Legionary: The Scourge of Thracia (Legionary 4) (34 page)

‘But aye, there were many fine days when we were true soldiers,’ Rectus continued.

‘And many foul ones too,’ Libo added, eyebrows raised as he recalled some grim memory

Rectus and Libo seemed to share a conversation with just a few looks, then the one-eyed man spoke; ‘Shall I gather the lads, see what they say?’

‘Aye. But do you think it’s a good idea to ask Eunapias?’ Rectus said, nodding to the man from the fight, now clutching a bloody rag to his butchered groin, sweating profusely and gulping neat wine to ease the pain.

‘Nah,’ Libo grinned, ‘he doesn’t have the balls for it.’

It was a foul, grey afternoon and a wintry gale buffeted them as they came along the last stretch of road back to
Trajan’s Gate
, yet Pavo felt nothing but a burning sense of pride. He and Sura had left with nothing but now returned with a century’s-worth of Sardican legionaries and a century of darker-skinned Cretan slingers. He twisted in his saddle and looked over his shoulder to see Rectus and Libo and the chestnut-skinned Cretan, Herenus, near the front of the new recruits. Unlike Pavo and Sura in mail, cloaks and iron helms, the pair carried only their auxiliary spears and wore felt caps and thick cloaks to weather the worst of the wind. Many of the others with Rectus and Libo carried nothing more than a dagger. Some had bows or slings and a few brought just ancient bronze shields strapped over their backs. But if this was a problem then behind the column was the solution: Three wagon-loads of old armour: torn but usable mail shirts, battle-scarred helms, dull-edged spears and blades that needed work with a
 
whetstone, along with a selection of well-used shields and ancient-looking boots. Enough to arm and equip the Sardicans and most of the youths back at the Trajan’s Gate fort, he hoped. Patiens had given them what he considered scrap. Pavo saw it as treasure.

As they came round a slight bend in the valley, Pavo saw something that further warmed his heart. Across the pass, the skeleton of a timber stockade was in place – some eight feet high. He could hear Quadratus’ gruff tones, marshalling the recruits. Timber struts were being raised on ropes and lowered into place in what might soon take shape as a battlement. Sharpened stakes were piled nearby for what would be the palisade front to the wall. Better still, when he looked up onto the fort spur on the northern valley side, he saw that the western towers were all but mended. With these two centuries from Sardica, they might yet block the pass and bolster the fort battlements before . . . his thoughts grew icy as he looked off down the pass . . . before Farnobius’ horde arrived.

A buccina wailed, heralding their arrival. The lads working on the timber wall dropped their tools and stood tall. At first, they all looked east in fear, assuming the signal was a warning. But then, when they switched their heads to the west and saw Pavo and Sura, they cheered and punched the air. The sound was like an elixir and the valley sides seemed only to amplify it.

‘This lot have been busy,’ Sura said. ‘Mithras, we should go away more often!’

‘You did it,’ a gruff voice waylaid them. ‘You bloody did it!’ Zosimus repeated as he jogged down the scree path from the fort spur. His joy was tempered slightly when he ran his eye across the motley bunch in tow.

Quadratus came up from the wall works to join them, and headed straight for the wagons, whipping the hemp blanket back to reveal a jumble of shiny and not so shiny apparel. ‘What the?’ the big Gaul scowled as he lifted out a bent Gothic longsword, then tossed it over his shoulder like a bored infant. The wagon driver watched on in bemusement. Next, Quadratus lifted out an iron scale vest, but it was more orange with rust than silver, and he offered a cocked eyebrow to Pavo as if questioning the haul.

‘We’ve fought with worse, sir,’ Pavo said, approaching the wagons, stroking the mane of one of the horses.

But Quadratus was absorbed with the arms and armour. He lifted a long blade with a curved end. ‘A falcata? I don’t like the falcata. I’m more dangerous with a spatha,’ he said, lobbing the curved sword back onto the pile.

‘You’re dangerous the moment you open your eyes in the morning!’ Zosimus roared with laughter.

As Sura took up the falcata and tried to give Quadratus an expert lesson in handling the blade, Zosimus approached and guided Pavo away from the column of Sardicans and Cretans. ‘Right, there’s been a lot of effort put in over the last three days, but the biggest part lies ahead.’

‘The stockade will be finished in good time now, sir, I’m sure of it. And then we can put our minds to what else can be done to this pass.’

‘Indeed, but first we need to sort out what men we have. We can have walls with all sorts of bells and horns on them, but if these men don’t know how to fight as centuries and all of them together as a legion, then we’re beaten.’

Pavo nodded. ‘The Cretans will be fine – they’re already well used to fighting in and around legionary cohorts.’ Then his eyes fixed on Rectus and Libo. ‘As for the Sardicans, they have served as auxiliaries in the past, so they’ll have some experience of manoeuvres and drills. They’ll know how to look after their kit and – despite appearances – they’re not in bad physical shape. I reckon they will make a century of decent legionaries. Rectus and Libo would make a good pairing to lead the legionary century. Rectus as centurion and Libo as optio. We could organise mock-combat, Quadratus’ century versus theirs – it’d give Trupo and the young lads a chance to experience shield to shield fighting, and it’d sharpen the Sardican’s skills.’

‘No,’ Zosimus said flatly.

Pavo balked at this. ‘What? We need to give them some form of combat practice, otherwise-’

‘I meant the bit before that. The Sardicans can form a legionary century, aye, but Rectus and Libo aren’t fit to lead them. Quadratus’ll be leading them’

‘But they’re the natural leaders of that lot, they-

‘That’s not how we do things in the legions. A man doesn’t walk into the post of centurion. He has to earn his rank through years of service,’ Zosimus clenched a fist and held it between them as he spoke, knuckles white, ‘spill his own blood to save his brothers, show that his life comes second to the success of the legion.’

Pavo saw the fire in the big Thracian’s eyes.

‘You’re not getting it are you lad? Quadratus’ll lead the Sardicans, so Trupo, Cornix and the whelps he has led until now need a new centurion.’

Pavo blinked, then nodded. Then realisation dawned.

‘You’ll lead the young lads. You’re a centurion now. I’m moving my lads into the First Cohort, and you’re taking my place as head of the Second cohort. You’ve earned it and more, Pavo. Gallus has known for some time that you were ready for this. He left it to me as senior centurion to make the call.’

The wind whistled around them. Pavo found no words to reply. He recalled the moment before Ad Salices when Zosimus had told him he was to be an optio. Then, doubt had riddled his body and his first thought was that the promotion was a mistake. This time, he simply fixed Zosimus with a firm eye and nodded. ‘I’ll lead them well, sir.’

‘And you’ll take that lunatic Sura as your optio?’ Zosimus replied with a cocked eyebrow, nodding to Sura’s wild lunges with the falcata as Quadratus looked on nervously.

Pavo smiled. ‘Aye, I will.’

Farnobius walked his silver stallion amongst the dead strewn across the south-central Thracian plain. Flies buzzed over the open guts and riven flesh. Crows cried overhead. An entire legion, he reckoned. Not one had escaped this time. He leaned to one side of his saddle and hooked an intercisa on the corner of his axe blade, then cast an eye over his Goths, Huns and Taifali. Some wore the iron vests harvested from the Romans slain at Deultum, but many still wore the frayed, crude dyed Gothic leather armour that had been passed down from generation to generation. He turned back to the staring face of the corpse he had taken the helm from: a gaunt, bearded fellow, features caked in dirt. He stared at the lifeless countenance, almost challenging it to take shape as Vitheric’s. But the dead boy-king’s face did not materialise, and the oft-nagging voice was not to be heard.

‘You fall quiet, boy. Perhaps you are at peace now?’ he whispered hopefully, glancing around anxiously in fear of any of his men hearing him. Vitheric did not reply and his men did not hear. Instead, they busied themselves unbuckling scale vests and taking up Roman shields, swords and helms for themselves.

Farnobius turned on his saddle and looked to the western horizon. The march north and west had been steady and enjoyable. Soon they would meet the Romans’ great western highway: the Via Militaris. Then they would move at haste for the Succi Pass and the fabled Trajan’s Gate. The riches of the West waited beyond. Nobody had come close to challenging him so far. Fritigern had not even dared send forces to curtail his efforts. Scribing his own destiny at last was an enjoyable thing, he mused. Then a nagging doubt spoiled his mood: the grain wagons were running low. Five thousand mouths demanded feeding before they would break this damned Roman pass for him. Yet grain could only be found inside the walls of the damned Roman cities.

I was not strong or gifted with the sword, but I had a good mind,
the voice of the dead boy-king spoke at last, as if sensing Farnobius’ building frustrations.
Perhaps I could have helped you with such puzzles?

Farnobius failed to suppress a sharp twitch of the head. Then he heard a dull
thud-thud-thud.
He turned to see one rather dim-witted spearmen bashing at something with a rock. He looked a little closer: the man had found a pack of walnuts amongst one dead legionary’s rations and was battering at one in an attempt to break inside its shell. This fellow had the dead Roman’s armour piled by his feet, claimed from the spoils as his own, it seemed. Only when the spearman picked up the Roman soldier’s helm and used its heavy rim, did the walnut crack.

You see?
Vitheric asked.

Farnobius’ lips curled up into a smile as his thoughts converged and an idea began to form . . .

Chapter 18

The first day of November saw winter truly grip the land and brought Gallus and Dexion to a skeletal elm forest, bejewelled with icicles. Gallus’ cloak, helm and dark eyebrows were shrouded in frost, much like Dexion and the silent, deathly-still woods around them. Nothing was to be heard but the monotonous
crunch-crunch
of their boots on the icy carpet, muffled and muted by the veil of white all around. In the two days of trekking since leaving the cove by the waterfall, there had been no further clashes with the Quadi, both men now adept at melting into the icy glades or lying flat in the undergrowth at the sound of hooves or boots on the nearby road. At first, Gallus had hoped one of these passing patrols might be Roman – tasked with dispersing the belligerent tribesmen. Soon though, he realised that he and Dexion were most probably the only legionaries in the field in this stretch of Pannonia. A spark of hope was needed. The sight of a single Cursus Publicus rider would be enough, proof that the artery of communication between east and west had been reopened. But there was nothing of that sort. Nothing but cold, still, freezing wastes ahead.

Wordlessly, Dexion offered him a piece of salted mutton. He took it and chewed upon it without thought, the salty texture of the meat adding strength to his stride, partially thawing his frozen jaw and bringing moisture to his mouth. Their meagre rations were growing thin. Indeed, he had not bargained on such a long stint without some refuge in a Roman town or village where they could top-up their supplies and take shelter.

When Dexion’s footsteps halted, Gallus blinked, as if shaken from the trance of the march. ‘Primus Pilus?’ he said, slowing.

Dexion’s eyes were lost, darting, one hand cupped to his ear. ‘Can you hear it?’

Gallus frowned, coming to a halt. Without the crunch of the march, the muted sounds of nature came through: the occasional flapping of wings or disturbed branches, the hiss of falling frost or the scampering of a winter hare. Then he heard it: the gentle babble of a river.

‘The Danubius?’ Gallus said at a whisper, waving Dexion with him towards the sound. It was coming from a thick bank of fog, up ahead. He traced the nearby Via Militaris, seeing how it slipped into the wall of mist. If it truly was the river they could hear, then this was where the great road ended, and that was where the fortress-city of Singidunum lay also. Legionary contact. Riders to take them on to Emperor Gratian. Reinforcements to send back to Trajan’s Gate.
Our quest is over,
he realised.

‘Porridge,’ Dexion said.

Gallus cocked an eyebrow at the odd outburst.

‘In the first barracks or imperial settlement we come to. Grey, tasteless, foul, wheat porridge,’ Dexion expanded. ‘Just so long as it’s hot. And a fire, a roaring fire. Then onwards, to take word to Gratian and maybe we can send men back to Trajan’s Gate. If it is not too late . . . ’

Gallus noticed the dark frown that came over his primus pilus’ face. In the mechanical slog of the march and in focusing on little other than survival and the promise of vengeance, he had almost forgotten about this man’s hopes and fears. ‘Pavo and the others
will
hold that pass,’ he reassured him as they crept through the woods, the river ever closer.

Dexion nodded in silence, as if longing to believe those words. Then the pair fell silent as they entered the bank of freezing fog. Every sound was muted and distorted now. Icy droplets gathered on their faces, soaking and chilling them. He combed the grey, eager to see what he knew must be there. Imperial banners, familiar accents, hope. The dull roar of the river grew and grew and then at last Gallus did spot the ghostly outline of high walls up ahead. He made to hasten forward, only for Dexion to slap an arm across his chest, halting him.

‘Primus Pilus?’ Gallus growled.

But Dexion’s suddenly pallid face and the hand cupped to his ear was answer enough.

Gallus heard it too now: the jagged twang of Germanic voices, shouting gaily through the fog. The chill mist crept across the flesh on his neck as he saw Singidunum’s walls drift in and out of view as the fog bank moved. ‘The Quadi besiege the fortress?’ he whispered to Dexion.

Dexion shook his head, pointing to the battlements. There, dull outlines of men moved like wraiths. They carried axes, resting on their shoulders, and locks of long, billowing or braided hair. ‘The Quadi have
taken
the fortress!’

They stumbled back into the treeline. Gallus motioned for them to move west, past the fortress-city’s walls and so they picked a little further through the undergrowth, they came to the edge of the Via Militaris just beyond Singidunum where the road’s final stretches ran along the River Danubius’ southern banks. Here, they crept forward, ducking down in the ferns by the roadside, and beheld the extent of the Quadi forces. To their right, the fortress of Singidunum and the dock beneath the city walls were crawling with them. To their left, the westerly road was blockaded by a line of them standing guard, and out in the River Danubius was a small sandbank island, blanketed in fog. The murky outline of a small
quadriburgium
fortress stood on the apex of this island – a square enclosure with four projecting corner towers – and the Germanic voices echoed over there too.

‘Sir,’ Dexion panted. ‘How in Hades can we go west from here?’

‘We cannot, Primus Pilus. But by Mithras, we will.’

When night fell across the Upper Danubius, it brought still more of the thick fog and a deathly cold with it. Gallus blew into his hands and wished he could return some feeling to his legs too. They had been crouched like this for hours by the side of the Via Militaris, waiting and watching the goings-on at the road blockade, at Singidunum and at the small fort on the river island.

‘That boat is our only chance of breaking to the west,’ Dexion insisted, nodding to the sandbank island and the small fishing boat resting on its shores. ‘We can’t charge the sentries on the westerly road,’ he said, flicking a finger to the cluster of thirty or so fair-haired and bearded Quadi posted there, resting on their spears, axes slung over shoulders and torsos wrapped in furs. ‘And Singidunum’s walls and docks are too well guarded for us to seize a vessel from there,’ he continued, his eyes drifting across the conquered fortress’s walls, eyeing jealously the fine biremes within the harbour.

In between drifting fog clouds, Gallus examined the beached vessel on the sandbank island. Small yet sleek, oars lying inside – a craft designed for rowing upstream. Upstream and to the west. The fog might well screen such a move. ‘There is a small matter of getting across there, Primus Pilus. Have you ever tried to swim the Danubius? She is a savage waterway.’

Dexion’s shoulders slumped a little as if on the cusp of accepting defeat, then his head shot up, eyes locking onto something. ‘We don’t need to swim,’ he hissed, pointing to a jagged shape snagged in the shallows just upstream, in between their hiding place amongst the ferns and the road blockade. ‘A raft?’

‘The remains of some craft, I’d say,’ Dexion mused. ‘But enough to see us over to the island and onto that fishing boat.’

Gallus looked to Dexion askance. ‘I see that a proclivity for unbalanced plans runs in the family blood?’

‘Aye, there is much that Pavo and I have in common,’ Dexion chuckled.

‘You’re right, we have to try,’ Gallus said, sliding off his mail vest and helm, tucking them into his leather bag, then he crumbled some frozen earth in his hands and smeared it across his face, gesturing for Dexion to follow suit. ‘Are you ready?’

The firm words seemed to stir Dexion from his thoughts. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said, his face soon little more than white eyes and teeth, his plumed helm tucked away in his own bag.

They watched as the thirty Quadi on the westerly road bantered amongst themselves confidently – complacently, even. The men on the walls of Singidunum were more diligent, however, each of them scouring the land whenever the fog thinned in patches.

Gallus waited until the freezing mist clouded and thickened, passing between them and the walls. ‘Now,’ he hissed when the last sentry up there became obscured in the fog. The pair darted like hares, the ferns shaking in their wake. The Via Militaris seemed to be a thousand paces wide, Gallus thought as he hurried across it, certain the sentries on the westerly road would spot him. But he reached the northern edge of the road and skidded down the embankment to the shallows of the Danubius, grabbing at reeds to slow his descent as best he could. He came to a halt, shin-deep in water, panting. Dexion slid down beside him. The pair waited anxiously, listening. The jagged babble of the sentries on the road seemed different; disturbed, more alert.

‘They saw us, or heard us?’ Dexion whispered, his eyes widening.

Gallus pushed a finger across his lips, pointing up with his other hand. Up there, on the roadside, footsteps crunched past. A few uncertain challenges were barked out in the Quadi tongue. Gallus and Dexion pressed their backs to the Danubius’ banking as tightly as they could, but when Gallus glanced up, he saw that a Quadi warrior had stepped forward from the sentry position to investigate the noise, only feet above them. At once, he recognised him – Birgir, the leader of the band that had almost had them at the waterfall. This flame-haired, deathly-pale, flat-faced warrior wore a bronze helm, that distinctive horn-plated vest and that lethal sica on his back. He looked around the road, then twisted as if to look down the banking into the shallows.

Gallus’ teeth clenched. His hand shot for his spatha hilt and Dexion’s his.

Birgir froze, his hunter’s instinct sharpening his vision and hearing – he could even taste the myriad flavours in the air. Something wasn’t right, something was here, he realised, swinging round to the road’s edge. Something was in the shallows . . .

Suddenly, from the reeds down there, a rabbit shot up the banking and across the road. The big warrior’s gaze snagged on its flight then, in one motion, he drew the sica from his back and hurled it. With a wet clunk, the blade halved the rabbit. Birgir grinned, stooping to pick up his prize and dangle it at his watching comrades.

‘We were told to fear the legions, but it seems the Romans send rabbits to admonish us!’

As the rest of the Quadi sentries erupted in laughter, a fresh, even thicker bank of fog drifted over the road, obscuring them for a moment. Birgir grinned as he thought of the fine meal this creature would make. Then he froze again. The hunter’s ear. A faint crackling of reeds. He swung back to the fog-obscured banking and shallows; something was moving down there again.