Legionary: The Scourge of Thracia (Legionary 4)

by Gordon Doherty

  ‘Waiting?’ Gallus frowned.

  ‘To be discharged. In the spring, another is to replace me. Maurus – a cruel, fickle and untrustworthy dog who has bought the favour of Emperor Gratian. So my reward is to spend my final years in retirement, recounting my shame with every passing day until the ferryman comes for me.’

  Gallus sensed Geridus’ melancholy creeping under his armour, and knew it would be affecting those by his side too. ‘A winter lies between you and retirement, Comes. Is that not enough to offer you a chance of redemption? Certainly, last winter was enough to turn the eastern empire on her head, so surely it should not be asking too much for one man to guide his own fate this year? The empire needs men like you at this very moment. Indeed, I have been sent here to forewarn you of the situation. The five passes have fallen and the Goths have spilled into central Thracia. This defile has become vital once more, for if Emperor Gratian and his Western armies are to come to the aid of this land, then-’

  Geridus raised a hand, beholding Gallus with a keen eye and an odd grin. ‘I remember when I was like you – free of my ailments and iron to my core . . . ’

  Gallus’ patience was thinning. ‘Sir, my legion is here to help you in holding this pass until Emperor Gratian and his army come east in the spring. The vigour of my men and I will aid your cause. I hope you will put your all into the task then Gratian will see you for the man you are, and not be guided by the whispered rumours of the ambitious who have plotted to supercede you.’

  Geridus’ eyes changed for just a moment. In their depths, Gallus was sure he saw an ember glowing as the Comes thought over the suggestion, then he winced, a hand shooting down to his shin. He rubbed at the robes there, his face pinched in pain. Silence overcame the room again, until Geridus sat up at last with a sigh, scratching at his shiny bald pate and turning back to the map. ‘Perhaps, Tribunus . . . perhaps.’ His eyes fell upon the area west of Trajan’s Gate. He tapped a finger on this section. ‘But as things stand, Gratian might not travel east at all.’

  Gallus tensed. ‘That is impossible. It has been agreed. I heard confirmation of this from the lips of Emperor Valens in Antioch.’

  Geridus sighed, eyes darting over the map. ‘Valens’ hopes are one thing. Reality is another. Gratian has his own difficulties at the moment,’ he said tapping the region around the Western Diocese of Italia’s northern borders and the precarious gap between the natural barriers of the upper Danubius and Rhine. ‘The Alemanni are said to be on the verge of revolt. Their King, Priarius, is a fractious whoreson.’ He then tapped the area marked as the Western Diocese of Pannonia, north and west of Trajan’s Gate, skirting the River Danubius’ upper course. ‘And here, the Quadi raid the western borders like wolves, fiercer than any Goth, I can assure you.’

  ‘Hearsay has no place over imperial orders,’ Gallus snapped, sensing his modicum of hope fading. Gratian must come west! I will have my revenge!

  Geridus’ thick, dark eyebrows lifted like a dissatisfied teacher. ‘This is not hearsay, Tribunus. The last word that came from the West confirmed Gratian’s troubles. That was over two weeks ago, and there have been no more messengers since . . . normally we expect Cursus Publicus messengers on a daily basis.’

  Gallus felt his flesh creep with ire. Justice! ‘Then surely we can despatch messengers westwards to implore him? The five passes have fallen. More than one hundred thousand Goths sit in the heart of Thracia right now,’ he leant over the map table and shot a finger out to the east. ‘Every inch of Roman land from here to the Hellespont is on the brink of collapse.’

  Geridus sighed and took a long gulp of wine, that distant look returning to his eyes as he gazed into the fire. ‘I will send no more riders to Gratian.’

  Gallus backed away from the table. ‘Why?’

  Geridus flicked his head to the rear of the room. ‘Resigned though I may be, I have no wish to abandon my duties. I have just eighty archers to defend this pass. Outside, I have eleven horses and eleven equites remaining. Two weeks ago, I had thirty – and thirty men to ride them. Two parties I have sent west to establish what has happened with the imperial messenger system. The first I heard nothing from for a week. The second the same again . . . until one of them returned here, torn and bloodied. He and his men had found the bodies of the first party then fell into a Quadi ambush themselves. He died this morning.’

  Gallus thought of the fresh grave outside.

  Geridus tapped a finger on the map again and dragged it from Trajan’s Gate, tracing a line northwest, up through the westerly stretches of the Succi Valley and on across the Dioceses of Dacia and Pannonia, before coming to the River Danubius and following its course to the Diocese of Italia. ‘This route is fraught, and riddled with foes. The Quadi insurgents that took the heads of my riders have doubtless been responsible for the non-appearance of messengers or scouts coming from Gratian’s court. They control many of the roads in Dacia and Pannonia. Thus, I will not send more of my precious few to their deaths.’

  Gallus drew a spare stool and sat opposite Geridus, steepling his fingers and fixing the man with a gimlet stare. ‘Comes . . . Emperor Gratian must be told that the five passes have fallen.’

  Geridus remained exasperatingly unmoved by Gallus’ agitation. ‘Then show me the legions that will clear a path to the West to tell him. Until then, Gratian shall remain in his palace within the walls of Augusta Treverorum in Gaul, ignorant of the troubles of this land.’ He lifted his cup, swirled it, then frowned. ‘You eye me with contempt?’

  Gallus heard the steely edge to his tone and relented, feigning deference to his superior. ‘You state only grim reality, sir. But to accept it is to succumb to it.’

  ‘What would you have me do?’ Geridus continued, then gestured towards the door, where one of the sagittarii stood guard. ‘You have seen how it is. I have just a century of bowmen to command. The legions of Pannonia are fully engaged on the Upper Danubius and as stretched as these forces are. I have no means of getting word to Gratian’s court.’

  ‘Allies, then?’ Gallus suggested. ‘Some who might carry word for us?’

  Geridus sighed and rubbed at his temples. ‘There is a band of Sarmatians roaming somewhere on the pasturelands near the Danubius. They have sided with the legions of Pannonia in the past, but they are screened by the Quadi and equally as out of reach as Emperor Gratian is.’

  ‘There must be something, some way,’ Gallus’ eyes darted as he thought over the infrastructure of the empire’s messenger system. Roads, waystations, well-fed horses and riders. A single scroll could travel from Londinium to Alexandria in under three weeks. That system was in pieces, it seemed. The first fracture that might lead to a collapse? His mind swung back and forth, then fixed on one idea. ‘Let me try,’ he said at last.

  Geridus supped his drink calmly and remained in a state of torpor. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Let me lead a contubernium west.’

  Geridus’ dark eyebrows shot up. ‘You have not heard a word I said,’ he tapped the map west of Trajan’s Gate again as he said this.

  ‘I heard and heeded every word,’ Gallus countered.

  Geridus swirled his cup and drank some more, his eyes never leaving Gallus. ‘I am ordering you and your men to stay put, Tribunus.’

  That night, a cold wind howled through the pass and the junipers rustled and hissed over the square of XI Claudia tents pitched on the patch of free flat ground just outside the fort entrance. Pavo flitted up the stone-stepped, rounded tunnel that led from the valley floor, emerged from the tunnel mouth and out onto the plateau by the southern gatetower. He handed the skin of fresh brook water to Cornix and sat next to him and Trupo, watching as the former painstakingly chopped garlic and onion into tiny pieces before frying it in bacon fat over the fire. The aroma was delicious as it was, but Cornix then proceeded to add crushed juniper berries and the meat from a rabbit they had caught just before sundown along with a few splashes of the cool water. Eventually, Cornix handed him a strip of cooked
meat. Pavo chewed on the succulent flesh, the juices rich with flavour and warming in his belly. ‘Mithras, Cornix, where in the empire did you learn to cook like that?’

  Cornix shrugged, nudging at the remaining frying meat with his dagger. ‘I picked things up here and there. A legionary who can cook tends to enjoy a few extra benefits,’ he said, lifting his wineskin and shaking it – clearly holding more than the usual meagre ration.

  Pavo chuckled and supped on his own skin of watered, soured wine, casting occasional glances to Gallus’ tent. Geridus’ rebuttal of Gallus’ pleas had left an icy tension hanging over the cramped spur. Gallus had retired to his tent early, and Pavo could only imagine what levels of anger Geridus’ refusal had stoked in him.

  ‘He’ll take it out on us, most probably,’ Sura said, sitting down with them and taking a piece of cooked rabbit for himself. He chewed for a moment, eyes sweeping back and forth as if in judgement. ‘A bit more garlic,’ he nodded. ‘Aye, just another pinch. I cooked for the Governor of Adrianople once, you see . . . ’

  Trupo and Cornix smirked and just caught the laughs as they saw Pavo roll his eyes.

  ‘Lauded me all that day, he did. Set me up to cook for others. I’d have been rich . . . if it wasn’t for the dodgy wine someone poured for him later in the evening. They say he was on the latrine for a full two days – half his normal size when he finally came out.’ Sura’s face wrinkled as if to reassure himself. ‘Definitely the wine,’ he affirmed.

  Pavo turned away to mask a chuckle, then noticed Dexion stalking amongst the campfires. He welcomed the thought of another chance to chat with his brother: every time they had done so in their short time together had been like a salve to both men’s hearts. Simple talk of simple things – tales of their childhoods, their time in the legions, memories or stories of Father – had made the bleak present almost bearable. And Felicia? Well they did not talk of her, but whenever their chatter fell into a lull, Pavo’s thoughts swiftly turned to her. At these times he also noticed his brother’s eyes growing distant and doleful and knew that their thinking was in harmony. So he stood, waving a hand to catch Dexion’s attention and then to the empty spot by his side. But Dexion’s face was creased, tawny-gold eyes darting this way and that. ‘Sir?’ he said, sticking to decorum whilst there were other soldiers within earshot.

  Dexion put a finger to his lips in a plea for quiet, then beckoned him and Sura.

  The pair stood and walked over to join Dexion, who had halted by the juniper grove and was now cupping an ear to the night.

  ‘What is that?’ he started and then stopped. A ghostly, muffled tink-tink of iron sounded. It was as if it was echoing from a great distance away, but nearby at the same time, coming and going with the breeze.

  ‘A goat herder?’ Sura mused, looking off into the night, his face betraying his own doubt.

  ‘No, not the iron tapping noise . . . that,’ Dexion insisted.

  Pavo and Sura strained, hearing nothing. Then . . . a voice. A lone voice, coming and going over the whistling wind, speaking from somewhere in the blackness.

  Fine, strong limbs. Ferocious talons. Time does not ravage you as it does me, it seems.

  Pavo, Sura and Dexion looked to one another uncertainly, then followed the direction of the voice.

  Aye, they once called me the Master of the Passes. Long, long ago. Perhaps if I had the opportunity to throw you into battle, dear friend, I might be known as such again. But time has caught up with me at last.

  Pavo’s eyes widened. That burring voice. ‘Geridus!’ he whispered.

  Sura and Dexion looked to him, eyes widening in realisation, then Sura slapped a hand across Pavo’s chest and pointed up. On top of the southern gatetower, a silhouetted, tall and broad figure hobbled awkwardly on a cane. It was unmistakeably Geridus, and he seemed to be circling the bulky, hide covered shape up there. ‘What in the name of Mithras is he doing?’

  ‘More importantly . . . who is he talking to?’ Dexion added. The tower was out of bounds, Geridus had insisted.

  Pavo’s skin crept as the chill wind stole the eerie chatter away again.

  Chapter 13

  Acuelo had always been a cumbersome man, slow-moving and easy to tire. Back in his legionary days, he had often dreamt of retirement and a peaceable few years on a farm or the like. However, cruel fate – and a wicked desire to gamble what he had – had seen fit to render him penniless and thus, he had no choice but to serve penance as a sentry in the Abderan gold mines.

  Deep in this honeycomb of caves and tunnels within the most southerly of the Rhodope Mountains, he felt his chest grow tight and numb. The heat in this oppressive space seemed to suck the air from his lungs faster than he could draw it in. He blinked and tried to steady his breathing, flexing his fingers on his spear shaft. Sweating bodies and malevolent eyes lingered all around him and the chipping of pick-axes and rasping coughs echoed from every direction. Every so often this was punctuated with the dull thunder of rock crumbling and being loaded into the mule-carts and the waft of dry, suffocating dust. He shook his head to try and rid himself of the dizziness, then looked around for something to focus on other than his own malady. He saw one of the gold miners – Dama, a brutish, mean-eyed felon from Macedonia – loading rocks into the mule-led cart. Not gold ore or seam, just granite laced with quartz. Acuelo realised the bad yield would be attributed to his watch and deducted from his pay. And I need those coins for the next big race! Then a dark thought crossed his mind. That nagging yet earnest voice. But damn, is there not always a next race? Is that not why you and your family live in perpetual penury?

  Shaking off the thoughts, he stomped over to Dama and swung the butt of his spear at his back. The shaft batted the man – not enough to bruise or scrape, but enough to get his attention. Dama swung round, his face twisted in a snarl. He took a step forward, only for the iron shackles on his ankles to restrain him, keeping him fixed at the mine wall. For good measure, Acuelo flipped his spear round to rest the point on the cur’s chest.

  ‘Gold, and I leave you in peace. Rocks, and I will not.’

  Dama spat on the floor. ‘When I escape, Acuelo, I will tear your fat head from your old, misshapen body. Then, my comrades and I will seek out your family. They live in the sentry camp in the foothills, do they not?’

  Acuelo unconsciously backed away, his confident spear tip dropping a little.

  Now one of Dama’s fellow Macedonians, a flat-nosed man named Vulso mining nearby, turned to add; ‘Your wife’s last memories will be of me, thrusting into her . . . after the rest of us have emptied our seed inside her, of course.’

  The relish and vigour in Vulso’s tirade brought a further tightness to Acuelo’s chest. The gloomy cavern all around him seemed utterly airless and intolerably hot. Spots swam across his vision, and he staggered as he stepped back from them.

  ‘What’s wrong, Acuelo?’ Dama sneered.

  ‘Perhaps you should sit?’ Vulso added.

  Acuelo wanted nothing more than to fall to his knees and pant for all the air he could take in. The pain was crushing now – as if an ox was sitting on his breastbone. But when he saw Vulso stepping as far as his chains would allow him and reaching out as if to relieve Acuelo of the burden of his spear, he summoned some spark of vitality and swung the tip back up at the Macedonian. ‘Get back to work!’ he snarled.

  The rebuke worked, and the pair turned back to the rock-walls of the cavern, shooting spiteful glances over their shoulders. Yet the effort had all but floored Acuelo. He waved to his fellow sentry, a lean young man seemingly less-affected by the conditions. ‘Watch them!’

  He stumbled through the honeycomb of dimly-lit caverns and tunnels, eyes fixed on the bright spot of light ahead. It grew and grew until at last he stepped out onto the ledge on the mountain’s northern face. At once, he was bathed in winter sunlight and a fresh, biting salt-tanged wind cooled him and rapidly eased the tightness in his chest. He opened his eyes and looked down over the lower peaks of the
Rhodope range to the distant town of Abdera on the coast and the blue, silky haze that was the Mare Aegeum beyond. He shuffled, straightening his old, tattered military tunic, hitching his sweat-soaked loincloth up and swiping the perspiration from his brow. He rested his considerable weight against the mountainside and sighed, closing his eyes, trying as best he could to remember why he did this every day. A wife, two sons and seven grandchildren. Everything. One eye cracked open and gazed upon the dusty, vicus-like sentry camp down in the foothills. A timber shack by the walls of that grim compound was all he could afford for his loved ones. Then he thought of the bet he had placed the previous week. His last coins – and they were always his last – on a horse race around the Abderan track. He looked to the coast and the outline of the town, squinting and trying to discern the stables – though all he could see was a dust cloud of some crowd approaching the town. A very large crowd, he realised. So many spectators for one race? And indeed, the race was to be run today. Victory for the Thessalian mare and he would be rich. Rich and gone from these mines! Defeat and . . . he sighed and let the thought dissipate. No, victory today and it will be the last race I ever bet upon, he affirmed. Moments later, the nagging voice countered; victory today will only fuel your next loss. He pinched his nose between forefinger and thumb as if to crush the irritating voice of reason.

  However it was some fractious babble deep inside the heart of the mountain that offered distraction. No doubt those two Greek dogs were giving his comrade trouble now. This drew a wry chuckle from his tired lungs: those curs had been caught robbing imperial tax-wagons, and now they would spend their lives in those caves, clawing out the gold seams to replenish the empire’s strained treasury. His chuckle was short though as he realised that their fate was not so different to his own. He thought again of the Thessalian and the race.