Legionary: The Scourge of Thracia (Legionary 4) (10 page)

Gallus weighed the man’s logic. There was
some
logic in there, but the flaws leapt out at him like flashing blades. ‘If that was a viable tactic, then surely Saturninus would have arranged it already.’

‘Hmm?’ Barzimeres grunted, clearly having consigned the argument to his ‘victory’ pile, a rivulet of wine running down his overly-groomed beard and staining his white robes.

‘If enticing the Goths south and onto the riverbanks, as you suggest, was workable, would your magister equitum not already have done this – feigned the fall of one of the passes? Perhaps he might lose a few hundred soldiers, but to corral and defeat Fritigern’s hordes as you suggest that would be a cheap price to pay.’

‘Ah,’ Barzimeres swiped a hand through the air. ‘Saturninus is a timid, diffident fellow. Some fool tied him to a sword and shoved him into command. He loves combat only when he has a sturdy wall between himself and the enemy. He knows nothing but that which I tell him.’ He jabbed a finger into his chest as if to reinforce the point. ‘Yet he is still too craven to act upon my advice.’

Gallus let this bone of contention lie. There would be no convincing him that his glorious plan was folly. He sought another tack. ‘And when the rains stop, are you so sure the Goths would be halted by the river?’

Barzimeres’ face was ruddy like the wine now. ‘Why wouldn’t they be?’

‘The swollen river is broad and fierce, but only as long as the rains fall. When this bout of rain slows and stops, the Tonsus returns to being little more than a glorified brook – was it not so in the summer?’

Barzimeres’ lips twitched, devoid of a riposte.

‘And if winter brings ice, then it presents a solid, unbroken walkway for an army to march across, does it not?’

Barzimeres’ eyes widened with Gallus’ every word. ‘Well, we will act accordingly if that happens. The palisades will be re-erected. I have a tower on the riverbank watching for any signs of danger – be it from enemy soldiers or from
Terra Mater
herself.’

‘And will your men remember how to dig a ditch, how to line up atop the ramparts, how to hurl a volley of darts at an onrushing enemy?’

Barzimeres bridled at this interrogation, and suddenly shot to standing. ‘You think I do not know how to instil discipline in my men? Have you seen my Cornutii, my Scutarii?’

‘I saw them. I also noticed how they choose to camp further along the riverbank in small palisade forts of their own. The rest of this rabble remain here in this disgrace of a camp and uphold your command only because they can do as they please. They do not respect you, sir.’

‘I think
you
need a lesson in respect, Tribunus,’ Barzimeres raged then grabbed and unfurled a scroll lying on the map table. ‘Saturninus sent a messenger today, asking for reinforcements at the Shipka Pass. He specifically asks for men who know the region north of the passes well.’

Gallus felt the balance of the conversation turning.

‘Your lot know Moesia well, do you not?’ Barzimeres’ features wrinkled as he grinned in victory. ‘Tomorrow, you will march faster and harder than ever before to the Shipka Pass redoubt. My Cornutii and I will lead the way and show you just how much skill I expect from my soldiers.’

‘But my new cohorts,’ Gallus interjected.

‘While you are gone, I can have my best men muster your
precious
cohorts,’ Barzimeres purred, slumping back in his chair like a contented cat.

Gallus’ nose wrinkled at the reek of stale wine on Barzimeres’ breath. The only sound in the tent was of his teeth grinding like rocks.

Pavo stumbled back to the tent, his head spinning like a drunk’s. He barely noticed the squelching mud nor thought of the missed curfew. His eyes traced the etching on his leather bracelet again and again.

Hostus Vitellius Dexion.

He had made Felicia repeat his name, his full name, countless times.

‘You are sure?’ he had gasped even when she became angry at his questioning.

‘I told you,’ Felicia had insisted, ‘he’s at the Shipka Pass and has been for three weeks.’

She had only relented in her ire when he showed her the bracelet. Her eyes had widened as she read the etching upon it. In the silence that followed, he told her everything about those final moments when Father had tied the leather band onto his wrist. ‘Dexion is my brother,’ he had whispered to her.

‘Optio?’ a voice cut through his thoughts.

‘Sir!’ Pavo half-yelped, seeing that Gallus’ and his paths had crossed. His thoughts scrambled to conjure some excuse, but his mind was in pieces.

‘What’s wrong, Optio?’ Gallus asked, the expected rebuke not coming.

‘Sir, I . . . ’ he untied the bracelet, holding it so Gallus could read the etching. ‘My brother is . . . but a short march from here, at the Shipka Pass.’

Gallus’ eyes widened. ‘Then you may be the only one of us who will cheer the brief Barzimeres has just given me.’

Chapter 3

A century of the Cornutii and the five men of the XI Claudia set off from the Great Northern Camp at dawn, the armoured column snaking north towards the Haemus Mountains, rain driving into their faces as the damp day wore on. By late afternoon when the grey light began to fade, they found themselves on the lower slopes of the great range.

Gallus’ chest and thighs were burning from the march. It was a welcome agony in many ways, for it meant he could not dwell on his troubles, for the unremitting
crunch-splash-crunch
of boots and the drumming of rain on his helm helped scatter any nascent thoughts that tried to gather. The scale-vested Cornutii marched on ahead of them as if unfeeling of fatigue – though they marched burdened only with light ration packs, while his five carried a tent and full marching supplies.

‘Concentrate only on the next mile,’ he called over his shoulder to the four with him, rainwater lashing from his brow, ‘and soon we will be at our journey’s end. A fire, a bellyful of stew and a dry bed awaits us at the Shipka Pass.’

‘Come on, come on!’ Barzimeres bellowed in an entirely different tone from the front of the march as he twisted in his saddle and looked back down the line to the XI Claudia five. He swept his spatha out and pointed it up the rain-soaked northern slopes like some sort of conquering hero. ‘Where’s the famous discipline and steel of the XI Claudia, eh?’ He slowed his stallion, falling back past his century of Cornutii, then the barely noticeable gap of a few paces, then coming to Gallus at the head of the XI Claudia. ‘
Eh?
’ he reiterated with an edge of venom. He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted ahead. ‘Military step!’ in moments, the rhythmic footsteps of the Cornutii grew faster, and the small gap stretched to a handful of strides. ‘Look: my Cornutii are pulling ahead.’

Gallus opted not to reply.

‘So come on,’ he roared, ‘up the pace. Faster,
faster!
’ Then he leaned down again to whisper: ‘That’s an order, Tribunus.’

Gallus’ teeth gnashed behind his lips. Then he bellowed: ‘Military step, up the pace!’ The rhythm of footsteps increased, and the balls of Gallus’ feet scraped and slid on the ever steepening path. But within moments, the gap had closed again.

Barzimeres’ features grew pinched as he watched this. ‘Faster still, order them to full step,’ he hissed.

Gallus felt the words sting on his lips as he prepared to shout the order, but he could not. This dog would not stop until one of his men stumbled or fell. His banished thoughts flooded to the fore, and his eyes blazed with ire. ‘What do you seek to prove, Tribunus?’ he snapped at Barzimeres. ‘That a group of legionaries encumbered with kit and supplies cannot march uphill as fast as lightly-burdened soldiers? Save your misguided vendettas for a time when we are not at war. Perhaps then you and I can march in contest – if you can prise your wart-ridden arse off the saddle, that is.’

Barzimeres’ features reflected Gallus’ wrath. ‘How dare you. I outrank you. I could have you flogged . . . ’ He raised his hand, bringing it back as if to rake the knuckles across Gallus’ face. Gallus willed him to strike and heard the desperate intakes of breath from those watching on from behind.

But the tension was broken when a Cornutii voice called out from the front of the column. ‘The pass!’ All eyes swung up the track. Just ahead, it bent even more sharply uphill on the back of a great ridge that wound towards the heart of the range. Up there, shrouded in raincloud, lay the lofty choke-point they sought.

The Shipka Pass.

Barzimeres growled and lowered his hand, then clicked his tongue and set his mount in motion up the path.

The rising ridge path was narrow and treacherous. Ancient flagstones poked through the shale and scree as evidence that the empire had once, long ago, tried to master this terrain. As they ascended, the raincloud began to envelop them. Shadows seemed to move before them. Rain-soaked bushes flitted in and out of view either side of the steeply rising track, the wet leaves glinting in the fading light like the armour of waiting Goths or brigands. Eventually, the air grew thin and cold. Then, some way above and ahead, tiny pockets of orange torchlight glimmered through the haze like a cloud of fireflies. The marching men of the column slowed, all eyes fixed on this ethereal sight.
The Shipka defences
, Gallus realised. A chill wind swept around them, moaning and driving the mizzle stubbornly into their faces.

Gallus noticed that Barzimeres was frozen by the spectacle too. His skin had taken on an unhealthy pallor and his Adam’s apple bulged as he gulped dryly and his tongue darted out to dampen his lips.
Lost your pluck?
Gallus wondered. He had seen the signs a thousand times before.

‘Halt!’ Barzimeres cried out, raising his hand. ‘Cornutii, about turn!’ he continued as he heeled his stallion round to face south. At once the feather-helmed legionaries swung on the spot and came back down the track. Their faces betrayed no hint of exhaustion or dismay at Barzimeres’ behaviour.

Good men,
Gallus thought,
plagued with a petty fool as their leader.

Barzimeres shuffled on the saddle as if to shake off Gallus accusing stare. ‘Now that I have brought you to within sight of the pass defences, I will lead my escort back to the great camp. I trust you can make the rest of the journey on your own?’

Gallus barely resisted the urge to laugh dryly. It seemed that Barzimeres was a paragon of military valour and discipline only until he came within a half-mile of danger. ‘I trust we can,’ Gallus replied flatly. ‘Now, you had best make haste, else the Great Camp will be going to ruin,’ he said, deadpan.

They climbed higher and higher up the ridge path, the mountain chill searching under their tunics and cloaks and the dull orange glow of the defences growing slowly closer. Slivers of moonlight pierced the fog here and there to illuminate the steep, unforgiving drops either side of the path, and every now and then scree loosened by their boots plummeted over the edges. Gallus heard his men talk, at first mainly of Barzimeres’ detestability. But then he heard Pavo’s words to Sura.

‘He’s up there, my brother is up there!’ Pavo insisted.

‘And Felicia was at it with him?’ was the best Sura could muster in reply.

Gallus had seen how Pavo coveted the bracelet his father had given him in Persia. Not for a moment did he believe that the message on it would lead to anything. Now, it seemed, the young optio was but moments from being united with his lost half-brother.
If he has even half of your heart, lad, then this will be a fine day indeed.

He glanced up seeing that at last they were nearly at the defence works: a dark shape was emerging from the fog – a thick, squat bulwark, sitting astride and blocking the ridge like a worn tooth, the walls shining with damp and with a jagged timber palisade jutting from its edges to make a parapet of sorts. This small, square enclosure was all that stood between the Gothic hordes and Thracia? He saw faint shapes along the walls, vaguely silhouetted by the watery orange torchlight. Legionaries.

Well that’s a good start,
he mused wryly. After less than a day in the quagmire camp by the River Tonsus, this keep was a fine sight. It was tiny – wedged onto the high-point of the ridge and designed to hold no more than a cohort.

‘Who goes there?’ a voice cried out from the southern gateway.

Gallus answered the challenge of the gate sentries. The timber gates creaked open and he led his five inside. Within, he saw tidy if cramped rows of legionary tents and banners. They filed along the main south-north path that split the camp in two, passing the rows of contubernium tents. Up ahead, he sighted the principia tent, and instantly spotted the eagle standard erected beside it: the white banner draped from the crossbar depicted a red bloom riven with crossed spears.
The V Macedonica
, he realised, seeing similar designs on the legionaries’ shields. This legion –
limitanei like the Claudia – had guarded the Danubian frontier as something of a brother-legion to his own. He had heard that many of the Macedonica had fallen at Ad Salices, but the regiment lived on, it seemed.

They halted at the principia. A man emerged from this command tent. Gallus did not recognise him. Certainly, he was much unlike the giant of a man who had led the Macedonica the last time they had marched with the Claudia. This one was of Gallus’ age, medium height and whip-thin, with lank, dark hair hanging to his collar. He had wan and delicate – almost feminine – features that looked as if they had been shaped by the most delicate of hands. He wore a brown cloak and bronze scale armour that failed to disguise his narrow, rounded shoulders. ‘Saturninus, Magister Equitum of the Great Northern Camp and the Five Passes,’ he said in a timid, hoarse voice, his breath clouding in the lofty chill.

‘Tribunus Manius Atius Gallus of the XI Claudia Pia Fidelis,’ Gallus replied, throwing an arm up in salute. He did not let it show, but he could not dispel a sense of disappointment that this man – subordinate only to Magister Militum Traianus – seemed so meek. He had heard so much about these mountain passes that he had built up an image of some ironclad colossus, fighting back the marauding Goths. Was Saturninus craven and unsuited to military life as Barzimeres had suggested? He pushed his doubts to one side. ‘We come at the behest of Emperor Valens, Magister Militum Traianus . . . and Tribunus Barzimeres.’

‘And not a moment too soon,’ Saturninus mused as if thinking aloud. ‘Have your men prepare camp in the north-eastern quarter.’ He pointed to a small tentless patch of ground there. ‘They can eat their fill too,’ he added, nodding to a sheltered table with a steaming urn of broth and a basket of well-fired loaves.

Gallus swung round, nodded to his four wordlessly, and in moments they were at work. As Gallus turned back to Saturninus, he spotted a few Macedonica legionaries coming to and from their tents. He recognised none of them.

‘You expected to find familiar faces of the Macedonica here?’ Saturninus said, having stepped over next to him.

Gallus shrugged. ‘I am just pleased to find good soldiers here.’

Saturninus laughed. ‘Gracious words, but your eyes betray your true feelings. The Macedonica were utterly crippled in the wake of Ad Salices. Less than thirty men survived and none of them officers . . . and their eagle was lost in the clash. I thought that by resurrecting the legion, by commissioning a new eagle, I might also revive the spirit of their fine past.’ He swept a hand to the silver eagle standard near the principia; it was gleaming and clearly a recent commission. Opulence, but with a purpose, Gallus thought, recalling Barzimeres’ pointless bronze vest. ‘So I drew in veterans from the south – men who know little of these lands. We have just six hundred men here. Many fell after the last Gothic attack, but the wall holds and holds well,’ he gestured to the north-facing side of the fortlet and beyond. ‘Fritigern can count many spears amongst his horde, but he does not know how to tackle a well-built wall.’

‘Long may that be the case,’ Gallus replied flatly, eyeing the battlements.

‘A century is posted on the northern parapet at all times, a century of archers is split between the two northern corners,’ he nodded up to the nearest corner, shrouded in the fog. These sections of the walls were a few feet higher than the rest. Up there, Gallus noticed the glint of stockpiled bows,
lancea
and
plumbatae
– the arrows, javelins and lead-weighted darts would be more lethal than ever when thrown from those points in the high ground, ‘and another century of legionaries is spread over the southern, eastern and western walls,’ he pointed to each wall in turn.

‘You fear they might circumvent this path and come round on your rear?’ Gallus said, his brow furrowing as he thought of the steep sides of the ridge. Surely such a move was impossible – certainly for any sizeable force.

‘We cannot neglect the possibility, unlikely as it is,’ Saturninus replied.

‘But the ridge path is surely the only way through this section of the mountains?’ Gallus insisted.

‘I thought so too,’ Saturninus nodded wearily, ‘until my men found a broken, veiled trail. It runs along the shale and scree of the ridge-side, right past this fort and all the way to the north. It is so treacherous a route that it is unlikely the Goths will stumble upon it, but we must be prepared for anything. Above all, we must hold this ridge path. As long as we do, the Goths will never be able to bring their wagons along it and to the south. Without their wagons, they have no grain, no tools, no tents . . . no means of migrating south as a horde.’