, ‘the one commemorating your patronage of this place?’
Sura’s lips flapped but no sound emerged. Another voice filled the momentary void – a booming voice that at once dominated the tavern.
‘The governor’s wife and I have… an arrangement,’ the voice said, speaking confidently from amidst a circle of onlookers. When the Claudia lads all looked in that direction, Sura’s face fell. Pavo frowned and pushed through the crowd, as did the others. He took another swig of wine and peered into the gathering. ‘She keeps the governor happy… and I certainly keep her smiling,’ the voice said, conjuring a chorus of drunken laughter. Pavo caught sight of the speaker and had to blink a few times to be sure his eyes were not deceiving him. There, sitting in the centre of the crowd with one foot on the chair and an arm draped lazily over the raised knee like a sculptor’s model, was a burly fellow in soft leather boots and an armless green silk tunic, richly embroidered with silver thread, boldly advertising his means. He had a mop of blonde hair, hanging around his broad face, framing a square jaw and glittering green eyes. The man was the living image of Sura, only slightly older and brawnier and – if possible – even cockier. In fact, Pavo realised, the man was the image of Sura as he probably wished to be. Reclined around him were three women, each painted more gaudily than the last, their eyes tracing the contours of the speaker’s body and their giggles cloying. The man flexed one arm, the muscles bulging, and enjoyed the cooing from the crowd.
‘The javelin-throwing tournament comes around in but a few days. Have you all got your bets in place?’
A chorus of agreement sounded.
‘Good, good. I won’t let you down. After all, I never do. Nine years as champion,’ he mused idly, again flexing his arms, letting a few feel his biceps. ‘You can rely on the Unofficial King of Adrianople,’ he grinned, mesmerising the women amongst the onlookers.
Unofficial King of Adrianople? Pavo mouthed, the wine now swimming through his veins. He had heard that ridiculous title used by only one other before. He then turned from the crowd, seeing the same look of confusion on the faces of the others – all except Sura, who looked somewhat traumatised. ‘Sura, is this your-’
‘Ah, brother!’ the brawny one called out, cutting Pavo off. The crowd parted as the man stood and strode forward, arms extended.
‘Oh, bollocks,’ Sura muttered under his breath. Only Pavo heard it. ‘It’s been a long time, Romulus,’ he said, forcing a smile and accepting the man’s embrace.
‘I heard the Claudia legion was part of the great army outside the walls.’ The fellow – a good half-foot taller than Sura – scooped an arm around Sura’s shoulders, ushering him into the centre of the gathering. ‘How goes it with those water-carrying limitanei?’
The crowd erupted in laughter. Sura’s pained smile faded and his cheeks flushed red.
Romulus turned Sura with him as if displaying his brother like a prop. ‘Well he’s got to be of use for something, hasn’t he? I remember when he had a go at javelin-throwing. Thought he could match me…’ he stopped, contriving to contain his own forced laughter, ‘but he could barely throw the bloody thing in a straight line. They laughed him off the training field!’
Clouds of spittle flecked the fuggy air as all looking on roared in amusement.
‘And then there was the fire-walking contest,’ Romulus slapped a hand on his thigh and nodded to Sura as if his brother should be enjoying this. ‘I walked the fire pit without flinching, then this one tried it too,’ he poked a finger roughly in Sura’s belly, ‘fell in agony after a few steps. Had to spend the next month with his feet in bandages!’
The shrieking laughter that met this seemed set to crack the stonework in the walls.
‘Follows me like
a shadow, he does! Falling in love with women I have had my fill of – not that they give him more than a glance. Though he would tell you differently, wouldn’t you, brother?’ Romulus guffawed, then scrubbed his fist on Sura’s scalp overly roughly. ‘Oh, if only your manhood was as long as your lying tongue!’
On and on Romulus went, debunking many of Sura’s wild claims. Sura’s face became drawn and utterly defeated. Pavo noticed that the Claudia lads had chuckled at first. Now, none of them were even smiling.
A low growl like an angered mastiff sounded beside Pavo. He glanced to his side to see Zosimus, fists balled, gimlet stare upon Romulus. ‘Sir,’ Pavo said, ‘allow me.’
‘Now come, sit with me,’ Romulus hauled Sura by the arm as if to place him before the chair for further ridicule. Pavo shot out a hand, catching Sura’s shoulder.
Romulus swung round with a frown that only increased his smouldering, handsome looks. ‘What’s this, one of your water-carrying friends? Unhand him, I’m not finished with him yet,’ he said with an anticipatory chuckle.
Pavo felt something snap within. It might have been the fiery wine, but at that moment he recalled everything that made the legion what it was. Brothers who would stand for one another anywhere, no matter what. He imagined exactly what Gallus might do, then stepped into the centre of the crowd, right up to Romulus so they were nose-to-nose – give or take the height difference and the man’s far-broader shoulders. ‘Finished? Yes, I think you are,’ Pavo half-whispered, half-growled. His nose wrinkled at the pungent perfume and powder the man wore on his skin.
Romulus smirked and snorted, looking over Pavo to garner support from the crowd, who now merely tittered nervously. ‘Dirty, brainless army mules have no place in here,’ he said, stiffening and standing even taller.
Pavo saw Romulus’ jugular pulse and tremor. Had anyone ever challenged him like this, or had they all taken one glance at his Herculean physique and assumed defeat without even trying? ‘Dirty, stinking army mules surround this city in their thousands,’ he growled. ‘They came here to stand against a horde of far dirtier, far more stinking and far less forgiving Goths. Did you know that? Thirty thousand hairy bastards encased in armour and laden with sharpened blades are coming down the Tonsus valley right now. We will face them so the families within these walls don’t have to… to ensure that you can continue to visit your perfumist.’
The tittering had stopped. Pavo was unsure if the crowd could hear the words of his low drawl, but he knew they understood its tone. ‘Do you know what it is like to face a stranger in battle? There is no fawning, no chatter, no reasoning. There is just his sword and your sword. Your flesh and his. It is frantic, savage, fraught. If you are lucky enough to drive your blade up and under his ribs, ruining his heart and spilling his innards over your arm, you find the weapon sticks there, lodged in the spine usually. So as you try to wrench it free you have no option but to watch… as the light leaves his eyes. When we march, death marches with us.’
Romulus’ throat bulged as his Adam’s Apple shot up and down in an audible gulp. The watching crowd now took to whispering, hands cupped over their mouths. Pavo let his top lip arch at one side, flashing his clenched teeth. The effect was like the kick of a mule: Romulus staggered back in fright then collapsed into his seat, his composure vanquished.
A series of muted gasps sounded.
‘Optio?’ Pavo said to Sura, gesturing towards the tavern door.
‘Centurion,’ Sura replied, stalking away from his beaten brother without as much as a glance back.
They turned to leave, Zosimus and Quadratus slapping a hand each on Sura’s shoulders in a tacit gesture of support. The crowds parted before them like grass in a breeze.
As the eight made their way out of the tavern, Libo leaned over the bar, one finger raised, his single eye bulging and bloodshot. ‘Six skins of that filthy wine to go.’
The barmaid shot him the look of a scornful mother.
‘Er, please.’
The eight drank themselves merry for the rest of the afternoon, cheering Sura’s renewed vigour and fresh batch of tales. Every man savoured the last few hours of light, occasionally glancing to the sun as if measuring how much time remained in the day… contemplating tomorrow. At dusk, Pavo and Sura headed in one direction while Libo, Rectus, Trupo and Cornix wandered to some other drinking venue, arguing about whether they should combine their purses for a bulk-discount at the brothel.
But for Zosimus, there was only one destination: home. He tore the last morsel of lamb from the bone, thoroughly savouring every mouthful of the lovingly-prepared meal. The dimly-lit room in his modest home near the centre of Adrianople was warm and quiet, enough to bring on drowsiness. His belly was full, his thirst slaked with water and the giddiness of the wine was leaving him too. He gazed at his wife, Lupia, by his side at the table – she was slight and barely chest high to him. Her brown curls, touched with grey at the temples, framed her delicate features perfectly. She smiled and a few age lines at the sides of her eyes only increased her beauty. He reached over, squeezed her thigh and mouthed I love you.
An awkward cough from the other side of the table stirred him from his reverie. Zosimus turned to see Quadratus sitting there, his plate empty too but his demeanour somewhat less relaxed – mainly because Zosimus’ six year old daughter, Rufina, was sitting on his knee, pulling at the ends of his drooping moustache.
‘Aye, it’s real, it doesn’t come off,’ he said in a mix of playfulness and irritation.
‘But why is it yellow?’ Rufina asked, her face wrinkled in annoyance.
‘Eh? Because it bloody,’ Quadratus spluttered, ‘because it just is!’
Zosimus disguised a laugh, stood and spared Quadratus from his discomfort by lifting Rufina under the arms. She giggled wildly as he swung her round and kissed her cheek.
‘Can I give this to Uncle Quada… Quarat… Quadu,’ she said, holding out a small, wooden toy pony with a mane of real horsehair.
Zosimus looked at Quadratus, who replied with a soldierly shrug. ‘I think that’s a yes. Uncle Quadratus will look after the pony for you, won’t he,’ he said a little louder, directing the question at his friend as he held Rufina close enough to place the tiny toy in Quadratus’ ham-like palm. Quadratus eyed it askance, then noticed how finely carved it was. It almost looked like a war horse – in a certain light.
‘What do you say?’ Rufina said in an officious tone, her little head held upright and her nose in the air.
‘Eh? Er, thank you,’ Quadratus replied sheepishly.
‘You are most welcome,’ she said with an imperious look that suggested the toy pony had better not come to any harm.
Zosimus stifled a laugh. ‘Now, it’s time for you to rest your pretty head, little one.’
She stopped giggling. ‘Will you still be here tomorrow?’
Zosimus’ fond grin faded and he looked beyond her shoulder to Lupia and to Quadratus, who wore a matching look. Shortly after dawn he and every other soldier would be gone from this place.
‘I… I’ll be here when you wake, my dear,’ he said, directing the words to his wife and daughter equally.
The smile faded from Lupia’s face and for a moment she looked every one of her years. ‘I’ll put her to bed,’ she said, taking the girl and heading for one of the two bedrooms in the house. Before she left, she eyed Zosimus’ dust-streaked skin and tunic and added, her tone throaty: ‘and be sure to bathe before you come to bed.’
Zosimus sighed, staring into the other room, hearing Lupia reassuring Rufina. A swishing of water broke his trance: Quadratus was lifting and swirling his water cup, eyeing it with disdain. ‘Sounds like you’re on a promise tonight,’ Quadratus mused. ‘But only if you wash your arse first.’
Zosimus laughed, lifted two wine skins from the kitchen workbench and gestured to the door. ‘Shall we?’
A short while later, the pair slumped into the steamy caldarium of the market bathhouse, sitting on a shelf at the pool’s
edge that brought the hot water up to their chests. Zosimus’ shaved, stubbly head glistened with sweat while Quadratus’ blonde mane was slicked back, soaked like his moustache. At this time of night the bathhouse was deserted, with just a few slaves scuttling to and fro to tend to the place, cleaning up the strigil room adjacent, tidying away the stone pieces from the board games in there. Ancient and worn statues of Fortuna gazed down on them from niches on the wall, and the gold-painted ceiling was flaking and scarred with graffiti, but the clouds of vapour and the soothing sounds of water lapping on the poolside brought them both great calm. The pair raised their wine skins and glugged heartily on the contents. The surface of the pool before them was like silk, until Quadratus shuffled a little and suddenly, an underwater growl was accompanied by a flurry of bubbles.
‘In the name of… ’ Zosimus gasped, holding his breath. ‘One of these days you’re going to fart out your insides!’
‘Eh?’
‘Like Arius the Presbyter. Swaggering along the streets of Constantinople one day like he owned the place. Then, bang! Everything inside just fell out of him – right there on the street,’ Zosimus said and held Quadratus with a reproachful look.
‘Ach, he probably needed to work on his technique,’ Quadratus chuckled, unperturbed. ‘Anyway, it’s a compliment for such a hearty meal. Mind you,’ he mused, eyeing his wine skin appreciatively, his eyelids heavy with inebriation and tiredness, ‘I thought you were going to make me drink water all night?’
Zosimus chuckled. ‘Nah. I just wanted to have a clear head, so I could enjoy every moment with them. In case, you know… ’
‘I know,’ Quadratus said quickly.
Zosimus’ thoughts darkened as he imagined Rufina and Lupia, alone. Who would care for them? Who would ensure they received his pension? He took a gulp more wine. ‘Thirty thousand Goths,’ he said blowing air through his teeth. ‘But we’ve been through worse, my friend… much worse. We are the Claudia, after all.’ He fell silent and gazed into the water’s surface. ‘But I tell you, I wish Gallus was still with us. The Iron Tribunus was a sight to behold on the eve of battle: stilled the nerves of even the most callow recruit.’
Gods & Emperors (Legionary 5) Page 34