Legionary: The Scourge of Thracia (Legionary 4) (17 page)

The fragments of the watchtower were swept off downstream and the equally fragmented Roman defensive line fled or fell further and further back into the Great Northern Camp. Pavo and Sura became separated from the other Claudian legionaries. They staggered backwards, barely resisting the Gothic press, a trail of blood and broken corpses littering the ground in the wake of the retreat and a vile stench of open bowels wafting through the mild air. They stumbled as they backed over fallen tents, still-burning campfires and discarded crates and belongings. Sura slashed the chest of one Goth and Pavo booted the foe back then stabbed out at another. The pair backed through a cluster of tents and for a blessed moment, they were free of the battle – but they were also separated from their legion.

A thudding of boots startled them and they swung to the noise, swords flicking up. Dexion halted just inches from the tips. ‘Whoa – easy!’ he cried, a wry grin on his face as the swords were lowered.

‘What now?’ Sura gasped.

Buccinas cried from behind them. The order to retreat sounded over and over again.

The three turned to see that the open ground south of the camp was already streaked with fleeing Roman soldiers and people. Every cluster of legionaries still fighting within the camp now broke and fled as well. Pavo swivelled on his heel as if to join them, then he froze and his stomach fell into his boots as a terrible thought snared him. At the same time, Dexion gasped and Sura’s face fell agape.

‘Felicia?’ the three said in unison.

Pavo’s eyes swept across the mass of tents nearby. The foremost Goths were leaping over tents on horseback, cutting down a few scuttling survivors who had chosen to hide, tearing down or setting light to Roman tents and crying out in victory. They were just paces from the area with Felicia and Lucilla’s tent.

‘She might have been carried clear of this place already,’ Sura said, guessing their thoughts.

‘We have to be sure,’ Pavo said.

‘Then by Mithras, we’d better be swift,’ Dexion added.

Like deer rushing for a pride of lions, the three hared across the sea of Roman tents, bounding over debris as a thickening cloud of black smoke swept over them and the pillaging Goths converged upon them and Felicia’s tent.

Be far from here, please,
Pavo mouthed as they rounded the smith’s hut. Then they stumbled to a halt. In the clearing before the tents there, Farnobius stood, his great axe dripping with blood and plastered with hair and skin. By his feet lay a handful of corpses. A man, chest cleaved . . . and two women. He stared at Felicia’s pained expression, lifeless eyes staring skywards, mouth agape as if calling for him. The wound across her neck was deep and her milky skin was now grey. Lucilla’s corpse lay by Felicia’s side, her back dark red where it had met with some blade, her arms cast over Felicia as if to protect her.

He fell forward, reaching out, hearing numb, other-worldly cries and not recognising them as his own. He saw Farnobius’ giant frame jostle in glee, saw the pack of Goths that flooded into the space to flank their leader and stalk towards the legionaries. He rose, hefting up a jagged boulder and hurling it. The rock ended Farnobius’ laughter abruptly as it smashed into his face, staving in his nose. The giant fell back, clutching his face as blood pumped from his shattered nose. Pavo leapt up, tearing his spatha from his scabbard to finish the job, heedless to the nest of Goths he was about to leap into. But rough hands hauled him back.

He thrashed and kicked, unintelligible curses pouring from his lungs. Yet Sura and Dexion hauled him back from the scene, speeding as best they could from the eager Goths.

‘She’s gone, Pavo. There’s nothing you can do for her,’ Sura cried, his voice tight and his face stained with tears, flashing glances back to see that the Goths had chosen to aid Farnobius, giving them precious moments to flee.

‘Come, brother,’ Dexion added with a bitter howl. ‘I have few friends in this world. Do not let me lose another today.’

Gallus and Zosimus found themselves facing a pack of seven Goths who had broken ahead of the horde. Gallus whacked one Goth on the side of the head with the flat of his spatha, sending the warrior stumbling backwards, stupefied, into his comrades. The tribunus then plucked up a dropped torch and put light to the tents immediately before them. A wall of fire shot up and this bought him and Zosimus moments to hasten their flight.

‘Run,’ Zosimus gasped, turning and shoving Gallus with him. They leapt over a series of fallen and torn tents then hurdled a broken wagon lying on its side. They ducked down behind it, each panting and praying that they had shaken off their pursuers. Both started when Dexion and Sura staggered round the wagon’s edge, dragging Pavo like a prisoner, and ducked behind there too. For just a moment, Gallus was transfixed on Pavo. The young optio’s face was twisted in a snarl and he shook visibly with ire. His chest rose and fell like bellows and his eyes were aflame. It was a hauntingly familiar look. He noticed how Dexion and Sura retained their marshalling grip on Pavo’s arms.

‘What happened?’ Gallus asked Dexion.

Dexion shook his head briskly, the dark look in his eyes answer enough.

Just then, Quadratus skidded round behind the wagon. ‘It’s over,’ the big Gaul snarled. ‘The camp has fallen.’

‘Break for the south!’ a hoarse voice cried out as if in confirmation of the earlier buccina signals. The six behind the wagon turned to see Saturninus. His lank black hair was plastered to his face with blood and he was still surrounded by a beleaguered century of his Macedonica men and the majority of the terrified Claudia recruits who had flocked to him for protection more than anything else. They were falling back at speed now. Just a small pack of Goths harried them – most were distracted by the prospect of plundering the abandoned Roman tents and shacks.

Gallus waved his men with him as he scuttled over to Saturninus, joining his retreat.

‘Sir, where do we go from here?’ Gallus said, eyes combing the southern horizon as they fled.

‘The cities,’ Saturninus bellowed in reply. ‘We hasten south and take shelter in the walled cities.’ Then he met Gallus’ eyes and lowered his voice. ‘But I need one legion to go elsewhere.’

‘Sir?’

‘We have little time to discuss this, Tribunus. But your brief is simple. Take your men to Thracia’s western borders. In the hills there, a narrow defile called the Succi Pass links these lands to the lands of the west. At the narrowest point of the valley stands a great fortress: Trajan’s Gate. It is our last hope. It must . . .
must
remain in imperial hands.’

‘Trajan’s Gate?’ Gallus whispered, thinking of the maps he had studied – the long, tight Succi Valley and the choke-point that bore the name of a long-dead emperor. To say that Trajan’s Gate was arterial was to understate its importance.

‘Aye. Geridus, Comes of Pannonia watches over the Gate with his armies. He must be forewarned of what has happened here. He is a good man, Tribunus – not without flaws, but a good man. Many call him the Master of the Passes, and we can only pray that he can live up to such a moniker. Your forces should bolster his and see that the Gate stands firm. For it is through that corridor that Emperor Gratian and his western army will march to our aid. Now more than ever, we need his legions and those of Emperor Valens.’

The din of the rampaging Gothic horde and the panting, panicking legionaries faded away. All Gallus could hear was Saturninus’ words, ringing like an echo.

For it is through that corridor that Emperor Gratian and his western army will march.

Fritigern hefted his longsword round to sweep the head from the shoulders of a brave legionary, then swung round to locate his next opponent, the breath rattling in his lungs. But there were no more armoured men facing him. What remained of the legions of the Roman camp were in flight, harried by packs of his horsemen. He saw a group of Greuthingi horsemen running down a fleeing Roman woman, knocking her from her feet then dragging her into the remnant of a Roman shack. Her screams were shrill and never-ending. His own Thervingi warriors were no less merciful, putting Roman tents to the torch and slaying the few who had chosen to hide within when they came running from the flames. One of his men hoisted a severed Roman jawbone on the end of his spear like some sort of trophy. The Huns circled the camp, heads scouring the massacre as if disappointed that the slaughter was at an end. Thick, black smoke coiled around him and the stench of spilled guts, coppery blood and effluent was rife.

‘The legions are broken, Iudex. They flee in disorder,’ Reiks Saphrax said, panting, nodding to the escaping pockets of Romans now far south of the camp.

He looked to the squat reiks and said nothing, then strode to the square of tents that served as the Roman principia. The din of rapine and plunder was slightly muted in the centre of this square. The area was deserted bar the carpet of dead strewn on the ground. Then he saw one body twitch. An officer. The eyes of this one were upon him. The shaking hand stretched out to his spatha, lying a foot or so away. Fritigern stalked over and drove his longsword through the soldier’s chest.

‘The gates are open, Iudex. All Thracia is ours for the taking,’ this time it was Alatheus who had sidled up to him, his purring voice incongruous with the muted sounds of pillage beyond the wall of tents. Saphrax, as always, had come with him.

Fritigern saw that Alatheus and Saphrax had spilled little blood themselves – their armour and garb relatively clean.
But they don’t need to for they have a champion to do their bidding,
he mused, hearing Farnobius’ lionesque roar, just beyond the screen of tents. As if conjured by Fritigern’s thoughts, the tents on one side of the square crumpled or were pulled down, opening the principia area to the rest of the camp and revealing Farnobius on the other side, clutching three legionary eagle standards and a pair of severed heads. The cyclopean warrior’s face and armour were plastered in blood and strips of skin dangled from his trident beard. The horde, amassed behind their champion, erupted in a polyglot victory cry as he pumped the standards in the air, then took them, one by one, snapping the staffs over his knee and tossing them to the dirt.

‘We must press this advantage, Iudex,’ Saphrax urged him, one fist clenched before him, his eyes shrinking to slits. Then he raised his voice, turning his head as he spoke, so all the amassed warriors could hear; ‘What is left of the Roman armies must be cleansed from the land – plucked like lice from the back of a dog before they can gather again.’

A deafening cheer of agreement exploded from the many thousands of warriors.

With a pang of angst, Fritigern recognised the attempt to force his hand. He filled his lungs and spoke even louder than Saphrax. ‘Yet they have melted into the countryside already. It might take months to find them all, and by then, the Praesental Armies will have arrived.
That
is what we must focus on.
That
is what we must prepare for.’

‘Not quite,’ Alatheus said, his voice even and confident. ‘Yes, were we to chase over Thracia, hunting down numerous hiding bands of men, we would soon fall foul of the Praesental Armies when they arrive. But the Romans do not stay scattered for too long. They always converge upon their grey-walled cities. That is where the remainder of the Thracian legions will be headed. As the predator, we should attack the nest of our prey.’

Fritigern felt the well-worded response like the back of a hand striking his face. His chest itched as he sought some equally wise rejoinder, but before he could, the massed warriors of the alliance broke out in a babble. ‘To the cities!’ they cried.