Legionary: The Scourge of Thracia (Legionary 4)

by Gordon Doherty

  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.

  ‘What the?’ Zosimus said, lifting his helmet off and scratching roughly at his stubbly scalp. ‘This is it? Where’s the perimeter palisade?’

  ‘Where’s the watch?’ Sura added, frowning and trying to find something other than a single timber watchtower that had been erected on the furthest edge of the camp – right next to the riverbank. Atop this, one man stood, gazing down onto the camp rather than across the river and off to the north where the danger surely lay.

  Quadratus, however, did the sentry’s duty for him, looking beyond the camp and the river to the jagged fangs of the Haemus Mountains, still misty blue in the haze of mizzle. ‘I hope the blockades in the passes are slightly better organised than this.’

  Gallus felt many urgent questions form in his mind, then multiply and grow before fracturing into jagged shards. His head ached at the mere sight of the mess before him. The mountain passes, just a half-day’s march north of this muddle, would fall indeed if this was any indication of their quality.

  At that moment, he noticed Pavo, the only one who had not commented. He had overheard the young optio’s conversations with Sura, and knew that within the muddle of a camp before them, Pavo’s woman, the flame-haired Felicia, waited. He met Pavo’s eye for a moment, and saw the anticipation in there.

  I envy you, lad. You’d march into Hades to protect her, wouldn’t you? Had I only been so brave . . . when it mattered.

  ‘Centurion,’ he said to Quadratus.

  The big Gaul read the signal, hoisted the XI Claudia standard and chopped it forwards.

  The five marched for the camp.

  They trudged forward into ever more boggy ground, boots sucking and squelching. They reached the first of the filthy tents without so much as a challenge, a salute or a sideways glance from the people wandering to and fro. Gallus caught a whiff of strong wine. He passed something vaguely resembling an ordered row of legionary tents and felt a pinch of optimism, only to spot the piles of armour and weapons lying at one end of the row: mail, swords and helms in a slovenly heap, wallowing in mud and soaked with rain. He cast a look back at the four with him, and realised their blanched and angered expressions were a good gauge of his own. On and on they walked, past horses wandering untethered, hideously drunk men urinating on the mud-track or lying unconscious and bare-breasted women coming in and out of soldiers’ tents. He spotted a trio of chatting men dressed in mail and with spears and shields resting by their sides. Sentries, at last. He called to the nearest one. The man swung round. His face was nearly purple, with a bulbous, pitted nose and rheumy eyes. His thin hair was plastered to his scalp with sweat and rainwater and his unshaven jaw was spattered with mud.

  ‘Aye, what d’you want?’ the man slurred angrily through blackened teeth.

  Gallus’ teeth ground together. ‘Name and rank,’ he said in a low growl.

  The man gazed through Gallus for a moment then snorted. ‘Ha!’ he said, waving a dismissive hand and turning back to the other two he had been talking with.

  Gallus marched through the bog, slapped a hand on the man’s shoulder and spun him round. ‘You have one more chance before I have you flogged, you . . . ’ he stopped and stepped back, his nose wrinkling at that stale stench of wine again. He glanced at the man in incredulity, then to the spear he held. ‘You’re as drunk as an ass – and you’re on sentry duty?’ he said, nodding to the spear.

  At this the trio of men looked to one another then burst into laughter.

  Quadratus and Zosimus stomped forward to flank Gallus, each half-drawing their spathas. The zing of the steel edge rasping on the scabbard mouth served to underline their tribunus’ flinty tone and quietened the laughter almost instantly. At the same time, Pavo and Sura flanked their comrades, levelling their spears. Now the drunks fell silent.

  ‘At ease,’ Gallus said under his breath, raising one hand a fraction. Reluctantly, the four lowered and sheathed their weapons. ‘I feel we could quarrel with this type all day if we so desired.’ He cast a sour look around the drunken rabble in every direction. ‘Mithras knows there are enough of them. Come on,’ he waved to his men, ‘we should head for the centre of the camp. We may find some answers there.’

  Near the mid-point of the camp, he spotted a jutting frame of timber with a windlass mounted upon it.

  ‘Artillery work?’ Pavo suggested, squinting and craning to get a better view over the passing clusters of men.

  ‘Not quite,’ Gallus sighed, seeing that it was in fact a screw press, surrounded by countless barrels of grapes and amphorae of wine – doubtless the source of the vile, cheap stench in the air.

  He heard the tink-tink of hammers once again, much louder and closer this time, and felt the wave of heat that could only come from a nearby smith’s furnace. ‘At last,’ he growled to his four. ‘Someone both sober and with a purpose.’ But when they reached the smith’s workshop – a small area covered with a sheltering timber roof – there were no new or mended weapons or armour to be seen. Instead, the fleshy smith was working on a curved sheet of bronze, tap-tapping away at i
t on the round end of his anvil. Gallus frowned, seeing the ripples in the bronze taking the shape of a torso, then noticing a broken stone cast a few feet away.

  ‘You spend your time fashioning an intricate chestplate?’ he said. ‘There are tens of thousands of Goths not a day’s march beyond those mountains,’ he thrust a rigid arm out, one finger extended to the Haemus Mountains. ‘Who gave you permission to waste your furnace and materials so?’

  The smith looked up, startled, sweeping his long, grey rain-soaked hair from his eyes. He grinned. ‘I was ordered to, by the Master of the Camp.’

  Gallus felt this was a modicum of progress. ‘The Magister Equitum, Saturninus?’

  The smith scratched his beard and shook his head with a look of incredulity. ‘Saturninus? No, he has been engaged at the Shipka Pass for months now.’

  Gallus frowned and shot a glance to the north, his eyes narrowing on the mountains. The Shipka Pass was the centre-most of the five rocky corridors blockaded to keep Fritigern’s Gothic alliance from flooding into Thracia. The centre-most and the most difficult to hold.

  ‘So your leader is absent. Then who is in command of this . . . camp?’ he spat the last word like a knot of gristle.

  But the smith did not answer. Instead he looked up and past Gallus’ shoulder and a sickly grin split his face. He clasped the bronze cuirass using wet rags and held it up. ‘Your new armour is nearly complete, my lord.’