Legionary: The Scourge of Thracia (Legionary 4)

by Gordon Doherty

  Pavo backed away, a dull nausea churning in his gut. No men, no arms, nothing. He looked to Sura and saw his friend looked as lost as he felt.

  ‘I will grant you something, however,’ Patiens continued. He beckoned Pavo and Sura back to the balcony edge, offering a placatory palm to his own soldiers. For a moment, Pavo wondered if the next thing he would feel was the grim-faced legionary’s hands butting into his back and throwing him over. Instead, Patiens reached out and pointed. Pavo followed the line of his outstretched finger, and a momentary optimism gripped him when his eyes ran over the barracks of the legionary garrison. Auxiliary centuries? Maybe not the same prospect as hardened comitatenses legionaries, but men that knew how to stand and fight.

  The twinkling of hope extinguished when Pavo saw that the governor was in fact pointing at the insulae – the serried rows of ramshackle tenements behind the barracks.

  ‘The slums are a stain on my city. Some say it is a necessary one, but I find the antics of the rats in that licentious maze nothing but an insufferable distraction.’ Patiens swung and nodded to his two guards. One of them hurried off inside. ‘You need men? You can have your pick of men from the taverns and shacks in that quarter of the city,’ Patiens grinned. ‘And I will even fund you for doing so. I’ll even have wagons of armour and weapons ready for you by the time you leave – and I assume that will be soon?’ he said, his eyebrows rising as if demanding an affirmative.

  Pavo nodded, unable to judge this offer as a curse or a blessing, nodded.

  ‘And we have an understanding that once this gift has been granted, there will be no further attempts to requisition men or supplies from my city?’ Patiens added.

  Pavo nodded, his face stony.

  Patiens’ sickly smile reappeared and he clapped his hands twice in quick succession. Footsteps rattled up the stairway and the legionary returned, carrying with him a small sack that jangled with the unmistakable clunk of coins. He held it out for Pavo.

  Pavo took it, eyeing the sack and reaching out for it gingerly.

  ‘Don’t get too excited, Legionary. It is merely a few handfuls of bronze folles. Enough for you to conjure the rats from their layer,’ he nodded to the slums again, a feral grin spreading over his features. ‘If they do not devour you . . . ’

  ‘Duck!’ Sura yelped, hauling Pavo down just before a foaming cup of ale hurtled across the tavern and exploded against the far wall.

  ‘Mithras’ balls!’ Pavo gasped, then pushed Sura with him to avoid the rolling, thrashing tangle of three men beating Hades out of one another. Fists swung and boots sunk into bellies. The pair backed away from the brawl until they reached the grimy rear wall, wincing as they felt their backs stick to some unknown substance staining it. The grim inside of this place was nearly as dark as the night outside, with just a few candles and lamps lighting the ramshackle interior. The fighting mass tumbled this way and that, throwing up a haze of sawdust from the floor. All the carousing drinkers nearby roared with laughter, spat or threw punches and kicks as the fighters passed. A smirking, grey-faced fellow by Pavo’s side chuckled darkly as the one-eyed fighter with the wild brown hair, who seemed to be taking a merciless beating from the other two, suffered a finger being pushed into his good eye. This sent One-eye leaping back, arms milling round, knocking chairs over and shredding the table he landed on – ale fountaining everywhere.

  ‘Shouldn’t the tavern keeper step in here? This place will be kindling by morning!’ Pavo shouted over the tumult to the smirking man.

  The man looked at him blankly for a second. ‘I am the tavern-keeper,’ he grinned. ‘And why would I want to stop the brawl?’ He patted the bag tied to his belt. Coins – more than Pavo had hidden in his cloak. ‘I make more from these fights than I do from selling drinks.’

  ‘They bet on this?’ Sura gasped.

  ‘Why not?’ The tavern-keeper shrugged, then took to roaring in delight, punching the air before him as One-eye came back, threw a hook at his first attacker then lunged in to head-butt the second on the bridge of the nose. The crack of snapping bone sent the second into a heap, but the first recovered quickly from the hook and barged One-eye to the filthy floor, then raised a foot as if to stamp on his foe’s head, but One-eye was sharp. Like a cat, he grabbed his attacker’s raised shin and hoisted himself up. His jaws opened, his foul teeth bared, his good eye sparkling . . . before he sank his fangs into his attacker’s groin.

  The noise that followed was something akin to a snarling hound tearing at flesh accompanied by the shrieking of a hoarse woman. With a meaty ripping noise, the fight was over. One-eye stood up, spat his opponent’s testicles onto the floor, dabbed entirely inadequately at the blood around his mouth and chin with a soiled rag of cloth, then brushed the sawdust from his person.

  Sura turned away and threw up on the floor as the sawdust-flecked testicles rolled to a halt before him. Pavo felt his guts weaken too, and only caught himself when he realised One-eye was glowering at him now. The eye was judging him, suspicious of the leather bag in which Pavo’s mail shirt and helm were concealed in.

  ‘Hold on, you’re military!’ One-eye said, swaying, puffs of bloody spit clouding the air as he spoke. The babble in the tavern died and all eyes fell upon Pavo and Sura.

  ‘Not tonight,’ Pavo waved a hand as if sweeping away the attentions of the crowd – an action which in any case failed.

  ‘One of Patiens’ lot?’ a sturdy, lantern-jawed thug sitting in the corner growled. ‘The last of his shiny bastards that visited this place went missing, did they not?’ The dark chorus of laughter from all around sat uneasily with Lantern-jaw’s stiff glare, fixed on their military tunics.

  ‘We are legionaries, aye, but not Patiens’ men,’ Sura insisted.

  ‘Still, you’re not welcome here,’ the surly thug replied.

  ‘Unless they fancy a fight?’ One-eye cut in, his blood-soaked face bent in an awful grin, looking to the tavern keeper as if to start another round of betting.

  Sura flinched at the suggestion, and Pavo felt a sudden vulnerability around his groin area. ‘We’re here to have a drink, slake our thirst . . . then we’ll be gone. We don’t want any trouble.’

  Lantern-jaw scrutinised them for a moment, then waved a finger to the tavern keeper. ‘Then have your drink and be gone,’ he said. The tavern keeper brought two cups, a jug of wine and a half-loaf of bread over to Pavo and Sura, ushering them to a free spot at one table.

  They sat, munching into the bread – stale but welcome in their empty bellies all the same – and supping on the vinegary and greasy wine. The attention faded from them and the general babble of swearing, cackling and arguing struck up again. Then he noticed lantern-jaw through the forest of bodies and limbs, watching them from the corner.

  ‘Gah!’ Sura recoiled from the wine. ‘This stuff is vile.’ He lifted his water skin surreptitiously and watered the drink down, adding some to Pavo’s cup too. Supping it and managing not to scrunch up his face too much, he added; ‘so that was probably the worst possible start to our efforts. One-eyed maniacs, bitten bollocks and a tavern full of legionary-haters.’

  Pavo sighed. This was the place, they had been told by a toothless hag in the streets, where the men of the slums went every night. ‘To scramble their minds and poison their bellies,’ Pavo muttered, repeating her description.

  ‘Eh?’ Sura said, cocking an ear towards him.

  ‘Nothing. This was a wasted trip. Patiens is using us to try and lure some of these thugs from his streets when he should have given over some of his centuries. If Gallus had the time to remain here and demand soldiers, I doubt he would have ended up in this latrine.’

  Sura clacked his cup to Pavo’s in a gesture of support. ‘You pressed Patiens and pressed him well. The man is an eel. I was up for kicking his balls, but I suppose that’s why you’re an optio and I’m not.’

  Pavo half-smiled and took a swig of his foul wine. ‘Regardless, we will walk out of this city tomorrow morning with no fr
esh men. Come on,’ he said, standing and pushing his stool back, ‘we should find a place to sle-’

  A hand like a ham clamped down on Pavo’s shoulder, pushing him to his stool again, and another punched a dagger blade into the desiccated timbers of the table. Lantern-jaw sat between Pavo and Sura and released his grip on Pavo’s shoulder. Sura braced, a hand shooting for his leather bag where his spatha was concealed. A pair of hands gripped Sura’s wrist though, halting him. ‘That sword comes out and you can kiss your balls goodbye,’ One-eye hissed, his fetid breath wafting across the table as he sat the other side of Sura.

  ‘I told you, we’re not here for any trouble,’ Pavo said, matching Lantern-jaw’s flinty glare with one of his own. ‘But, by Mithras, we can kick up a storm if that’s what you want.’

  Lantern-jaw’s scowl grew fiercer and fiercer, then melted into a grin and a dark chuckle. ‘Aye, these curs are definitely not Patiens’ lot.’

  At this, One-eye lost his edge of madness – although the bloody face and wild hair suggested it was not entirely gone. ‘What are you then? Two legionaries from outside? I’ve heard of no passing patrols or mobilised legions in these parts. It’s turning into a savage wilderness beyond this city’s walls.’

  Pavo weighed the situation. To say too much might guarantee a blade in their guts. Not enough could well end in the same result. It was a bitter choice of poisons, he thought, eyeing the vinegar-wine, but one they had to make. He and Sura shared a tacit glance and nod. ‘Optio Numerius Vitellius Pavo of the XI Claudia Pia Fidelis, Second Cohort, First Century,’ he said steadily enough so these two could hear but quietly enough that nobody else could.

  ‘Decimus Lunius Sura, Pavo’s Tesserarius in the First Century,’ Sura offered next, then beheld One-eye for a moment and added; ‘and one-time fist-fighting champion of Adrianople, I’ll have you know. I once knocked seven shades of sh-’ a jab of Pavo’s elbow ended the spiralling rhetoric.

  ‘XI Claudia . . . so you are limitanei, not comitatenses?’ Lantern-jaw mused, leaning back on his stool, arms folded and the fingers of one hand stroking his chin.

  Pavo and Sura shared another look, both expecting some slur on the role of the border legions.

  ‘The ones who do the real fighting on the edges of the empire?’ One-eye said, then brought his wine cup up and drank heartily. ‘I’ve heard what the limitanei face: Goths, Quadi, Franks and Alemanni from the forests in the north. You fight what comes for you and usually without warning. Then the comitatenses like Patiens’ lot come into play when it suits them – when the northern bastards have broken into Roman lands.’

  Pavo could not help but smile wryly at the description. ‘It’s a complicated business, but you’re not far off the truth.’

  ‘Rectus,’ Lantern-jaw said, raising his cup and nodding. ‘I used to be a medicus, would you believe? Pulling swords from the flesh of the lads in my auxiliary century when I wasn’t ramming my own blade into Goths and the like.’

  ‘Libo,’ One-eye added with a flash of that foul-toothed, maniac grin.

  ‘We once served in the same century’ Rectus said with a bitter smile. ‘We garrisoned the walls of this city. I had a house on the hill near the palace – nothing fancy, but it was clean at least: no rat-turds in my grain, that kind of thing.’

  ‘What happened?’ Pavo asked, sensing the tension draining from the meeting.

  ‘Patiens was awarded the post of governor. Now he’s a man with certain tastes . . . ’

  ‘He’s an arsehole!’ Libo yelped in summary, then shot furtive glances around to check nobody had heard.

  Rectus gave him a reproachful look, then turned back to Pavo and Sura. ‘Let’s just say he likes to have money to spend on young slave boys. Plenty of money.’

  Pavo shuddered as the words stoked memories of his years of slavery in Senator Tarquitius’ villa.

  ‘So when the comitatenses cohort was billeted here, and Patiens realised they were paid from the imperial coffers and not his governor’s budget, he saw a way to make a quick saving. Our auxiliary unit was disbanded.’ He held out his hands and shrugged, looking all around the tavern. ‘I couldn’t pay for my home anymore. A comitatenses legionary moved in as I was marched out. I slept in the grim shadows of this place – on street corners, in doorways, anywhere that I could sleep and still waken sharply enough should some cutthroat try to rob me.’

  ‘I know that place,’ Pavo said his eyes misting. Rectus was about to scoff at the suggestion, but Pavo continued; ‘When I was a boy, I spent months in the gutters of Constantinople, with no home or family. I was close to starvation when I was taken by slave-traders.’ He lost himself in memory for just a moment, his mind playing tricks with him as he saw the gloom at the rear of the inn roil and move like the shadow-man from his dream. A shiver passed over his skin. Who are you?

  Rectus seemed to detect Pavo’s sober mood and his planned retort did not materialise. He nodded and chuckled dryly instead. ‘Then we misjudged you.’

  ‘And we you,’ Pavo replied, seeing the shadows at the inn’s rear vanquished as a fresh torch was lit there – revealing just a handful of men drinking and bantering. This triggered a thought. ‘How many of you are there?’

  ‘The auxiliary unit?’ Rectus said, then curled his bottom lip in thought. ‘There were nearly five hundred of us. A few hundred left before the Gothic War broke out, thought they might make a living or find a home out in the fields or down in the Greek parts. Quite a few have drunk too much of this poison and never woken up,’ he added with a wince, pinging a finger off the edge of his cup. ‘How many are left? Eighty, ninety men, perhaps? And there was a century of Cretan funditores too. Sharp-eyed slingers, they were, led by a wily dog by the name of Herenus. Most of them are still here,’ he said, looking around the tavern, his gaze snagging on a few swarthy-featured men.

  ‘What would you give to be soldiers again?’ Pavo said, holding Rectus’ eye.

  Rectus frowned and sat back, his nose wrinkling. ‘I’d rather serve a rabid dog than defend Patiens!’

  Sura’s eyes sparkled now as he latched onto Pavo’s thinking. ‘Screw Patiens. Our legion needs men.’

  Rectus’ face lifted in surprise. ‘Legionaries? But our lot were a mixed bunch. Short lads like me – too small for the legions,’ he gurned.

  Sura shook his head. ‘That is no longer a barrier to march under the eagles. We lost our primus pilus, Felix, just months ago. He was a hardy soldier, a savage warrior and one of the best men I’ve had the pleasure of marching with. Yet he could barely see over the bar at the local inn.’

  Libo’s shoulders jostled in poorly-stifled laughter at this.

  Rectus tilted his head one way and then the other as if in deliberation. ‘Your offer sounds sweet right now, but why do you come here in search of recruits?’ he flicked his head back and up. ‘What exactly is going on . . . out there?’

  Pavo knew his next words had to be earnest. ‘The Goths are coming, and we need more men to block the Succi Pass against them. Our comrades are right now bolstering the old fort at Trajan’s Gate, but men are in short supply. Patiens gave us a few coins to buy recruits and you can have them, but bring your old comrades together and come with us and you will have full legionary wages,’ he tapped his forefinger on the table as if making a solemn oath, ‘. . . and you will have your honour and self-respect once more. Do you not crave the brotherhood your old unit once had?’

  Rectus swished some wine in his mouth. ‘I had three brothers. Didn’t trust one of them. Not at all.’

  Pavo cocked an eyebrow.

  ‘Two killed each other in a quarrel over a woman, and the last one,’ he patted his dagger, ‘I saw to him.’

  A silence followed until Rectus’ broad grin suggested it was a joke. Or maybe not . . .

  ‘But aye, there were many fine days when we were true soldiers,’ Rectus continued.

  ‘And many foul ones too,’ Libo added, eyebrows raised as he recalled some grim memory

 
Rectus and Libo seemed to share a conversation with just a few looks, then the one-eyed man spoke; ‘Shall I gather the lads, see what they say?’

  ‘Aye. But do you think it’s a good idea to ask Eunapias?’ Rectus said, nodding to the man from the fight, now clutching a bloody rag to his butchered groin, sweating profusely and gulping neat wine to ease the pain.

  ‘Nah,’ Libo grinned, ‘he doesn’t have the balls for it.’

  It was a foul, grey afternoon and a wintry gale buffeted them as they came along the last stretch of road back to Trajan’s Gate, yet Pavo felt nothing but a burning sense of pride. He and Sura had left with nothing but now returned with a century’s-worth of Sardican legionaries and a century of darker-skinned Cretan slingers. He twisted in his saddle and looked over his shoulder to see Rectus and Libo and the chestnut-skinned Cretan, Herenus, near the front of the new recruits. Unlike Pavo and Sura in mail, cloaks and iron helms, the pair carried only their auxiliary spears and wore felt caps and thick cloaks to weather the worst of the wind. Many of the others with Rectus and Libo carried nothing more than a dagger. Some had bows or slings and a few brought just ancient bronze shields strapped over their backs. But if this was a problem then behind the column was the solution: Three wagon-loads of old armour: torn but usable mail shirts, battle-scarred helms, dull-edged spears and blades that needed work with a whetstone, along with a selection of well-used shields and ancient-looking boots. Enough to arm and equip the Sardicans and most of the youths back at the Trajan’s Gate fort, he hoped. Patiens had given them what he considered scrap. Pavo saw it as treasure.

  As they came round a slight bend in the valley, Pavo saw something that further warmed his heart. Across the pass, the skeleton of a timber stockade was in place – some eight feet high. He could hear Quadratus’ gruff tones, marshalling the recruits. Timber struts were being raised on ropes and lowered into place in what might soon take shape as a battlement. Sharpened stakes were piled nearby for what would be the palisade front to the wall. Better still, when he looked up onto the fort spur on the northern valley side, he saw that the western towers were all but mended. With these two centuries from Sardica, they might yet block the pass and bolster the fort battlements before . . . his thoughts grew icy as he looked off down the pass . . . before Farnobius’ horde arrived.