Legionary (35 page)

‘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 abandoning 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.

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?’

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.

‘We’re going to be picked off if we sit here, sir.’

‘Well then it’s pull back or push ahead. We need to get out of the low ground and out of bloody archer range.’ A shaft ripped across the centurion’s shoulder, spraying blood on his optio’s face. Neither man flinched.

‘It’s just more open terrain back there,’ Felix shouted.

‘Death or the unknown,’ Gallus spat bitterly.

Then Pavo saw it; bursting along the valley side, swerving through the arrow storm, three riders sped. The bouncing blonde topknot — it was Horsa!

‘Ahead!’ Horsa roared, ‘Get to the other end!’ He waved his spear frantically back over his shoulder towards a flat near the far end of the valley.

‘Decision made,’ Gallus growled, then stood, turning to face the legion with his shield over his back and boomed to the ranks; ‘Legion, fast as you can — get to the end of the valley.’

Pavo rose with the ranks as they raced forward, formations stretched like spilled grain. The screams of the stricken tripled without the shield roof, and every stride felt like a lottery of death as arrows zipped past his ear, thudded into the earth before him and sclaffed across his mail vest. Horsa and the two riders up ahead had slowed, out of archer range; they waved frantically, encouraging the legion on.

‘Get to that flat ground!’ Gallus cried, waving his arm again and again to the end of the valley. ‘Then form up — five ranks deep. We must hold the flanks!’

They spilled forward and the arrow rain slowed. The bedraggled cohorts poured onto the flat to about face and form up. Pavo snatched a glance along the new Roman front line at the two riders with Horsa. One was Roman. Blonde.
Sura was alive
!

Pavo’s mind reeled, euphoria mixed with the dread in his veins.

Then Gallus rallied the legion with a roar, battering his sword on his shield as he faced their still invisible enemy. ‘Steady, men. Let’s see what these dogs fight like when they meet us face to face. Let them taste our iron!’

An ill-fitting silence settled on the scene. The panting, rasping and groaning legionaries stared back along the valley floor at the crimson carpet of their fallen brothers. Yet, curiously, the hillsides lay green and empty, the breeze rippling through the grass. The shades that had attacked them nowhere to be seen.

‘Cowards!’ One legionary roared.

‘Come face us!’ Another added.

The legion broke out into a rabble of insults at the emptiness before them, as if beckoning an army of shades from the realm of Pluto.

Pavo looked along the lines; desperation painted on every face. These men were at their limit. Wounded and starved of revenge. So many had fallen, but it would take a ferocious enemy to overcome them still. Suddenly, the ground began to shake.

‘They’re coming,’ Pavo whispered.

‘What is it with you?’ Zosimus muttered. ‘Got a sixth sense or something?’

Then the valley tops darkened; from each side, the horizon boiled over with a mass of steel and thunder. First the Hun spearmen, clad in linen armour with leather skullcaps and wooden shields, thousands of them, tumbled down the valley’s end to converge at the bottom in a crescent. Behind them came wave after wave of Hun cavalry — spear tips jostling as they poured incessantly until the lonely valley was nearly full. Then the foederati came, the turncoat horsemen adding only a small wing to the Hun horde.

Dead in the centre of the enemy number, one warrior stood out; on a tall black stallion and clad in shimmering Sassanian iron armour, he barked out at his men through the bone and fur standards held by his surrounding guards.

‘What the…there must be ten thousand of them,’ Avitus gasped, his eyes darting back and forth over the sea of fluttering banners and spear points.

‘Twenty thousand. Plus the two thousand turncoat foederati,’ Pavo added reluctantly. Suddenly a figure bustled into place next to him —
Sura!

‘You lead a charmed existence,’ Pavo welcomed him, clasping his forearm.

Sura, gaunt and sweating, grabbed at his water skin and poured the entire contents down his throat. ‘My foederati days are over,’ he asserted, burping then throwing the skin to the ground and steadying his feet into a soldier’s brace.

‘Glad to hear it,’ Avitus grinned, ‘welcome back to the ranks.’

Horsa stood just in front of them with Gallus. ‘They came at us in the next valley,’ he nodded to the east. ‘We tried to return. They couldn’t catch us, but they herded us, driving us north, away from the legion.’ Horsa punched a fist into his palm. ‘Let me and my last rider loose, sir. I’ll take down as many of those treacherous dogs as the gods will let me. The gold they were bought with will not serve them in the afterlife.’

‘Save your energy, captain, we’ve got no cavalry wing now; keep your mounts safe to the rear — if we need speed they’ll be priceless.’