Legionary: The Scourge of Thracia (Legionary 4)

by Gordon Doherty

  But his kinsman did not reply, instead levelling his spear, gawping into the darkness beside a nearby wagon. Octar frowned, then beheld the two dirt-encrusted shapes emerging from the shadows there. In a heartbeat, he had his bow from his back, drawn taut, the arrowhead trained on the rightmost Roman’s chest. But the pair were weaponless and had their hands raised in supplication.

  Octar glanced inside the prison tent, sure none of those inside had escaped, then back to the pair. ‘Who are you? What are you doi-’ his words ended with a gasp as a white-hot pain shot through his back and tore through to his front. He glanced down to see the tip of a Roman spatha jutting from his breastbone. A moment later, it was ripped away. A heartbeat after that, he toppled to the ground and in the blackness that enshrouded him he searched for Tengri, the Sky God of the Steppe.

  Pavo shook the worst of the blood from his blade and hurriedly sheathed it, Sura doing the same after despatching the other Hun. Bato and Sarrius gawped, faces dotted with Hun bloodspray.

  ‘Take up your swords again,’ he hissed to them. ‘Stand watch and if anyone approaches, anyone at all, whistle.’ With that, he nodded to Sura and the pair ducked inside the tent, dragging the Hun corpses with them.

  As soon as they entered, a wailing broke out from the shadows inside: ‘I can smell blood,’ one high-pitched voice trilled. Pavo strained to see anything in the utter darkness – anything other than silhouetted shapes scurrying to the rear of the tent.

  ‘We’re Roman,’ he hissed. ‘Keep the noise down or we’re all dead.’

  The wailing stopped abruptly. Gasps of astonishment replaced them, quickly followed by a flurry of questions. Pavo ignored the questions, spoken with the refined accents of ambassadors. As his eyes began to adjust, he counted six shapes: five cowering at the rear of the tent, and another sitting, tied to the centre pole. This one was silent. The rest returned to their wailing.

  ‘Shut up!’ Sura growled.

  When they did, they heard only the nearby babble of the fireside crowd, and something else. The faint, broken noise of dry, panicked lips trying to whistle. Bato. A moment later, he and Sarrius tumbled inside, their faces agape. ‘They’re coming!’

  Pavo and Sura gawped at each other’s silhouettes. ‘Bollocks!’ they hissed in unison.

  ‘Stay back,’ Pavo whispered to the ambassadors, now petrified into silence. He and Sura levelled their swords and took up position just inside the tent entrance.

  ‘They’ll burn the tent and all of us in it,’ a voice spoke.

  Pavo flicked a sour glance round, then realised it was the one tied to the tent pole. ‘Then what else can we do?’

  ‘We have moments with which to get a head start. Use them!’ the voice replied. ‘Cut me loose!’

  Pavo squinted at this silhouette and weighed the risk. He could make out just a black leather breastplate. A military man? His heart thundered. Then the crunch of approaching footsteps outside cast all thoughts aside. He felt for the rope binding the man by the chest, then fed the tip of his spatha under the bonds and yanked his blade back. The ropes fell free and the shadowy figure stood.

  ‘Give me a blade!’ he hissed.

  Pavo hesitated for a moment, then tossed him a dagger from the belt of one of the dead Huns. The figure ran for the five others cowering at the rear of the tent then, with a blur of swiping arms, a sharp tearing sound filled the tent. At once a fissure of semi-gloom and patchy torchlight from outside pierced the near-blackness inside.

  ‘Come on,’ the military man whispered urgently.

  As Pavo ushered each of the ambassadors through the tear and outside, he heard the guttural chatter and the crunch-crunch of the Gothic footsteps coming to the tent flap. He glanced over his shoulder to see that their approaching shadows were dancing on the canvas, illuminated by the firelight. They grew and grew like giants, and Pavo saw the swinging tail of hair and bulky outline of one that was unmistakable. Farnobius.

  ‘Move!’ he hissed to the last ambassador, a waddling fellow who struggled to climb from the rip at the rear of the tent. Sura swung a boot into his rear and helped him on his way then leapt out next, followed by Pavo and the soldier in the dark breastplate.

  They scurried forward, darting from shadow to shadow the way they had come in, Pavo and Sura leading. Pavo heard his snatched breaths and his drumming heartbeat and little else. The Gothic sentries up ahead stood facing outwards, backs turned. He reaffirmed his grip on his spatha then glanced to Sura, who nodded, and each paced towards the sentry nearest. Suddenly, behind them, the air shook with a thunderous cry. Pavo swung to see the giant Farnobius climbing from the tear in the tent, his inky eyes sweeping round, then locking onto Pavo.

  ‘Stop them!’ Farnobius bellowed. ‘Take their heads!’

  The two nearest sentries swung round, faces wrinkled in confusion for a moment before they saw the Roman group and brought their spear tips to bear then rushed forward.

  Pavo leapt back as the first sentry’s spear thrust towards his neck. He grabbed the shaft of the weapon and wrenched the guard forward, hammering his spatha up and into the Goth’s gut. Hot blood erupted over his sword hand, then sprayed through the night when he wrenched it free and swung round to block the chopping longsword of the next Goth. This one was nimble and swift. Pavo jinked back from the flurry of blows that followed, glancing over his shoulder to see three more Goths rushing to the melee. They cut down one of the ambassadors like wheat, then hefted their swords to strike at his back. He felt the absence of his shield keenly, and knew he could not fight all four of them and win.

  With an eerie whirring sound, Sura’s spatha spun through the blackness and punched one onrushing Goth through the throat, then the Roman in the dark breastplate leapt to barge another to the ground, knocking him unconscious, before slashing at the hamstrings of the last. Pavo swung his attentions fully on the Goth before him, parrying his next strike, then swinging out with a right hook that caught the warrior by surprise, catching him sweetly on the jaw and sending him spinning to the earth.

  ‘Run!’ he cried to the group, waving the three surviving ambassadors to the short stretch of flatland and the scree slope onto the mountain path.

  ‘Pavo!’ Sura yelled.

  Pavo knew that tone, and instinctively leapt from where he stood. A gleaming axe smacked down into the dust where he had been, and the ground shuddered as Farnobius rushed for him, swiping up the axe from the ground then hefting it back to strike again. Pavo threw up his sword to block, but his shoulders shuddered in their sockets as the blades clashed and he was thrown back by the force of the blow. The Gothic Reiks’ sweeping axe blade then battered Sura back likewise and nicked Sarrius’ neck too. The V Macedonica legionary turned to run, but managed only a few steps before a fountain of dark blood burst from the torn artery, and he slumped to the ground, clutching at the foaming wound.

  Farnobius leapt in again, swiping his axe blade around in a vast arc as if to pen the legionaries within the Gothic camp, shouting more reinforcements to him. Already, jostling shapes and shadows were approaching from nearby. ‘You will take their place on the fire, Roman dogs!’ he spat, nodding to the ambassadors, now scrambling up the mountainside. Then he heaved his axe up to swipe it round again. ‘You will burn and bleed for-’

  His tirade ended abruptly when a plumbata dart hissed through the blackness. A tearing of flesh sounded. Farnobius staggered back, dropping the axe, clutching the split flesh on his bicep as three more Roman figures appeared from the foot of the Haemus slopes.

  ‘Come on!’ Gallus cried, his spatha red with the blood of the next-nearest sentries. Zosimus and Quadratus stood with him, the big Gaul dusting his hands together and admiring his throw.

  They scrambled up the shale and scree and back into the mountains, all to the howling cries and pattering arrows of pursuing Goths, no more than a hundred paces behind. A fresh gathering of cloud cut across the moon and served to mask their route as they plunged down from the ridge path and onto the broke
n, veiled trail. Soon, the sound of their pursuers faded, but still they ran and ran, sliding on slippery ground, leaping across narrow gullies. Pavo heard strangled cries as some of their party fell foul of these hazards. Some hours later, they came to the granite lee they had eaten at the previous day. The scudding cloud cleared, and the moon and starlight illuminated the path behind them. No sign of pursuers. Gallus gave the order to halt.

  Each man panted and said nothing. Bato fell to his knees and vomited. Pavo saw that only two ambassadors had made it – young men, the older and less nimble ones having fallen to Gothic arrows or perished on the mountain paths. Then his gaze fell upon the dark one with the black breastplate. This one strode over to Pavo, his square shoulders rising and falling as his breathing calmed. ‘You fought well back there. You saved my li-’ he stopped, frowning. ‘What’s wrong?’

  Pavo tried but could not reply as he witnessed the man’s features clearly for the first time. At last, his lips let loose just one word. ‘Dexion?’

  The two beheld each other, neither sure what to say next.

  Veda the Hun cursed his comrades who had opted to pull back and abandon the chase. Then he cursed this broken trail that the Romans had taken. Had they stayed on the main ridge path, he would have caught them by now. Instead, he thought, pausing to sniff the air like a hunting dog, they were gone. Then an idea came to him as he eyed this winding, fragmented track, veiled by foliage and overhangs of rock for large sections. Just where did it lead? The handful of Romans might have slipped from his grasp, but they might just have led him to a far bigger prize. Perhaps the hunt was not yet over?

  ‘Ya!’ he hissed, heeling his pony on along the broken trail.

  Chapter 5

  The pinkish-orange light of another blessedly rain-free day crept across the fortlet at the Shipka Pass, glistening on the armour of the dawn watch. Inside Saturninus’ principia tent, Gallus sat before an untouched plate of bread and honey, his breath coming and going with haste and his skin, clothes and cloak still bathed in sweat from the rapid journey back across the mountains. The warbling, panicked ambassadors were led from the tent by Zosimus, and at last Gallus and the magister equitum were alone.

  He turned to Saturninus, intent on summarising the ambassadors’ babbling and contradictory reports of what had happened. ‘They’re coming along one of these passes – maybe all five of them – and they’re coming soon. They were mobilising and may well be on the march as we speak,’ he panted, annoyed at the tremor of fatigue in his voice.

  Saturninus paused a moment before replying – a commander’s trick that could present an air of diligence to cover a panicked mind; however, a twitching upper lip betrayed his discomfort in the end. He tucked his lank, dark locks behind his ears and shook his head, tearing a piece of bread for himself and dipping it in honey. ‘This does not change anything, Tribunus. Every day at these passes we wait on, no . . . we expect the next Gothic attack.’

  Gallus pinched his thumb and forefinger in the air as if catching the point. ‘But they are no longer just Goths. Are you prepared for the Huns? Or the Taifali?’

  Saturninus chewed on his honey-sweetened bread, washing it down with water. ‘The Taifali are little different to the Greuthingi. And the Huns? They too are but horsemen, Tribunus. No wall has ever fallen to a cavalry charge.’

  ‘With respect, sir, do not underestimate the steppe riders. They are no mere chargers.’

  ‘Hmm,’ Saturninus mused as he chewed. ‘Then perhaps I will have scouts sent a mile or so north of each of the five passes later this morning – to watch for any advance and deny any element of surprise.’

  Gallus sighed, dropped his head and ran his fingers through his sweat-damp, grey-streaked locks. He had been in this position before, listening to panicked reports from agitated scouts. A good commander remained rational, even in the face of a severe threat. He could not fault Saturninus for his stance. Then something from the previous night came to him again.

  ‘There’s something else,’ he said, his breath finally settled and his voice steady. ‘They have a champion – a brute of a warrior the likes of whom I have never before seen.’

  Saturninus drained his water cup and shook his head as if annoyed by the notion. ‘The Goths have always had their champions. One deft swordsman will not win this war for them.’

  ‘I cannot contest that, but this one was different,’ Gallus countered. ‘He is more than just a warrior. He seemed to have the potential to lead as well. He roused the Goths in a way that the other reiks – or even Iudex Fritigern himself – could not.’

  Saturninus held Gallus’ gaze, his eyes growing hooded. He nodded slowly, a stoic expression overcoming him. ‘My faith in you and your men was well placed, Tribunus. You did all I asked of you. I only wish I could reassure you that your efforts will not be in vain. But it seems that a storm is coming from the north . . . and what else can I do but stand firm against it?’

  Gallus leaned forward. ‘You can summon more men from the Great Northern Camp to this fort – ensure it will not fall.’

  Saturninus stroked his chin then clasped his hands as if gathering his thoughts. ‘Aye, perhaps that would be prudent. If you were to take your men back to the Great Camp, and collect your new cohorts, could you be back here in good time?’

  ‘Give the order, sir, and it will be so,’ Gallus replied without hesitation.

  Saturninus nodded thoughtfully, taking another swig of water before replying. ‘Then so be it.’

  Gallus made to stand, when Saturninus added; ‘I hear you found the man you sought within the embassy – Dexion – and brought him back safely?’

  Gallus sat back down. ‘We did.’

  ‘He means something to you?’

  ‘Not to me,’ Gallus shook his head, ‘but to one of my men. One of my best men.’ Then he shrugged, thinking of the snatched conversation he had heard between his men as they had returned along the ridge path; ‘but what for him now? He is a primus pilus – an officer without a legion, if I understand correctly.’

  ‘He is,’ Saturninus replied. He fell silent for a moment, then one eyebrow arched and a smile lifted the corners of his mouth. ‘And the Claudia is a legion with few officers, is she not?’

  Pavo rested his elbows on the palisade stakes atop the Shipka fort and looked north along the ridge, bathed in orange and dappled here and there in shade. Dexion did likewise by his side. Both men chuckled wearily, still dressed in their dirt, blood and sweat-soaked clothes, their breath puffing in the fresh dawn air. It was the first moment of silence between them since they had returned to Roman territory. While the others had reported to Saturninus or crawled into their tent to sleep, he and Dexion had opted to come up here to talk, and their chatter had been incessant – resulting in a few raised eyebrows from the grumpy legionaries walking the battlements on sentry duty.

  Pavo glanced over Dexion’s face once again: paler than his own with age-lined tawny-gold eyes that gave him ten years or so on Pavo, a broader jaw and a thick crop of hair, chestnut-brown like Father’s but short and curled on his forehead in the ancient Roman style. It was only the aquiline nose and heavy brow that physically marked them as kin, but Pavo heard it in Dexion’s voice, saw it in his mannerisms and in his eyes. A warm realisation blanketed him: I’m with my brother.

  Then a bitter, fleeting angst blew the warm blanket away: fate had toyed with him like this before, had it not – when he had been reunited with Father in Persia for the briefest of spells only to lose him forever? Flashing memories of Father’s last moments plagued him and the angst threatened to grow and ignite until he halted the thoughts with a deep, calming breath. This was different, he realised, his heart soaring once more. He and Dexion had escaped the Gothic camp, made it back to Roman lands and they were both unharmed. There might be a future for them. Certainly, they had no trouble in making conversation.

  Dexion had told him of a troubled childhood, living in various rural villages around western Thracia and Pannonia
. Father had faded from his life when he was just two summers old. His mother had been a healer, devoted to the Christian God, travelling from town to town to spread the word. Yet for all her devotion she had been stricken with a cancer and died when Dexion was nine. And so Dexion was orphaned before Pavo was even born. His life after that had been a reflection of Pavo’s in many ways – sold into slavery before buying his freedom and joining the legions firstly as a recruit, then working his way through the ranks to serve as Primus Pilus, second in command of the I Italica – a limitanei legion broken at Ad Salices after which the survivors were then dispersed into nameless vexillationes, leaving him as an officer without a legion.

  Dexion uncorked a skin of soured wine and took a long pull on it. His forearm and sword hand were laced with the cuts of a soldier, just like Pavo’s, and he traced these with a finger, as if reliving all that had gone before, then shook his head and chuckled in disbelief. ‘Father was an ethereal figure to me. I dreamt of him, wondered if the face in those dreams was his or just my imaginings. I often dreamt of many things that he might have done. Even this,’ he gestured towards Pavo. ‘I sometimes imagined unknown kin. But I never, never, expected to meet them. It makes me wonder if there are any others out there,’ he mused.

  ‘It seems that Father roamed far and wide in his youth,’ Pavo said with a fond smile, then glanced down at the leather bracelet bearing both their names, ‘but I am sure there is just me and you to show for all his . . . efforts.’

  Dexion’s face wrinkled a little and his eyes searched the shadows along the ridge; a troubled look Pavo had often seen in his own reflection.

  ‘How did he die?’

  Pavo took and swigged from the skin of soured wine and stared at his half-brother, then chuckled dryly. ‘It’s complicated. Very complicated.’

  ‘Tell me. I have to know,’ he said earnestly.

  Pavo gazed into the distance and unlocked the vault of memories. He told Dexion everything. Not just Father’s end, but his memories of Father from youth, of his years without him and the dark dreams that drew him to Persia. Finally, he untied the leather bracelet and handed it to Dexion, telling him of Father’s final moments.