Legionary: The Scourge of Thracia (Legionary 4)

by Gordon Doherty

  He silently stooped to put the rabbit corpse on the road then drew his sica again without a sound, bringing it round, ready to strike. The fog thinned. His back and shoulders tensed, the blade ready to fall. But there was nothing . . . just a patch of reeds. Birgir stalked away, irked that his instinct had betrayed him.

  The current on the Danubius was gentle as they pushed away from the shallows. The makeshift raft – the side of some broken imperial supply cart by the looks of it – drifted silently downstream, water lapping over the surface, thick mist all around. Gallus and Dexion lay belly-down on it, hands in the water in an attempt to steer the raft towards the sandbank island with the distinct disadvantage of being unable to see their destination. The improvised craft seemed to be pulling towards the centre of the river. If they steered too severely, they would slip past the island on this nearside then return to the shallows right by Singidunum’s dock. If they steered too little, they would be drawn out past the sandbank island and into the foaming, churning currents in the centre of the great river.

  ‘Gently – bring us back in a fraction,’ Gallus whispered to Dexion as they guided the craft. He heard his primus pilus’ teeth chatter as the icy river water took its toll. ‘That’s it . . . no more!’ he said, seeing the tip of the sandbank island materialise in the fog. ‘Up,’ he added, carefully shuffling up into a crouch and helping Dexion to do the same. They both stared at the fishing craft on the sandy edge of the island. Should the heavy fog remain, they might be upon it and off upriver in moments. He glanced down to gauge the depth of the water, ready to step out from the raft, when he froze.

  ‘Mithras, no!’ Dexion gasped.

  The fog receded to unveil a line of twelve wraith-like figures on the sandbank before them. The thunder of the Danubius’ current fell away, and Gallus heard nothing but the creaking of drawn Quadi bows, trained on them.

  Just behind, they saw two white elm trees some six paces apart. From the upper branches, something dangled. Something that did not make any sense. A mutilated mass of flesh. Gallus stared at it until he recognised it as a shard of a corpse – a leg, one side of a torso, a single arm and a head hanging by a rope tied to the ankle of the leg. The body was riven from groin to shoulder, tendrils, shredded ribs and guts dangling from the massive wound where the rest of the body had been ripped away. From the corner of his eye, he noticed the other half of the corpse, hanging from the opposite treetop by the other ankle, a rag of legionary tunic still clinging to the flesh. Then the workings of the vile execution mechanism became starkly obvious when he saw the lost bark on the trees, where the tips of each had been bent down to ground level then released to tear this poor soul apart.

  The Quadi bows creaked, drawn a little more taut. Gallus dropped his swordbelt to the sand, and Dexion followed suit.

  Chapter 19

  The November chill cast the Succi Valley and the Trajan’s Gate fortifications in a shell of hard frost, but the four centuries of the XI Claudia and Geridus’ century of archers worked like a colony of ants. Zosimus led the Cretan slingers and the sagittarii in felling the skeletal ash trees on the southern valley side, the rattle of axes, rasping of saws and crunch of falling trees never-ending as they finished the timber wall blocking the pass. Quadratus and a handful of his Sardicans mixed and applied mortar to freshly gathered stone, fashioning new battlements for the fort’s walls, while a handful more sawed at some of the freshly felled tree trunks in an effort to construct ballistae. Pavo, meanwhile, strode out before his century and the remainder of the Sardicans, Sura walking by his side.

  He came to a halt before them, eyeing their formed ranks, still feeling like an optio awaiting the assertive commands of his centurion. But he noticed how the legionaries all stared dutifully into the distance, risking the occasional furtive glance at him. They’re waiting on my command, he realised. It stoked angst in his belly, and this was something that might have crippled him and quietened his tongue in years past. But during his few years in the legion, he had learned to embrace fear, to taste it, welcome it, understand that it could only harm him if he believed it could. A wry grin lifted one edge of his lips, and the fear was gone.

  ‘What’s it to be, sir?’ Sura whispered. ‘Hill marching or work on the defences?’

  Pavo looked over the garb they wore – harvested from the wagons Patiens had afforded them. It was a fine thing that none of these lads were now without helm or armour. Some of them wore fairly new mail shirts, but some wore ancient, dried-out leather cuirasses, and others’ armour bore tears, edged with the brown stains of long dried blood. The helms too bore dents and scratches. The shields they had been given by Barzimeres back at the Great Northern Camp were particularly weary-looking – old and battered, sporting a hotchpotch of faded colours and designs from various different legions. Not the fine garb of a comitatenses legion, but at least they clearly resembled legionaries now. But something was still missing, he realised, scratching his chin as he tried to pinpoint exactly what. His eyes flicked back to the shields, then he looked to the fort, thinking of the storehouse inside. ‘Bring out the paint.’

  An hour later Pavo’s century and the Sardicans sat, cross-legged and brushing paint – Claudian ruby-red – onto their shields. The old, chipped, faded and heterogeneous mix of colours and emblems were slowly and surely becoming recognisable as those of one legion. Trupo was maybe a little too enthusiastic, lashing the paint on in thick slops so it sprayed him and all nearby.

  ‘Easy, easy!’ Pavo yelped as a thick splash of it landed across his boots.

  ‘Sorry sir,’ the young soldier said sheepishly as his comrades chuckled.

  ‘Mithras, lad, just the shields, not the entire pass,’ grinned one of the Sardicans – a man who had until now been guarded and unsure of the recruits.

  Sura came over to walk by his side. ‘A bit of paint, a common purpose – who’d have thought it?’

  ‘Gallus,’ Pavo replied instantly, a smile lifting one edge of his lips. ‘He told me how, before our time, when he was a centurion, he helped bring his men together just like this. He said the century’s banner was tattered and filthy. The signifer who carried it marched with his head down, as if ashamed of his duty, and the rest of the century were quiet and nervous. So he had them clean and repair the standard, then set them to ambulatum training – one half of the century tasked with outmanoeuvring or ambushing the other. At the end of a day of training, he awarded the standard to the victorious half. Within a week, he said they were up before the morning buccina call, climbing over one another to have their kit ready, desperate to be prepared and to win. The quiet ones found their voice, the signifer marched with his head held high, hoisting the banner as if it was the legion’s silver eagle standard itself.’ Pavo paused and cast a hand across the legionaries around them. ‘We’ve had new recruits pulled in from all over – young lads like this who think they’re in it alone, veterans from other legions who believe they’ve been prized from their true unit unfairly . . . brigands, even, who would rather eat camel turds than serve the empire. It’s this, the symbol of the legion – the colours and the unity – that draws all those sorts together. It’s not all about the empire or about each man alone, it’s about a sense of belonging, the unit, the brotherhood.’ He felt a slight stinging behind his eyes as he thought of his lot before joining the XI Claudia – a freed slave with nothing, no family, not a true friend to call his own. His gaze darted to Sura, and to Zosimus and Quadratus. Then his thoughts drifted to Gallus and Dexion, somewhere beyond the pass. Mithras protect them.

  ‘Then we’ll get the others busy with the paint later,’ Sura nodded, looking to those working on the fort and on the timber wall across the pass.

  They observed as some of the legionaries proceeded to paint gold and black emblems over the newly ruby-daubed shield fronts. Some created images of the legion’s bull emblem, others edged their shield in a ring of gold and painted a radiant Mithraic sun around the boss. One of the Sardican soldiers carefully outl
ined a Christian Chi-Rho on his shield and both Sura and Pavo admired his handiwork. Then they noticed Libo adorning the centre of his shield with a rather detailed and angry looking phallus. Pavo and Sura winced in unison. ‘Easy on the detail,’ Pavo whispered to him as they passed. Libo looked up, tongue poking from his lips in concentration, his good eye wide and intent on not blinking. ‘Ah, yes sir,’ he said, his concentration breaking.

  Quadratus climbed down from the scaffold on the fort’s southern wall, his blonde moustache plastered in mortar, then stepped back to admire his handiwork. ‘Well, if nothing else, it looks better,’ he said, unconvinced. The flat battlement walkway was in place, but the crenelated parapet had yet to be constructed. ‘Another few days and we’ll have a defensible fort on our hands,’ the big Gaul added.

  Centurion Zosimus appeared then, leading his youths up onto the fort spur. They were red-faced and panting, but they each wore broad grins. ‘We have a wall,’ Zosimus declared brightly. All eyes switched to the plateau edge and down into the valley: indeed, the timber stockade across the pinch-point of the pass was complete. Eight feet tall, topped with sharpened stakes and with a basic timber walkway fixed to the western side with ladders leading up to it. ‘The more work we pour into this,’ he added, ‘the more this Farnobius and his Goths will soil their trousers when they see it.’ Zosimus’ expression changed then. ‘Speaking of which, did some filthy bastard do their business upstream of the latrines?’ he nodded down into the pass and the small brook that ran past the mouth of the tunnel that led to and from the plateau – that spot was meant to be for drinking water. A wooden bench with holes cut into it had been set up over this waterway downstream of the drinking point. ‘I thought I’d celebrate finishing the wooden wall with a handful of fresh stream water, only to see a used sponge sitting in the stream bed, grinning up at me.’ The big Thracian cast a reproachful look at Quadratus as he said this.

  The big Gaulish centurion threw up his hands in exasperation. ‘Oh I get it: it was my fault, was it? Just because of one trip to the bathhouse in Tomis – years ago – and one small accident, I’m suddenly the source of all water contamination events?’

  ‘One small accident? You dropped a turd in the baths!’ Zosimus roared in incredulous laughter. The centuries of men around them exploded in a chorus of laughter too, but only until Quadratus’ red and angry glower quietened them.

  ‘Next one to make a sound is on latrine duty,’ he grumbled before berating Libo for detailing wiry hairs on his shield’s phallus emblem.

  ‘Thrust, hack, feint, stab!’ Pavo screamed as his century danced around the forest of wooden posts set up by the fort, chopping at them with their swords.

  ‘I want to see splinters in the air and blunt swords!’ Sura added.

  They fought in the full weight of armour plus shield, plumbatae darts, spear and spatha. He noticed how most of these young lads had now developed knotted muscle on their limbs. They moved sharply and with confidence. He saw in some of them a determination, teeth gritted, bent on bettering themselves. Many of them no doubt thought of what was coming for this pass and weighed this against their fraught first battle at the fall of the Great Northern Camp. ‘Excellent work, lads. Keep it up,’ he encouraged them. He noticed in particular the lad Trupo: the young recruit’s eyes were bright and his swordsmanship had improved dramatically. And, Pavo was sure, the lad had shed a libra or two of weight – he was now lean and without the puce-tinge to his cheeks that had been a feature of his first few marches. His comrade Cornix worked equally hard nearby, the pair seemingly intent on outdoing one another.

  ‘Break!’ he barked, waving the men back from the posts. They formed up as if for inspection.

  ‘Shield wall!’ A clatter of wood sounded as the matching, bright ruby shields rippled up and into place. Good, he thought, seeing how they now held their shields high, showing only their eyes, helms and the tips of their spears poking like fangs from the top right hand side of each shield. A far cry from the haphazard line they had formed on the Tonsus riverbank at the fall of the Great Northern Camp. But a moment of perfection was not enough, he realised. He waited, stalking before them, letting the silence work its magic. Soon, a few arms began to tremble, the shields slipping down, arms numb and weakening. Pavo stalked past one such legionary then, in a flash, tore out his spatha and stabbed it down as if for the ailing youth’s throat. The fellow yelped as the blade halted just inches from his windpipe, then quickly hefted his shield up, knocking the spatha blade up and away. Pavo grinned fiercely. ‘Better. Remember, you’re stronger than you think. And in battle, you have no second chances.’ All along the line, similarly wayward shields were quickly hoisted to the correct height. ‘You might well think you are tired, but when the body aches, the mind must come to the fore,’ he tapped his temple. ‘In battle, your shield is your brothers’ and his yours.’

  ‘Aye, now let’s see how strong these runts of yours really are!’ Quadratus interrupted, leading his Sardicans over, Libo and Rectus grinning at the fore. ‘Down spears and swords,’ he demanded. With a clatter of iron, the weapons were cast down by the Sardicans and by Pavo’s men.

  The two centuries faced each other, fifteen paces apart. Sura strode around the rear of each group, drawing a line in the dirt behind the heels of the men. ‘And . . . advance!’

  With a thunder of boots, the two groups stomped forward. ‘Stay in line!’ Pavo barked, seeing Cornix break forward a few paces. With a clatter of shields and a chorus of grunts, they came together. Boots scraped on dirt and frost billowed up as they shoved and shouldered. Libo shot wild grins at Trupo as the two vied for supremacy, and Pavo felt a knowing smile tug at his lips as he heard the men jibe and banter as they pressed to win the contest. Neither side seemed set to give in, until Libo hooked out a leg around Trupo’s shin, yanking it back and pulling the young lad to the ground. At this, Pavo’s group faltered, pushed back first one step, then two and then were driven back by Quadratus’ encouraged lot. The contest was over in moments as Pavo’s men were pushed over the earth line from where they had started. Trupo, lying in the middle ground, semi-trampled, sat up, spitting dirt from his mouth. ‘Libo, you dirty whoreson!’ he spluttered over the exhausted victory cries.

  ‘A dirty, victorious whoreson,’ Libo corrected him, holding out an arm to help him up.

  Pavo chortled at this. ‘Discipline is everything, yes, but do not overlook the swift, simple things that can win a skirmish: a head-butt, a boot in the balls, a . . . ’ he decided to leave it there, seeing Libo’s good eye gleam with the possibilities. ‘Now, take up your plumbatae,’ he yelled, nodding to Sura.

  As Sura took the century off to drill them in hurling their lead-weighted darts at the near-end of the small practice range, Pavo strolled over to the swarthy-skinned Cretan slingers, occupying the far end of the range and training to a tune of jagged Cretan cries from their leader, Herenus. Herenus loosed his own sling and observed the progress of the others, his leathery skin and fine, aquiline features wrinkling between encouragement and disappointment. His century of men were unburdened with armour – most wearing just woollen tunics, trousers and cloaks, and they carried daggers, slings and leather pouches filled with shot. He watched as the nearest of them drew the looped end of the sling over their forefingers, loaded small stones into the pouch then grasped the other, knotted end between thumb and forefinger.

  ‘Lift,’ Herenus cried.

  All raised their slings. A brief whirring like a cloud of dragonflies sounded before the slings were loosed in unison. A thick crackle of stones punching deep into the timber butts or tearing clean through the straw ones sounded. Thirteen had hit their targets, maybe, but the rest thumped into the earth of the valley side, sending puffs of frost and dirt into the air. Pavo bit down on his bottom lip. Such a fine margin of accuracy could be the difference between holding the pass and losing it: the slingshot, almost invisible in flight, could turn a battle – but only if they were aimed true. He watched the next v
olley from the slingers. This time only eight hit their intended butts. The next volley was better with nearly half succeeding. He noticed as he watched that the group of eight nearest Herenus continuously struck their targets, and struck them well – deep holes bored in the centre of the trunk sections and torn through the straw dummies.

  ‘Herenus’ eight, what are they doing differently, sir?’ he asked Zosimus, nearby, without taking his eye off the training.

  ‘Nothing that I can see,’ Zosimus replied, squinting and watching as they used the same technique: load, loop, spin and loose. ‘Perhaps it’s the luck of their contubernium.’

  ‘They share a tent?’ Pavo said.

  ‘Aye, always have, they said.’

  Pavo strode over to Herenus and halted him from his next shot with a hand to the shoulder. ‘That’s a fine eye for the target you have.’

  Herenus grinned at this. ‘My father once told me I’d never be a slinger.’

  ‘What’s your secret?’ Pavo said, eyeing the sling but seeing that it was just an ordinary weapon with a leather pouch and cord hanging from either side.

  Herenus flicked up the next piece of shot – an acorn-shaped piece of lead – and caught it in his hand. ‘My father was right . . . until I tried slinging these.’ He nodded to the slingers nearby, taking smooth but more spherical pebbles of different types of rock from their pouches and loading them. ‘These men are doubtless better marksmen than I or my tent mates,’ he said as the slingers loosed the rough pebbles only for most to go astray again, ‘but slinging different shapes and weights changes every shot. The only way to guarantee hitting a target time after time is to ensure that nothing varies between shots: same slinger, same sling, same technique, same shot.’ He rolled the acorn-shaped lead piece in his hand. ‘And this shot, the contours . . . makes it fly true every time.’