Legionary: The Scourge of Thracia (Legionary 4)

by Gordon Doherty

  Dexion stared wordlessly for some time, his fingers tracing the inscription on the piece. ‘I struggle to recall his face. I cannot even remember his voice,’ he said at last, his words cracking. ‘He was in my life only for my first few years and then,’ he paused, a watery veil coming over his eyes, ‘he was gone.’

  Pavo leaned a little closer to him and showed Dexion the bracelet once more. ‘But he never forgot you. Never. He knew only too well his own failings, but he wanted nothing but good lives for us.’

  Dexion tried to smile at this, but could not.

  Pavo saw the rheumy look remain.

  ‘And what better life could you ask for but this?’ Dexion said at last, gesturing out over the ridge path. ‘Waiting on some hairy bastard Goth to gut you and then feed you your own entrails!’

  Pavo cocked an eyebrow and a silence ensued, then both men erupted in weary laughter.

  ‘We are alive,’ Dexion continued as the laughter died, flicking his head back towards the south. ‘We have survived in this treacherous empire, avoided all the asps that lie in its grass,’ then he nodded northwards, up the pass, ‘and all the wolves that gather at its borders. And we have found one another. That is what matters to me.’ He held up his wine skin and took a swig. ‘Not half-brothers, but brothers,’ he pronounced.

  ‘Brothers,’ Pavo echoed, taking the skin and drinking too.

  A rumble of boots sounded on the walls nearby, signalling the changing of the guard.

  ‘We should get some rest,’ Dexion suggested, his eyes combing the furthest discernible reaches of the ridge as if looking for the Gothic vanguard. ‘Today promises to be long and arduous.’

  ‘Aye, perhaps we should,’ Pavo twisted to look down into the fort. Sura stood there. His friend’s eyes were black-ringed and bloodshot. ‘Sura?’

  ‘You two had better get some kip. We’re moving out at noon.’

  Pavo and Dexion looked to one another, confused.

  ‘We’re going back south, to the Tonsus and the great camp.’

  ‘What? Surely we’re needed here? Surely every man is?’ Pavo frowned. ‘Does Saturninus not know what is coming this way?’

  ‘He does. But he wants us to alert Barzimeres, pick up our new cohorts and then return,’ Sura said, then nodded to Dexion. ‘You’re to come as well, sir.’

  Dexion let out a long, lasting sigh. ‘Ah, then back to Barzimeres it is. I will be reunited with the bearded arsehole at last. He was the reason I volunteered to come to this pass and go north with the embassy, you know. Despite all that happened,’ he said, flicking a clump of gore and dirt from his black breastplate, ‘it still seems like I made the right choice.’

  ‘You have my sympathies,’ Pavo nodded knowingly as they left the battlements, following Sura back to the XI Claudia tent.

  ‘I’m not sure what use I will be though?’ Dexion mused. ‘Your legion’s business is none of mine.’

  ‘Aye, there is more to it. Seems you’re without a legion and now your turma of escort riders are gone too, so . . . ’ Sura shrugged, nodding ahead to Saturninus’ principia tent. Gallus stood there, watching their approach like a crow, the plume of his helm flitting in the wind. Under his arm, the tribunus carried another intercisa helm bearing a white plume.

  Pavo had not seen the like since Felix had worn such a helm in his ceremonial duties as primus pilus. He shared a confused look with Dexion, then his thoughts switched to the Great Northern Camp by the Tonsus and another matter he had almost forgotten. ‘Dexion, there is something we should probably talk about. There’s a girl at the camp you might have gotten to know . . . a capsarius.’

  ‘You mean Felicia?’ he beamed. ‘I know quite a lot about her, oh yes.’ He said this with a distant, mischievous look, reminiscent of Quadratus recalling his many rutting sessions.

  Pavo noticed Sura chuckling at this and cast his friend a sour look.

  Felicia scowled as a brood of chickens swept around her ankles, nearly knocking her off balance before they shot off across the dry, cracked furrows of earth that ran through the Great Northern Camp. The end of the rains had been a blessing, and for the first time in weeks she could wear open sandals and walk without having to lift the hem of her robes from the mire. It was a fresh morning – the last in September – and pleasant sunshine cast a forgiving light on the sprawling camp, and some men even seemed eager to go about their duties instead of simply wallowing in wine. The smithy was alive with activity as fresh helms and swords were being crafted for the first time in weeks, and the air was spiced with the comforting scent of baking bread.

  The run of fine days seemed to have calmed the Tonsus, and the waterline had receded, nearly halving the breadth of the river. Better weather, better moods and a general purpose about the people of the camp meant there were less drunken mud-brawls and thus less injured men to treat. As such, the valetudinarium was empty. But while her colleague, Lucilla, chose to spend her free time washing garments by the river, Felicia had other business to attend to. She swept by the principia encampment once more. Barzimeres and his men had leered at her the first time she had passed, but this time, she noticed that they had left, then saw the dust plume heading over to the Scutarii encampment. Gone to play with his cavalrymen, she guessed.

  Now the principia was deserted. She cursed under her breath: this was the first time in many weeks that the square of command tents had been empty like this. And with Dexion still absent at the Shipka Pass defences, that meant she had no valid means of getting in there. Just four legionaries were on watch, one at each corner of the area so no intruders could slip inside. Her eyes grew hooded and a mischievous grin spread across her face. She swayed her hips just a little more as she passed one of the legionaries, drawing a bulging eye from the fellow. When the legionary glanced up and saw he had been caught eyeing her, she winked and swept past him. Flustered, he pretended to be manfully scouring the distance beyond her, then reddened and turned his gaze the other way, studiously eyeing a toad sitting on the cracked mud. With a furtive glance all around, Felicia pounced on her moment of invisibility and sidestepped into the square of tents.

  She peered cautiously around the small clearing inside the tent square, then fixed her eyes on the officium tent, the place she had seen the speculatore sneaking to and from.

  ‘Now, let’s see what those curs have been looking for,’ she muttered as she ducked inside. The tent was bare, with just three wooden chests side-by-side. She carefully opened each one, leafing through the papers inside. Military briefings, mustering reports, lead seals and unused scrolls. Nothing of any obvious value, but then the Speculatores drew value from the most innocuous of things. The written whereabouts of a unit or a soldier was all they needed to find and kill him or bend his arm to perform some dark task for them. The proposal of some military route could present a means of sabotaging the initiative and the general’s reputation along with it.

  She closed the third chest and glowered around the tent. There had to be something else, there simply had to be. Then she latched onto an idea. That night when she had spotted the speculatore, it had been raining heavily. The agent had sneaked off with something from this tent and returned later. One of these papers meant something to the speculatore, she reasoned, flipping open each case and leafing through the scrolls once again, and that means that one of them will be . . .

  She stopped, her breath catching as she lifted one scroll out – still marked with rain-blots. She unfurled it hastily and peered at the writing. It was smudged and barely legible and she scanned it again and again, squinting to make sense of it.

  When she did, her heart pounded like a drum and her blood ran cold, her eyes freezing on one word. One name.

  ‘No . . . ’ she gasped, her fingers trembling. Pavo and the rest of the XI Claudia were in grave danger. Their leader most of all. Her eyes scanned the name again:

  Gallus.

  Cat-soft on his feet, the speculatore came up behind her. Bitch, he thought, she knows! He slid th
e hunting knife from his belt and held it flat, flexing his arms once, twice and again, readying for the kill.

  Then he lunged upon her.

  Chapter 6

  ‘We could’ve swum that,’ Zosimus remarked as they hopped off the ferry and onto the River Tonsus’ southern banks, glancing back at the much diminished river.

  ‘Give it another few days of this weather and you could wade across it,’ Gallus added stonily, casting his eye around the great camp. The absence of drizzle had done much to improve affairs underfoot, and some works were underway, he could see. Still, the place was a pale shadow of a military camp. ‘Now where is he?’ he grumbled, shading his eyes from the noon sun.

  ‘Do you smell the horseshit?’ Dexion muttered, his tawny-gold eyes narrowing, his nose wrinkling and the white-plume on his new helm flitting in the breeze. ‘That’s usually a good indicator that he is nearby.’

  Gallus had to work not to chuckle at his new primus pilus’ words. He followed Dexion’s staid gaze and saw the wing-helmed Tribunus Barzimeres, sitting bolt upright on the saddle, guiding his mount around the dry dirt tracks and eyeing the idle soldiers and handfuls who were working or training like a lord inspecting his slaves. A pair of Cornutii walked either side of his mount. ‘We’re here only to pick up our new cohorts,’ he muttered so only his men could hear, then looked over his shoulder and met the eyes of Pavo, Sura, Zosimus, Quadratus and Dexion. ‘We can set off back for the Shipka Pass at noon, or we can stay here for a few extra hours to take on more food and water and then-’

  ‘Noon’ll do nicely,’ Quadratus cut in matter-of-factly, and not one of them disagreed.

  The corners of Gallus’ lips almost toyed with a smile. Almost. He turned back round to be greeted by the grinning features of Barzimeres, who beheld him like a wizened father.

  ‘Ah, Tribunus, you received my message then, eh?’

  ‘I did, sir,’ Gallus replied. ‘The readiness of the new cohorts is most timely, for the northern passes are in great danger. The sooner we can return there, the soo-’

  ‘Your stint at the northern stockades is over, Tribunus,’ Barzimeres cut in, his gaze fixed in the distance like some far-seeing general.

  Gallus tensed at the rebuttal. ‘Sir, have you heard what is coming for those passes? Goths, Huns, Taifali. The Shipka Pass is at half-strength. Saturninus can call on just six hundred men as it stan-’

  ‘Then he’d better have them well-drilled,’ Barzimeres cut him off again. ‘For you are staying here until I say you can go. I let this one go to the passes for a two day mission and he returns to me weeks later,’ he flicked a derisory finger at Dexion. ‘Weeks!’ He shook his head. ‘Oh no, you will be remaining here under my command, I can assure you.’

  ‘Sir,’ Gallus insisted, a tremor of ire in his tone, ‘The passes are in grave danger.’

  Barzimeres demeanour changed, growing dark as he leaned forward on his saddle. ‘Do you mean to question me in my own camp, Tribunus?’ As he said this, a group of Cornutii stretched out like wings either side of him, spears just an order from being levelled at the Claudia legionaries.

  ‘No . . . sir,’ Gallus hissed.

  Barzimeres’ stance returned to normal, like a passing cloud revealing the sun once more. ‘Then come, come,’ he waved the XI Claudia men with him and walked his horse along the riverbank until they came to the western end of the great camp and the grassy plain beyond, ‘for I have mustered your precious new cohorts.’

  Pavo marched up to walk with him. ‘Sir, we can’t afford to pander to him. The Shipka Pass will not stand against the Gothic army we saw readying to move out.’

  ‘We have to break away from this place,’ Sura added.

  ‘For once, this lunatic is right, sir,’ Quadratus agreed.

  When Gallus spoke, his lips barely moved. ‘We will receive our new cohorts. At dawn tomorrow, we’ll take them out on a marching exercise.’

  Pavo searched Gallus’ stony features for some tell-tale glint of the eye. Nothing. An air of uncertainty hung over the group, then Dexion hinted at the tribunus’ true meaning. ‘And perhaps we’ll take a wrong turn?’

  ‘I’m with you,’ Zosimus chuckled. ‘A very big detour?’

  Quadratus chuckled too, then slowed a little. ‘Hold on, what’s that?’

  Gallus and the others followed his gaze. He saw Barzimeres slow at a meadow and ride up to a group of slight-shouldered lads in ragged tunics and trousers: a few hundred, no doubt awaiting recruitment on the first rung of the legionary ladder.

  ‘Your cohorts, Tribunus,’ Barzimeres beamed as he walked his horse around the young men. ‘This will be a plum task for you, will it not? Training boys to hold a spear. Perfect for you limitanei!’ he finished, roaring at his own gossamer-veiled insult.

  Gallus bit back on the acerbic phrase that came to his tongue. A phrase that involved Barzimeres forcing the cohorts – a highly euphemistic term – into a place they could never hope to fit, nor want to be. Not seventeen hundred men as he had been told to expect, with four hundred and eighty men to populate the second and third cohorts and nearly eight hundred to populate the prestigious first cohort.

  No, some two hundred and forty boys. Some as young as fifteen, the eldest twenty at most. They wore no armour or weapons and most were twig-limbed, looking like they would struggle to lift a shield, let alone use one. They carried just basic marching packs, with tools and bedding – the heavy goatskin tents having been set down.

  Barzimeres walked his mount forward a few paces, then leaned down. ‘What’s wrong, Tribunus – were you expecting more? Men are in short supply – remember, many have fallen at the passes.’ The glee in his voice was galling, and the tone was one of victory.

  ‘I’ll have wooden swords brought out at once, so you can get to work on their training immediately?’ Barzimeres finished, heeling his mount round and ambling back off into the Great Camp.

  Gallus watched him go, his breath coming and going through gritted teeth, then turned to the squinting, nervous recruits. There was no point in taking out his anger on these lads, for it would simply break what spirit they had and no doubt humour Barzimeres into the bargain. No, he had to make the most of what he’d been given, and throw the odious Barzimeres off the scent of his plans for their marching exercise tomorrow. He took the silver XI Claudia eagle from Quadratus’ grip, turned to his mass of recruits, pitied them for the anger they were about to endure and planted the standard in the earth like a spear.

  ‘I am Tribunus Gallus of the XI Claudia Pia Fidelis,’ he snarled. ‘From today, I am your master. From today, you obey every word from me or Primus Pilus Dexion. From today, this eagle is your god.’ He let a long silence follow this, his eyes raking across the sea of faces, almost daring one to counter him, all the while seeing Barzimeres cantering easily back into his disgrace of a camp. ‘Do you understand?’

  Another moment of silence ensued, then the few amongst the recruits who read the cue threw up their arms in salute. ‘Yes, sir!’ came a patchy chorus of barely-broken voices.

  Gallus swung away from them, then met the eyes of those by his side. ‘Split them into three centuries.’

  Zosimus, Pavo and Sura beckoned two-thirds of the group over to join them, while Quadratus marshalled the rest together.

  ‘Right,’ Zosimus grunted first. ‘Here are the basics: I’m Centurion Zosimus, your centurion, and I bloody well own you. This here is Optio Pavo, I own him and he owns you. Finally, we have Tesserarius Sura. Pavo and I own him and he owns you. Understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ came another chorus of replies.

  ‘Understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir!’ came a high-pitched attempt at a bolder reply.

  ‘Now I’ll teach you how to march, how to fight and how not to die in good time. Right now, it’d be wise to get your cooking fires kindled and get some food in your bellies, for once we start training, you’ll bloody well need it.’

  As the tirade was echoed by Quadratus to his century
and the third century, Gallus cast his eye over the Great Northern Camp, up to the noon sun, then off to the mountains in the north. Dawn felt like a long, long way away.

  Stand firm, Saturninus, he mouthed, thinking of the hardy few atop the Shipka Pass. We will come to you soon.

  With a few hours of light left, Pavo jogged back from the meadow and into the Great Northern Camp. After four gruelling hours, Zosimus, Pavo and Sura had taught their century little more than how to stand in formation. Still, they clutched their shields and spears clumsily, standing too far apart or too close together, presenting Gallus with a thousand different faults to berate them for. But at least they now had some kit, he thought, remembering Gallus haranguing the man at the stores until he got what he wished, the fellow had grudgingly handing over a dusty, battered collection of spears, swords and shields bearing a hotchpotch of colours and emblems. Helms and armour would have to wait, he thought, for the return to the Shipka Pass was only a few hours of sleep away.

  But there was something else that could not wait. Someone else.

  Pavo burst into the valetudinarium, then cursed as he saw nobody there but a cross-eyed fellow sitting, clutching his groin and scratching violently at it. ‘I’m first, I’ve been waiting here for bloody ages,’ he gasped, wincing scratching roughly again. ‘But there’s been nobody here all bloody day!’

  He left and jogged on through the camp towards Felicia’s tent, past milling soldiers eating stew or cleaning their long-neglected armour. He had so much to tell her. Dexion was here and he was now part of the XI Claudia. Then he wondered sourly how she might react to this, how pleased she might be to see Dexion again. At that moment, he caught sight of another figure heading towards Felicia’s tent: Dexion! Instinctively, he broke into a run, determined to reach her first.