Legionary (28 page)

Gallus sensed his tribunus spiralling into panic. ‘I’ll order a double watch while the men set up camp for the night. I’ll put the word out that we need any information going. But these men need rest —
we
need to rest — before we can tackle this situation,’ Gallus offered.

‘Agreed,’ Nerva nodded wearily.

It was a balmy night. In the torchlight, the outline of a standard legion marching camp was now visible in the dry sand on the large, flat area to the right of the grassy hillock. Legionaries and auxiliaries sweated as they piled up mounds of sand and earth behind the rectangular ditch and rampart of the camp’s outer perimeter. Other parties worked on stripping the terminally damaged ships to prepare a timber palisade perimeter to line the lip of the rampart, and to piece together basic watchtowers so the other men could work to complete the camp in the knowledge that their backs were covered.

Pavo winced as another blister burst on his palm. The red, stinging flesh left behind scraped against the pick axe handle mercilessly. He stopped to wipe his palm over his growing-in crop of dark hair, yelping as the bristles further aggravated the wound.

‘Enough moaning, Pavo,’ Quadratus muttered, flicking sand over Pavo with his boot with an evil chuckle. ‘Quicker we finish, quicker we get some kip!’

He hadn’t spent the night in a tent with his contubernium yet, but he had had the misfortune to sleep near Quadratus on the boat. ‘Sleeping? In our tent? Depends if you’re farting like there’s no tomorrow,’ he replied, scooping a basketful of dirt and sand and hurling it over his shoulder.

‘Watch it!’ Sura yelped as the sand tumbled over him.

‘The big foederatus can’t handle a lump of sand…’ Pavo trailed off, his eyes widening. In the brush, just below the ridge at the top of the beach, a shape moved — like a huge snake, slithering on its belly. ‘What the? Back me up,’ he hissed, slapping Sura on the shoulder before leaping out of the ditch.

‘Oi! Get your arse back here,’ Quadratus howled behind them.

Ignoring Quadratus, the pair stalked forward. Crouching as he approached, Pavo was both repulsed and intrigued by the glistening form; it was a man, sparkling in wet blood and gore, but black with filth, too. Pavo whipped his fingers out and round, mimicking Gallus’ pincer movement signal.

‘What
is
that? I thought all casualties had been rounded up,’ Sura hissed back. But Pavo was already off and running. ‘Oh for…’ he spat, setting off at pace to form the second pincer. The pair converged on the figure, leaping to land on an end each.

The entire camp dropped their tools at the roar produced by the filthy, bedraggled figure as they pinned him down.

‘Easy!’ Pavo yelled as the man thrashed below him. ‘You’re surrounded.’

At the sound of his voice, the man slackened. ‘Roman?’ he croaked.

‘Too right, the empire’s finest,’ Sura barked, shoving the man’s face into the dirt. ‘Now on your feet!’

Pavo looked to his friend as he bound the man’s hands. ‘At last, a prisoner!’

Gallus frowned. The man was a Goth, not one of those riders. Even in his muddied and bruised state, the long blonde locks, the blue stigma on his jaw, the long, narrow features and towering height screamed Goth through and through. He eyed Pavo and Sura. They had broken from orders to apprehend the man, but there was no way he would reprehend them for doing so.

‘Sir, he’s playing dumb, but we reckon he was with the party of riders,’ Sura offered enthusiastically. ‘He might be able to talk for us and tell us a bit more about them?’

‘Don’t assume anything yet, soldier,’ Gallus replied. ‘Take a shoulder each and get him to the tribunus’ tent. Zosimus, you back them up, he’s a big bugger.’

Nerva’s tent glowed a sleepy orange inside as the lanterns flickered. The sensation of shelter and warmth hit Pavo like a punch between the eyes; instantly he blinked to stay awake, digging his dirt-packed nails into his palms at the same time. The tribunus stood over a table with a pile of soaked but legible maps together with the surviving senior centurions of the second and third cohorts. Each of them jabbered, eagerly advising the tribunus of their suspected location, both seemingly equivocal in their opinion.

‘Tribunus,’ Gallus announced firmly as he pushed back the tent flap to enter.

Nerva glanced up at first before slowly raising his head. He surveyed the captive with keen eyes. ‘What have you brought me Centurion?’ He asked, his voice tight with anticipation.

‘He’s a Goth sir,’ Gallus spoke, ‘Couple of our more alert recruits caught him sneaking across our lines.’

Pavo tried not to react, but felt himself stretch a few inches taller at the praise. Cold and indirect praise, but praise indeed from the centurion.

‘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.

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.