Legionary: The Scourge of Thracia (Legionary 4)

by Gordon Doherty

  Pavo nodded solemnly, his eyes failing to meet Gallus’ demanding glare.

  ‘But those merits are like a pale light for you right now, are they not?’ Gallus guessed.

  Pavo took a deep breath. ‘At Vergilius’ villa yesterday, there was a dead girl. A slave. She didn’t look much like Felicia but,’ he stopped, shaking his head, ‘in some strange way I wanted to believe that she did – that it was her.’ He sighed recalling the numbness as he had laid the girl in her grave. ‘Sura and I buried her. I whispered to her as we did so. I don’t know why, for I never knew her nor her me, but I spoke to her as if she was Felicia; the final words I should have shared with her. I should have been there, before Farnobius cut her down . . . ’ he reiterated.

  Gallus’ brow knitted into deep ruts. ‘The web of regret is a tangled one, lad. A dark creature lurks in there. It feeds on your regrets, devours your self-pity with relish. If you submit to it, it will consume you.’

  ‘But I feel something inside me. It is like fiery talons, growing, lashing at my insides.’

  Gallus beheld him with a keen eye, as if Pavo had just spoken of a secret only he knew. ‘Anger. And rightly so,’ he said gently. ‘It must be spent, but it is a mistake to turn it upon yourself.’

  Pavo stared through the ground before him. ‘Then I shall turn it on him. Farnobius,’ he muttered, wondering if the giant even knew what a wound one swipe of the huge axe had bestowed. His nose wrinkled and his fingers tightened into fists. ‘Farnobius,’ he repeated, this time as a hiss. Then he imagined the innumerable Gothic horde and the giant in their midst. His mind’s eye played a cruel trick then, pitching the scattered few remnants of the Thracian legions against such might. His shoulders sagged. ‘Yet it seems that some are beyond reach?’

  Silence. Pavo looked up, seeing Gallus’ stiff glower searching the western night sky.

  ‘No man is beyond reach,’ the tribunus whispered at last.

  ‘Sir?’

  Gallus stirred from his trance, his eyes meeting Pavo’s. There, Pavo saw his own reflection, his expression matching Gallus’. There was a lasting silence before the Tribunus spoke.

  ‘You seek justice from an impossible place? To enter the spider’s maw and pierce its black heart? That is a dark path, Pavo, and one I never wished you to tread. But I know its twists and turns only too well.’

  Pavo gazed at the tribunus, and it all fell into place: Gallus’ slain family, the Speculatores’ pursuit of the tribunus’ blood. The man’s obsession with the Western Emperor’s journey to the east. ‘It was the Speculatores?’

  Gallus seemed frozen for a moment at the mention of the word.

  ‘They took your family from you. They are the black heart you seek?’

  Gallus’ eyes returned to scouring the western night sky . . . finally he nodded. ‘You would have gladly died to save Felicia, wouldn’t you?’ he said softly.

  Pavo accepted the change of tack and knew to press no further. ‘Father lived and died as a soldier, gave his life to save me in the end and took his enemies with him, so there is some solace in that. But Felicia? She had no place on the end of a blade. How can I ever forget what happened to her, sir?’

  ‘You can’t. You shouldn’t,’ Gallus sighed. ‘But remember her for what she was to you, not for how it ended. I . . . only wish I could live by that mantra.’

  Pavo nodded, then noticed Gallus’ hand edging towards his purse, but, as if scolded by a silent wraith, he retracted it. In the purse, Pavo knew, was the tribunus’ idol of Mithras. A worn piece depicting the god of the legions’ birth from rock. Gallus would oft be seen clutching the piece, sometimes on the march, sometimes as he perched like a crow on a fort wall, watching over his training ranks, sometimes even in the moments before battle, Pavo had seen him clasp the piece. But ever since they had set off from Constantinople, he realised, he had not seen the idol in the tribunus’ hands. ‘Does Mithras ease the pain?’

  Gallus laughed at this. It was an odd sound and one Pavo had never heard before. A laugh that carried not a hint of mirth. ‘Even Mithras is powerless to soothe the blight that is loss. He and I understand this now.’

  ‘Then what does it take?’ Pavo asked.

  Gallus gave him a knowing, almost surprised look. ‘Why, it is just as Carbo told me with his last breaths in Persia. It is just as you told me on the road home from that burning land.’ He clenched and shook a fist as if recalling the moment. ‘Face the past, face the nightmares,’ he punched the fist into his palm. ‘Strike them down!’

  Chapter 12

  The last leg of the march was swift and relentless – ever westwards like the scudding grey clouds. The two centuries of the XI Claudia hurried along the Via Militaris, leaving the winding green pastures of Thracia behind as they marched along this ancient, rising path towards the mountainous region that linked Thracia to the Diocese of Dacia. The Roman highway, ragged and in disrepair in the flatlands, was now all the more dilapidated here in the rugged highlands: where flagstones had been missing or hastily filled in with ill-fitting stones back in central Thracia, here there was no sign of attempted repair. Potholes dotted the road, filled with baked earth or pools of stagnant rainwater, and grass and shrubs had taken root in almost every join between the stones, as if Terra Mater was on the cusp of consuming the road that had dared to stride across her lands.

  Pavo felt the chill winds tug at his cloak and drew it tighter. From his position at the rear of the column, he was pleased to see the recruits marching in something like a line and roughly in time. Then he frowned when three of them stumbled together and nearly brought the column to a farcical halt.

  Dexion, having fallen back to march with him, sighed and sucked in a lungful of air. ‘There’s nothing you or I can do to improve them just now. All that matters is getting through this wilderness and to this mighty fort at Trajan’s Gate. There we can drill them properly – make them legionaries.’

  Pavo swatted a fly from his face. ‘Aye, and they might be afforded helms and mail vests there too. Such things a soldier needs and such things a soldier makes.’

  He glanced all around them, and saw that as the highway climbed, the land on either side grew jagged and craggy, parts cloaked in forests of pine and spruce. They couldn’t be far from the Succi Valley, he reckoned.

  By early afternoon they came to a severe, straight valley, maybe five hundred paces wide and with steep sides carpeted in tall grass, winter blooms and russet ash thickets. It was almost a perfect V-shape – as if a titan had driven a plough through the earth and bedrock aeons ago. The highway stretched off along the floor of this furrow like a fading grey stripe. No wagon or army could traverse this countryside except via the road – despite the grievous state of disrepair it was in. The importance of this marching route was becoming clearer with every step.

  Their breaths and footsteps echoed as they marched along this valley and tiny streamlets of rainwater gurgled by the side of the road. It seemed as if the valley might be infinite, until at last, the horizon changed, the valley floor narrowing to around two hundred paces and the valley sides seemingly intent on choking the highway.

  Now the echoes were intense – every breath and scrape of boots repeated a hundred times. Pavo scanned the steep valley sides which loomed over the road like sentinels. Then his eye snagged on something coming into view, something perched halfway up the northern slope on a rocky spur – jutting stonework, framed by the valley side and the grey clouds above. A fort? he wondered, hearing the babble that broke out as the others saw it too. Or ruins? he mused as they drew closer: a red-brick fortress indeed. It sported three listing, antiquated towers, lichen-coated like the walls, which were also etched with deep, dark cracks. Despite it’s ruinous state, the structure peered down on the Via Militaris from its lofty perch as a raven might eye a mouse. He and Dexion jogged forward to the front of his century, drawing level with Zosimus and Sura. ‘An old legionary ruin?’

  ‘Must be,’ Zosimus agreed.

  S
ura scratched at his head. ‘If that’s a ruin, then who’s that up there?’

  Pavo and Zosimus’ brows bent into frowns. Pavo saw it first. A handful of tiny forms up there were spilling from the fort’s twin-towered gatehouse and out to line the edge of the rocky spur. A sudden rustle of iron sounded as the rest of the XI Claudia saw them too, bringing shields a little higher and bracing in fear of attack.

  ‘Hold on, they’re ours . . . ’ Dexion muttered in confusion.

  ‘At ease, they’re sagittarii,’ Gallus called back, confirming Dexion’s suspicion.

  Pavo squinted and saw that they were indeed imperial archers. They wore bronze helms with nose-guards, fluttering red cloaks and scale vests, and carried their composite bows and quivers on their backs.

  ‘What’s a century of archers doing out in this wilderness?’ Zosimus agreed. ‘Maybe an escort that can take us through this grim ruin and onwards to Trajan’s Gate?’

  Pavo saw the lone, sorry purple imperial banner fluttering atop the eastern tower and felt his heart sink into his belly. ‘Sir, I think this is Trajan’s Gate.’

  Gallus felt his mood grow thornier as he left the Via Militaris, crossed a small brook and climbed the steep, winding scree-path up the northern valley side to the fort spur. There was little doubt, he affirmed, quickly unfurling the map; they had stayed on the Via Militaris for just under five hours since dawn. This was their destination. This was Trajan’s Gate, the mighty fortified choke-point that linked East to West. He could not suppress a derisive snort. The dilapidated fort that guarded this valley seemed to have been paid little attention since the reign of Trajan himself, hundreds of years ago. And they had passed not a single lookout, watchtower or beacon on the approach to this place.

  ‘Who goes there?’ an archer with a tuft of red plumage on his helm called down to them from the top of the path.

  Gallus tucked away the scroll, raised a hand to halt the column, then peered up the path and addressed the archer.

  ‘Tribunus Gallus of the XI Claudia. I bring my legion to reinforce the defences of Trajan’s Gate,’ he wondered if he had unconsciously inflected the term defences. ‘We bring word for Comes Geridus.’

  ‘The XI Claudia?’ the sagittarius frowned, eyeing the motley collection of ancient and mismatched shields the recruits carried, then he shrugged in acceptance when he saw the ruby bull banner carried by Quadratus and waved them on up.

  Gallus waved his men on once more, leading them up and onto the grass-carpeted plateau. As the rest of the XI Claudia filtered up onto the plateau, Gallus took a moment to survey the place properly. The spur was nestled into the valley side which sheltered it from the north and offered a fine view over the imperial road below to the south. A juniper grove had claimed the flat ground to the rear of the spur and abutted the fort’s northern wall. The fort itself took up about half of the remaining space on the plateau and, owing to the limitations imposed by the terrain, it was an oddly-shaped structure, tapering in width from west to east: the western wall before him, dominated by a moss and root entangled twin-towered gatehouse – clearly of the time of Trajan as he had suspected – was forty paces wide while the eastern wall looked like it was less than thirty paces wide and sported a single tower at its centre. The southern wall which looked down on the Via Militaris was some seventy paces long and featureless apart from a grievous, shuddering crack down its middle wide enough for a man to squeeze through. Likewise, the battlements along the wall and tower tops were in a ruinous state, large sections almost devoid of walkway or parapet. And not a single sentry up there, he realised.

  He turned his attentions back to the gatehouse before him. The northern gatetower looked like a good push might topple it, but the southern gatetower was slightly less ramshackle and at least showed signs of recent repair. By the foot of this tower, there was a shadowy hole dug into the plateau floor: a tunnel with steps carved into the rock, he realised, leading down through the valleyside to the valley floor – probably giving sheltered access to the brook down by the Via Militaris. Then he looked up; this southern gatetower also had a reasonably intact parapet . . . and there was something else up there, he realised, seeing some bulky object atop the tower. He craned his neck and peered at this, framed by the fast-moving grey clouds. Whatever it was, it was huge . . .

  The centurion of the sagittarii saluted stiffly. ‘Comes Geridus is in the fort, sir,’ he said, gesturing to the double gateway leading inside.

  Gallus clicked his fingers and ordered the rank and file of the XI Claudia to fall out by the juniper grove. As the recruits gratefully set down their marching packs and dug out their rations, he beckoned his officers with him. His eyes narrowed as he noticed a dark earth mound by the foot of the walls. A fresh grave? Then he noticed the recently – and badly – hewn replacement gate resting inside the gatehouse and awaiting installation.

  ‘Repairs?’ Pavo guessed.

  ‘Or firewood,’ Sura snorted.

  ‘They’ve had a shot at it,’ Zosimus offered.

  ‘They’ve made an arse of it, you mean,’ Quadratus countered.

  ‘There’s work to be done here,’ Dexion surmised.

  ‘There is,’ Gallus concluded. ‘How smoothly that work will go depends on who commands this pass. Barzimeres set some memorable standards for incompetence, but let us pray that he is not outdone by this . . . Geridus.’

  The two archers flanking the gateless arch parted with a salute. They seemed disciplined enough, he thought.

  The space inside the fort walls was cramped. A small grain silo, a baking kiln and a lone barrack block big enough to house a century and no more lined the northern wall and a lean-to timber stable rested against the southern wall. A handful of riders in military tunics and boots stood nearby, eating bowls of stew and casting furtive glances at the newcomers. Gallus met their gazes but quickly turned his attentions to the dusty, smoke-stained, two storeyed principia in the centre of the fort that dominated the limited space. Two more archers waited at the doorway there, again parting as he approached. They entered into a windowless hall where light and dark battled. A roaring fire crackled in a blackened hearth, filling the space with a welcome heat. The room was otherwise barren and dusty, with just a table by the fire. A bald, bulky, white-bearded man sat there, hunched over a map.

  ‘Tribunus Gallus of the XI Claudia,’ Gallus said. The man did not look up. Gallus strode closer and cleared his throat, expecting the man to latch onto their presence at any moment. But as he came to within a pace of the table, he saw the firelight dance in this man’s eyes. They were lost, gazing through the map and off into memory. The man was old, certainly – maybe approaching sixty – but he still had the tall, powerful frame of a warrior, despite the tattered old citizen’s robes he wore.

  Gallus halted by the table, the others fanning out by his side. Silence hung over them, with only the occasional sound of snapping kindling piercing it.

  ‘You are Comes Geridus, the famous Master of the Passes?’ Gallus said, uncertain this was the man he sought.

  The man did not flinch, and still he did not look up. ‘Famous you say?’ he replied at last, his voice a deep, baritone burr, entirely devoid of inflection. ‘Perhaps. Yet fame is a joyless commodity; like a fire without heat or a meal without nourishment. Fame follows me like a pig with bad wind: creates a fair din and offers nothing other than a sinful odour.’ He chuckled dryly. ‘Master of the Passes? No, not any more. Now, I am merely the Coward of Ad Salices. And that,’ he wagged a finger, ‘is a truly sour fame.’

  Gallus’ eyes flicked to the floor momentarily as he remembered the words of the half-maddened Governor Urbicus of Trimontium.

  A craven old man. He will offer you nothing.

  His mind swept back to the Battle of Ad Salices. The late arrival of the western legions had been vital, Comes Richomeres leading those armies to the field just when it seemed certain that the Thracian armies might be crushed by Fritigern’s Goths. Richomeres had been hailed as a hero for
snatching a dignified stalemate from the jaws of defeat, but there had been other whispers passed around too, of another western general who had been sent to the battle but had never arrived.

  ‘They said I turned back through fear,’ Geridus said as if following Gallus’ pondering. ‘Yet I have known decades of war, my skin is laced with cuts and my dreams are filled with the shades of lost comrades.’

  Gallus frowned, wondering just how far this old man had reached inside his thoughts. ‘No man who stands with the legions in battle is a coward, sir.’

  Geridus looked up now, beholding Gallus and the others with his hazel eyes, his black and wispy eyebrows in stark contrast with his white beard. His skin was mottled with age and bagged around his eyes.

  ‘Yet they call me just that; the Coward of Ad Salices,’ he muttered, pouring himself a cup of wine – not the first of the day, Gallus guessed going by the man’s rubicund, fleshy and thread-veined nose. ‘And I cannot deny them such accusations . . . for I did indeed turn back. My once powerful limbs would not carry me to war.’

  The man met Gallus’ eyes, no, pinned him. At last, Gallus had to look away.

  Geridus laughed a hoarse and throaty laugh. ‘You have nothing more to say? What does one say to console a coward who accepts his shame?’

  Gallus noticed then, in the far corner of the room, a saddle, boots, shield, a swordbelt bearing a gem-hilted spatha, a magnificent bronze cuirass and a red plumed helm – all mounted on a timber frame. The fine armour was coated in dust like everything else, and cobwebs billowed with every breeze that stole into the room. Unused for some time, it seemed. ‘One might offer a second chance. Perhaps, sir, the holding of this pass might rinse the stain from your reputation?’

  Geridus held Gallus’ gaze blankly for a moment, then roared with laughter, the throaty burr echoing throughout the room as if a hundred men had been tickled by Gallus’ words. When the laughter died, he shook his head. ‘My reputation is broken, Tribunus, irrefutably. I am merely waiting now.’