Legionary: The Scourge of Thracia (Legionary 4) (27 page)

The last word echoed through the mines and the Greuthingi flanking him and dotted all around the cavern levelled their spears. The prisoners flinched at this. He saw a pair of them – one with a flat nose and the other with devious, dark eyes. ‘Your answer?’ he said, pinning these two with his glare.

‘We are not soldiers,’ Vulso said warily.

‘We are thieves,’ Dama added.

‘And murderers,’ another prisoner, still in chains, spat. ‘That one raped an old woman then killed her. That’s not the act of a mere thief.’

Vulso shot the prisoner a sour look.

Farnobius wondered at the type of men he might harvest from this exercise.
Dogs of war and no more,
he reaffirmed, then intensified his glower on the flat-nosed one. ‘Make your choice. Gold, rapine and glory await you should you choose wisely.’

Vulso and Dama shared a glance, their angst melting away as they considered the booty to be had, then both nodded. ‘We choose to serve you, Reiks.’

Hundreds of voices echoed this, and Farnobius grinned as he sensed his horde’s mood swelling. The Greuthingi started the familiar chant, then the prisoners caught on and joined in.

‘
Far-no-bi-us! Far-no-bi-us! Far-no-bi-us!
’

Later, Farnobius stood amongst the smouldering ruins of the sentry camp at the foot of the mountains. He glowered at the single handcart before him. It held just a few chunks of gold-streaked ore.

So very, very little,
the voice of Vitheric’s shade said without a hint of mockery, yet the words scourged Farnobius’ hopes.

‘It is all they could find,’ Egil, the minor Greuthingi noble, insisted.

‘I promised them wagons of gold,’ Farnobius growled, detecting the eyes of his men darting over the takings from the mine and remembering his promise to them just a week ago at the ruined wagons.

‘These mines are all but spent, Reiks Farnobius,’ Humbert, Egil’s comrade, shrugged.

Farnobius was irked by the way Humbert said this, his voice loud and clear as if to announce the failure to the horde. This reminded him starkly of Alatheus and Saphrax, the asps who had used and humiliated him for years.

‘There is but a fraction of what you hoped to find,’ Humbert continued.

Farnobius’ top lip twitched and his axe-arm tensed.
Another word and your head will spin free . . .

Then the sibilant tone of the dead boy-king spoke again;
You would grant him such a swift death? Then you must truly respect this one.

Farnobius’ head twitched violently as he shook the voice away, and his fingers tightened on his axe.

‘I did, however, find these,’ Humbert added, holding up a pile of scrolls then nodding to the charred remains of a timber building, ‘in there. Maps, messages,’ he said, unfurling a few and pinning them open on the edge of the hand cart with daggers.

Farnobius’ ire faded and the axe-arm slackened as he followed Humbert’s finger, tracing across the map.

‘This seems to show the gold stores of the empire.’ Humbert tapped upon Abdera, where a golden dot represented these mines and another at Constantinople seemingly represented the treasury and mint where the mined gold ended up. ‘Thracia’s gold stores are well and truly secured behind the walled cities,’ he concluded, tapping similar gold dots at Adrianople and Athenae.

‘You offer me nothing I do not already know,’ Farnobius sighed.

Humbert offered a weak smile and pointed to one of the scrolls he had unfurled. ‘No, there is more. This message describes the situation to the west, beyond Thracia – in the Dioceses of Dacia and Pannonia and all the provinces encompassed by those lands.’

Farnobius frowned, looking over the foreign writing on the scroll and then to the area west of Thracia. Many of the cities here and all the way to the waters of the
Mare Adriaticum
were dotted with gold. ‘More gold hidden behind well-manned walls?’ he said, exasperated.

Humbert shook his head, his grin growing as he traced a section of the writing. ‘Unlike here, the garrisons of the western cities are weak, some even non-existent. The western legions are concentrated elsewhere.’

A shiver of excitement ran up Farnobius’ spine.
Glory, riches, a kingdom that can be carved out in my name.

But the echoing voice of Vitheric was quick to counter;
A kingdom of glory built upon the rotting foundations of a small, trusting boy’s corpse.

His head twitched again and he issued a low growl as his eyes traced back over the map, seeking out the route from Thracia to those western lands. His efforts were foiled by the etchings of mountains forming a wall between east and west, then his gaze snagged on the one winding valley passage that cut through these heights. Under it was scrawled a faded name.
The Succi Pass.
At its narrowest point was a tiny drawing of what looked like some minor stone fortification. Here was inscribed the text
Trajan’s Gate
. Nothing else was marked on the map. No other barriers apart from this one. His thin smile returned in earnest.

He swung round to his watching horde, holding the scroll aloft. ‘Today, we have seized a great treasure. A map that will take us to the gold stores of the West. A land barely defended. A land that can be ours. Tomorrow, we set off to the West, to Trajan’s Gate and the spoils that await us beyond!’

Muted chatter broke out. For a moment, he doubted whether they would accept this: a scroll when they had been promised tangible bounty. Then the chatter spilled into a refrain of cheering. The chant started then, and he basked in the glorious clamour.

‘
Far-no-bi-us, Far-no-bi-us, Far-no-bi-us!
’

He thought nothing of the dogs, Alatheus and Saphrax. He heard nothing from the persistent shade of the boy-king whose life he had taken in the shallows of the Danubius. The moment was his. The day was his. Then something moved in the corner of his eye to spoil it. A lone figure was scrambling down the mountainside, behind his horde. It was a Roman in a red military tunic, his skin and hair blackened with dirt and smoke. Farnobius silently beckoned the nearest of his foot archers. The Goth handed him a self-bow and an arrow. Farnobius nocked, winked and drew to his cheek, then loosed. The arrow sailed through the air and punched into the dirt where the Roman had been standing just a moment ago. Now the cur was in flight, rushing and vaulting onto a riderless horse – a piebald mare. A moment later, the Roman had heeled the beast into a gallop, haring north-west.

Might your kingdom of glory be toppled by just one rider?
Vitheric asked.
Mine was stolen from me by the strangling hands of just one man . . .

Farnobius gazed into the ether, lost in the truth of the words.

A Hun rider trotted over beside him. The stench of the man gave him away and shook Farnobius from his trance. It was Veda the scout, the one who had found the secret path around the Shipka Pass. The rat-faced rider wore a wolf-skin on his head like a crown, the fangs marking his forehead and the pelt hanging down his back. His keen eyes followed the Roman rider’s path. ‘Shall I kill him?’ Veda asked, nocking his bow.

Farnobius’ brow knitted. The escaping dog might have heard of his planned route west. Should word reach those lands, his rapine might not be as smooth as he had hoped. ‘Do it.’

Veda’s asymmetric compound bow stretched, then relaxed again, the arrow unloosed.

‘What are you doing?’ Farnobius growled.

‘He is too far away, Master. It would be a waste of an arrow. But I can hunt him, if you wish? Just as my people hunt antelope on the steppe.’

Farnobius’ chest prickled. He grabbed Veda’s collar and hauled the rodent-faced man closer. ‘Catch him, kill him . . . ’ he growled, his smashed nose wrinkling and his head twitching violently, then eyed the Hun’s wolf pelt. ‘ . . . and bring me his skin!’

Chapter 14

Veda raced after the fleeing Roman through daylight and black night. For seven days the chase continued, his sturdy steppe pony never quite swift enough to match the Roman piebald’s pace, but strong enough to ride on and regain lost ground while the Roman beast had to rest. And this morning, the chase would end, he vowed.

He clung to his galloping pony’s neck and basked in the chill late-October wind whipping across his face and furring the wolf skin on his head. White cloud streaked the blue heavens as if cast there by Tengri the Sky God himself, the tall grass before him stretched for miles and if he ignored the snow-clad Haemus Mountains to the north, he could almost imagine that he was on the great steppe once more – the home he and his people had left behind to seek bounty in Roman lands as allies with the Goths. For that moment, he was home, almost heedless of the vital task Reiks Farnobius had set him.

Then something wrenched him from his reverie. An assault on the senses. He slowed, sitting tall on the saddle, his nose shooting skywards like a hound on the scent. His eyes fixed on the weak pall of smoke rising from a depression in the tall grass, barely a quarter of a mile ahead. He slowed his pony to a canter as he approached the small patch of flattened grass. He could smell it now: woodsmoke. And he could hear the crackling of kindling and snorting and shuffling of a tired mount. His rodent-features bent into a chill grin, and he slipped from the saddle and crept towards the source of the noise. Parting the tall grass like curtains, he beheld the filthy, shaking Roman, crouching, back turned, heaping more grass and twigs onto the feeble fire he had kindled. The man was shivering uncontrollably, dressed only in a light tunic, and his chestnut mare lay on its belly, still lathered with sweat from the relentless flight.

A swift beast and a skilful rider, aye,
mused Veda,
but you thought that when the horizon was between me and you, you were safe. That was your mistake.

Veda’s brow dipped, his eyes sparkling and fixed on the Roman’s neck as he silently drew a sickle from his belt. Then he leapt like a preying cat.

It was only the startled whinny of the exhausted mare that foiled his strike. The Roman swung round, throwing out an arm that caught the sickle blade as Veda descended. The blade slashed the edge of the Roman’s wrist and chipped bone, while the Roman’s fist crashed into Veda’s jaw. A burst of white light exploded behind Veda’s eyes and he rolled through the grass. An instant later though, he was back on his feet, only to see the Roman speeding off into the swaying, shoulder-high grass like a panicked deer, trying in vain to call back his bolting mare.

Veda noticed the dark rivulets of blood staining the grass and marking the Roman’s path. He touched his fingers to the blood, then brought them up to his nostrils, sniffing then grinning once more.

Run for your life, Roman. It’ll make the kill all the sweeter,
he mused as he leapt back upon his steppe pony and heeled her on in pursuit.
Just like the great hunt in the steppes,
he enthused,
I can toy with this dog. Circle him, herd him, pin him into a corner . . . then peel the skin from his body. First, perhaps I should deal with his fleetness of foot . . .

He drew his composite bow, nocked, drew with thumb, forefinger and middle finger, then loosed. The arrow whizzed through the air and thwacked into the Roman’s shoulder. Blood puffed and the Roman dropped into the grass and disappeared from sight.

‘No!’ Veda growled, angered that he might have killed his prey all too quickly. Then, when the Roman re-emerged, clutching his wounded shoulder and running – but with far less alacrity this time – Veda’s rictus returned. Chuckling, he took a swig of fermented mare’s milk and sighed in contentment, then trotted after the Roman.

He was gaining on the fleeing man easily, and took to eyeing the land ahead: foothills and rugged highland. He watched as the Roman burst from the edge of the sea of grass, then loped on into those hills. The man was weakening from his wounds, Veda noted with relish, seeing him scramble and fall as he tried to ascend a steep, craggy bank, leaving smears of blood from his wounds as he did so. Still, the dog managed to reach the top of this hill. Veda kicked his mount on in pursuit. At the crest, he halted, seeing the Roman flailing down the far side and then stumbling onwards along the floor of a great, steep-sided valley. And what a valley: it was as if a great plough had been dragged, undeterred, through the mountainous terrain. Then his eyes fell upon the broad stripe of dilapidated grey flagstones that ran up the heart of this valley.
The Roman Road,
Veda realised.

I had better be swift,
he affirmed, fearing that the Roman might find shelter or comrades here. He hoisted his sickle and checked that the edge was keen.
Keen enough to peel flesh,
he mused, then kicked his pony into a gallop. The thunder of hooves on earth exploded into a loud clacking as the pony burst onto the Roman road. Veda leant from the saddle, holding the curved blade out, ready to swipe at the back of the Roman’s neck, almost tasting the scent of his bloodied wrist and shoulder in the air. Forty paces behind, twenty, five. He shrieked as he drew the blade back to swipe when, at the last, he pulled out of the blow. His nose shot in the air again, and his head switched to the small ash thicket on the southern valley side. There, a pile of fallen leaves rustled, something was hiding in there. Not an animal –
something larger!
Veda’s eyes bulged and at once he swung his composite bow from his back, nocked and drew with thumb, forefinger and middle finger. As he took aim, two silver figures burst from the leaves and in the same movement, hurled something at him.

The first lead-weighted plumbata pierced his chest and tore his heart in two. The second ripped his jaw from his skull. His arrow loosed askew as he was thrown back from the saddle. For Veda, the hunt was over.

Pavo staggered forward as the dart leapt from his grip, leaves falling from him and a grunt escaping his lips. Sura roared by his side, loosing likewise. The darts hammered into the Hun rider before he could loose his bow, and the arrow shot skywards as the rider fell back in a cloud of blood. Instantly, Pavo swung away from the corpse, his muscles tensed as he looked down the valley and off across the grasslands from where the Hun rider had come, sure this one was just the first of many. The streaking, scudding clouds overhead played tricks with his eyes, casting shadows across the hills like onrushing warbands. But the land was empty.

‘Just one rider?’ Sura said, panting by his side.

Pavo frowned, then glanced over his shoulder at the hobbling Roman the Hun had been pursuing. The man had fallen to his knees by the roadside, a handful of paces away. They could tend to him in a moment – first, there were bigger questions to be answered. ‘Why would a Hun rider be out here, alone? They ride in packs.’

‘Not another bugger to be seen!’ Zosimus called down to them from his lookout post – little more than a hole dug into the hillside to offer the sentries a modicum of shelter from the winds – on the opposite valley side. Cornix and Trupo were up there also, shielding their eyes and scouring the surrounding lands just to be sure. Eventually, they confirmed it. ‘Not a soul moves out there, sir.’

Zosimus jogged down the valley side, his eyes still combing the land. ‘That’s what worries me,’ he murmured to Pavo and Sura. ‘This advance watch was a good idea,’ he flicked a finger to each of the discreet lookout posts here at the start of the
Succi valley
, about a half-mile east of the pinch-point and the fort itself – Gallus had managed to convince the lethargic Geridus to establish this. ‘But still this bastard managed to ride within bowshot of us before we noticed him,’ he added, nudging the wrecked corpse of the Hun with his boot while Trupo and Cornix descended the northern valley side then came to help the wounded Roman to his feet.

Pavo nodded. ‘If more of them were to come this way, they might have us before we can get word back to the fort.’

‘More
are
coming,’ a desperate, panting voice said behind them. They turned to the wounded Roman. His face was caked in soot and dirt, but still they could see the greyness of imminent death beneath. Trupo and Cornix could not support his weight and he crumpled to his knees. His head lolled on his shoulders and his eyes rolled back in their sockets.

Pavo, Sura and Zosimus shared a chill look.

‘What did he say?’ Zosimus demanded.

Pavo dropped to one knee and cupped the man’s head in his hands. ‘More are coming?’

The man’s skin was damp with sweat and icy-cold, and Pavo felt the pulse on his neck weakening and slowing.

‘Who? From Where? How many?’ Sura added, joining Pavo in crouching before the man.

‘He has broken from Fritigern’s horde . . . with his men. Five thousand men. He is coming . . . to break this pass . . . to ravage the western cities,’ the man slurred. ‘He took the gold mines of Abdera a week ago.’

‘Who?’ Zosimus demanded.

The man’s eyes flared as if recalling some nightmarish memory. ‘Far . . . Farnobius,’ he finished. His next breath escaped with a death rattle.

Pavo stared into the dead man’s eyes, the last word ringing in his ears.

A gentle hubbub of muttering sounded across the fort plateau as the XI Claudia centuries got into line, marshalled by Dexion and Quadratus as the big Gaul readied to outline the training they would receive over the next few months to take them from raw recruits to battle-ready legionaries. Gallus stood nearby, watching over them. He saw the young lads’ eyes flick furtively towards him again and again, looks of fear, admiration, awe. Gallus felt only guilt; guilt that he knew his heart was not here with them as it should be. They were to be trained to die for their brothers and here he was, mind constantly drifting to the west, wondering, hoping, longing for nothing other than his chance to seize revenge.

As Quadratus strode menacingly back and forth before them, letting his silence stoke talons of fear within the young lads’ bellies, Gallus tried to concentrate on the job in hand. Martial rigour was one of the few things that eased his troubled thoughts, so he focused on the big Gaul’s crunching footsteps.
One, two, three, four . . .
he counted.

Tink-tink-tink-tink.
Came another sound, almost in time. From behind him? He blinked, frowned, glanced over his shoulder and around the plateau. Nothing. Then again, a moment later.