Legionary: The Scourge of Thracia (Legionary 4) (6 page)

The old Mithraeum was bathed mostly in darkness, lit only by the guttering half-light of a torch in the street above, the pale orangey light dancing weakly through a small iron grid in the temple’s ceiling. The floor of the underground vault was dank with water leaking in from the River Lycus, which flowed unseen under Constantinople’s streets. The whitewashed walls were flaking, streaked with mildew and slime and the timber benches that lined the sides of the cramped space were rotting. Desiccated laurel and acanthus leaves from long-past ceremonies lay piled in the corners. A musty stench of decay hung in the air and a rhythmic
drip-drip
was interrupted only by the occasionally muffled, drunken voice from the streets above. In this Christian city, the old gods had been forgotten, it seemed. But Gallus had not forgotten Mithras, nor the oath he swore with the bull-slayer.

Gallus peered along to the far end of the temple, eventually making out the carved slab mounted vertically there. As the city slept above him, he strode towards this sacred altar. Sleep was no friend of his on the best of nights, but on this night more than any other he found no peace. He had tried to rest but had been besieged by the shrill chatter of thoughts. Memories of the past played out from the moment he fell asleep. After that, shame jabbed at him every time sleep tried to return. Why had it taken so long, so many years, to reach that moment in Persia when he realised what he must do? That moment, on the bloodied floor of the Spahbad’s arena, with Carbo standing by his side.

Eventually, we all must face our past, Tribunus.

Carbo’s last words lived on. That haggard soldier had died along with so many others out in the east. But after years of running from his past, the man had died a noble death, facing his demons, striking them square in the eye. And Pavo, that callow youth who had grown into a fine soldier and a burgeoning leader, had echoed the sentiment, having marched through the desert to find his father against all odds.

Every step through the burning sands. Every lash of the whip in those mines. Every blade that scored my flesh. It was worth it all. I faced the past. The nightmares are gone.

‘Then you are braver men than I,’ Gallus whispered into the cool blackness, his breath clouding, outlining his gaunt features and greying peak of hair.

He stalked along the centre of the long, narrow chamber, past the rotting benches and the small food-preparation antechamber, strewn with long discarded bowls and platters, shrouded in dust. When he reached the altar at the far end, he stretched out a hand and traced his fingertips over the image carved into the rock there. The relief of Mithras slaying the bull had long since lost its vibrant colours, with only flecks of paint surviving. The god’s eyes were featureless, as if blinded by the near darkness he had been consigned to. He thought back to those days when he had thrown himself into the legions and embraced Mithras’ calling. He traced a finger along the scar welt under his right wrist, recalling the blinding, white-hot pain of the initiation test that had caused it – the Mark of the Raven, they called it. As his flesh had bubbled and split, the men of the Mithraeum had hailed him as a brave soul. But Gallus alone knew the truth: he was naught but a man too scared to face his demons. For a blessed few moments, the white-hot knife had caused him to forget the awful sight of Olivia and Marcus’ corpses.

He knelt on one knee before the altar, his ruby cloak slipping around from behind his shoulders and enveloping him as his head fell forward. Pulling the idol of Mithras from his purse, he ran his thumb back and forth over the worn carving. ‘Almighty Sun, Our God . . . ’ he began the well-rehearsed verse in a muted tone.

The prayer usually led his thoughts away from darkness, but this time it failed him, his thoughts snagging on one line;

‘Keep our harvest and those precious ones we love from all harm . . . ’ he fell silent, shaking.

He thought of those who had slain his family and had then pursued him doggedly for years afterwards. Why had they finally let him be? Perhaps the
Speculatores
of the Western Empire knew of the torment that would plague him and saw it as more fitting than any gruesome death. Fated to live every day with the shades of his wife and child calling for him.

‘And I accepted this fate.
Accepted it!
’ he spat.

Just then, a wagon wheel clunked over the iron grating. Gallus blinked, realising the night sky up above had grown dark-blue. The new day would soon be upon the city. He stood and offered Mithras a lasting gaze. It was time to say his piece.

‘I swore to give everything to you, Mithras, asking in return only that you let me forget my past and die an honourable death at the head of the legions. Yet you starve me of both. Why?’ The question echoed around the chamber, fading to utter silence. ‘Whatever the answer may be, know this; I relinquish you from the oath, as I relinquish myself. I have been running from my past for too long.’

He gazed off through the darkness, thinking of the fecund countryside of Northern Italy, the green hills and towering cypress trees. In his mind’s eye he saw Olivia and Marcus there, playing, laughing by the wagon. Sunlight flooded the memory. It was a time of simple pleasures, until the
Speculatores had entangled him – a simple farming man – in their wicked game. He had chosen the noble path, refused to do what they asked . . . and lost everything for it. Everything but his own life. The image of Olivia and Marcus crumbled, and the memory of their pained screaming filled his head, then the crackling of the burning pyre. Sharp, stabbing sorrow came at him like enemy blades. He cast it aside, then thought of Traianus’ revelation today: Emperor Gratian was coming east with his armies . . . and his agents. The Speculatores and he were fated to clash.

He glowered at the faded image of Mithras, his brow shading his ice-blue eyes.

‘I will run no longer,’ he hissed.

His words echoed around the vault as he swung round and strode from the Mithraeum, ascending the steps, his cloak swishing in his wake.

Chapter 2

A clear blue sky hung over the Thracian countryside. A hot afternoon breeze blew, rippling through the grass on the green hills and the golden wheat stalks on the flatland. The
Via Militaris
cut north-west across this pasture like a great grey vein, running all the way from Constantinople, across Thracia, Dacia and into the Western Empire, ending at the distant fortress-city of Singidunum on the banks of the River Danubius. Here at this mid-section of the great highway, two days march north-west of Adrianople and six days into their march overall, the five legionaries of the XI Claudia moved swiftly under their silver eagle standard, the ruby-red banner hanging from the crossbar bearing the effigy of a bull. Gallus led them, eyes set on the western horizon, his red cloak and the black plume on his intercisa helm rippling in the breeze. Quadratus and Zosimus followed, marching abreast, with Pavo and Sura at the rear.

Pavo felt the strain of marching keenly, sweat streaming across his brow and his skin smarting from the late summer sun. The trials of Persia had strengthened certain muscles, while others had atrophied, it seemed. He had almost forgotten what the combined weight of a legionary’s kit felt like. The helm compressing the neck, the mail shirt digging into the shoulders despite the linen
focale
scarf worn under the collar, the wooden oval shield dragging on the left shoulder where it was carried on a strap, the weighty spear chafing the palms and straining the right arm, the trusty
spatha
and scabbard jostling and rubbing on the left hip and his leather boots chewing at his ankles. Worst of all, the extra kit strapped to his back felt like carrying a baby ox: two water skins, a shovel, rope, sickle, hammer, saw, axe, pick-axe and the framework of tent poles were all stuffed in there – with Sura carrying the goatskin that would shelter the five overnight. He grunted, hauling his shield higher on its strap and ridding himself of the nagging voice telling him to stop and rest his aches.

‘It’s been a while, eh?’ Sura gasped, reading his thoughts.

‘Changed days,’ Pavo muttered absently in reply, casting his gaze around and taking a swig of his water skin to wash the dust from his throat. ‘And a changed land too, it seems. Only last year this was considered solid imperial territory. Then, we could march without armour.’

‘What’s that?’ Zosimus grunted, looking over his shoulder. ‘Nah, nothing to be wary of. I know these lands like the underside of my scrotum,’ he affirmed, then frowned and wondered at the comparison and whether he had ever actually set eyes on that part of his anatomy. He was about to add something, when they passed another deserted imperial watchtower. Beside it was a crushed legionary helm. He glowered at the abandoned tower and Pavo heard a low growl tumble from his lips. The big man was a Thracian by birth, and the sight of his homeland in disorder riled him.

The watchtower was but one such sight. The further north and west of Adrianople they marched, the more destruction they witnessed: deserted or dilapidated waystations, empty field forts, abandoned farmsteads and a stark thinning of the rural population – many having fled to the safety of the walled cities. Crop fields had been left to seed, fallow ground lay brown and bare apart from the weeds that had taken root. Fig and olive groves had grown wild and untended. In the months they had been in Persia, Thracia had suffered. The small bands of Gothic raiders who had managed to penetrate this far south before the five mountain pass blockades had been set up had reaped a heavy toll, it seemed. Even to this day, a few such bands still roamed in these lands. They passed one field where a few farmers dared to tend their crops: they did so nervously, eyes darting to the countryside every so often, their harvesting sickles clutched like weapons. The great road was empty too – as far as the eye could see. They had passed not a single imperial rider or sentry patrol in days. Every man, it seemed had been pulled to the Great Northern Camp, to focus on the main body of Goths beyond the mountains, while lower and middle Thracia had been left almost bare of protection. He shrugged, pulling his shield up on its strap again – this time for safety rather than of comfort – and took to switching his gaze this way and that.

The march grew more wearing throughout that day as they came to long tracts of heathland, dappled in purple heather and punctuated with grey limestone boulders. Here, long sections of the Via Militaris had fallen into disrepair with flagstones sunken, raised, or absent – gouged out and taken for some other purpose. In parts, repairs had been attempted, though rather crudely, with chunks of yellow sandstone and even slabs of expensive blue-veined marble crammed awkwardly into gaps. He passed over one such stone that had a worn dedication to Mars etched into it – no doubt from a forgotten temple to the old war god. Changing days indeed.

Late in the afternoon, they came to a fork in the road, where the Via Militaris continued on towards the western empire while a smaller, more ancient and broken road led off to the north. This smaller road scaled a small set of foothills, almost being swallowed by the swaying long grass that sprouted between its flagstones.

‘The road to the Great Camp,’ Gallus said, halting them and unfurling a map.

Pavo joined the others in sucking hungrily from his water skin, removing his helm and mopping the sweat from his face.

‘The camp lies a half-day’s march to the north,’ Gallus continued, ‘on the southern banks of the River Tonsus. ‘Fresh cohorts and a fresh cause await us there. Let us stop here tonight then rise early.’

It was the first words he had spoken since breaking camp this morning. Pavo helped the others in setting up the tent. Later, as Sura and Quadratus bickered over who would light the fire, he noticed that the tribunus was standing sentinel-like under a beech tree, hands clasped behind his back, again gazing west. Always west.

Darkness fell, and Zosimus set about topping bread with cheese then lightly toasting it and soon Pavo, Sura and Quadratus joined him in sitting round the fire to eat. Pavo took his piece of bread and munched on it. The warming meal innervated his tired limbs, and a swig of cool water washed it down nicely. He noticed that Gallus had not taken his piece from the plate, so he lifted it and took it over to him. Silvery spears of moonlight pierced the canopy of leaves above the tribunus and threw his face into sharp relief. The harsh, unforgiving glare was still fixed on the blackness of the western horizon. The tribunus’ troubles were well-guarded, and Pavo knew it would be a mistake to broach what little he knew of them directly. He sought a different tack.

‘The Praesental Armies will put an end to this strife, sir. We will bolster the legions at the Great Camp and await their arrival. Come next summer, these lands might once again be at peace.’

Gallus’ head swivelled, his gaze pinning Pavo. ‘Aye, the Praesental Armies of East and West will unite in Thracia. When they do, it will be the first time they have come together in a long, long time. The Goths should be wary . . . as should we all.’

The words were laced with foreboding. Pavo understood Gallus well enough by now to know it was not directed at him. ‘Whatever happens, sir, know that you can rely upon your men.’

Gallus nodded, his head dipping so his eyes fell into shade. ‘I know that only too well, Optio. That just four of you remain is a fact that plagues my every thought.’

‘Eat, sir,’ he said, handing over the cheese on toasted bread. ‘Then sleep. You need to sleep.’

Something flickered at the corner of Gallus’ mouth. A prelude to a smile? Whatever it was, it vanished again. ‘Aye,’ he said, taking the food.

Pavo returned to the campfire, sat, then looked north. At first, he saw only a wall of black. Then, as his eyes attuned, he made out a speckling of stars and the stark, jagged horizon, jutting into the sky like fangs. The Haemus Mountains, the only thing that separated the Great Northern Camp from the Gothic horde.

Apprehension seemed to hang around the small party like a fog, but it failed to dampen his spirit, for the Great Camp was so near and one name rang in his thoughts.

Felicia!

The next morning, a fine mizzle fell, stealing in through a gap in the tent flap and waking them at dawn. Gallus rose first to find not a single chink of blue in the sky – just layer upon layer of scudding grey clouds. They ate a swift breakfast of hardtack biscuit and spicy sausage, washed down with a bellyful of water and a sip of soured wine. While his men bantered as they disassembled the tent, he looked westwards into the roiling grey sky, and imagined Emperor Gratian’s Western Praesental Army gathering . . . and his shadowy agents readying to journey with him.
Come east, you dogs. I will be waiting for you.
Memories of his years of running stung him like a cloud of hornets, but he swept them away.
I was once your prey, now you will be mine.

‘Sir,’ Zosimus said, scattering Gallus’ thoughts. Lost in his reverie, he had not noticed them hoist their burden of weapons and armour once more. ‘Ready to march!’

He met the eyes of each man. Each of them gazed back, expectant, loyal, focused only on their duty . . . as comrades should be. This stoked an ember of guilt in Gallus’ breast. If even one of them was to fall because of his distracted mind . . .

He steeled himself, donning the iron veneer across his heart then stood, sweeping his cloak back, hoisting his own shield and pack. ‘Move out!’ he cried.

Before noon, they peeled off the north road, following a dirt-track that weaved off through the last few foothills. The muddy track was scarred and pitted with myriad wheel-tracks, hoof and boot-prints. As they rounded the hills, the fine mizzle thickened into a shower, soaking their cloaks, armour and clothes and churning the earth underfoot. Each of them had raw ankles and aching backs from this rugged last section of the march.

Gallus eyed a rise ahead. A thin pall of smog hung there and the air was spiced with the scent of woodsmoke. He heard the dull clink of tools, the chatter of voices and the lowing of oxen, then spotted the tip of a damp, golden banner rapping in the breeze. The Great Northern Camp, he realised. Rest, warmth and food for his men. Tonight, when they slept, he could contemplate his own affairs once more. Over the next few days, the training and organisation of these three new cohorts would be a welcome distraction . . . until Gratian brought his agents east.

The very thought of having to integrate some seventeen hundred men set his mind aflame with ideas. The new cohorts would have to be evaluated in every aspect: their physical condition, their morale, their experience, their kit. New officers would have to be selected to lead them, for too many of his trusted men had been lost in these last years – Felix in Persia, Avitus at Ad Salices and Brutus to these damned Goths. And the role of the XI Claudia would have to be established with this Saturninus, the magister equitum
in charge of the mountain passes and the Great Northern Camp. For a moment, he was lost in planning, then realised his dark thoughts of the Western agents had receded entirely.

He climbed the rise and slowed at the top, the four with him slowing too. For a moment, nobody spoke. Down the gentle hill lay a wide green plain through which the River Tonsus snaked from west to east: a broad river, its torrents swollen with the autumnal rain. Nearest them on its southern banks was a vast arc of muddy ground and a sprawl of tents, people and activity. It was vaster than any army camp he had ever seen. But this was no army camp, this was a jumble of mud-spattered legionary tents, wagons, roaring campfires and grubby, torn standards. Milling and jostling amongst this disorder were masses of people – some in armour, some in robes, many clearly not even military personnel. The scene was more akin to a
vicus
– the typical hotchpotch of lean-to taverns, trader’s tents and brothel shacks that usually sprung up outside a legionary fortification – than a great military camp. There were maybe fifteen thousand bodies, wandering to and fro like a grazing herd. Worse, there was no visible training taking place, and no sign even of a clear street plan, with tents at odd angles and pitched too close together or way too far apart. All this was set upon a tract of near-quagmire.