Legionary: The Scourge of Thracia (Legionary 4)

by Gordon Doherty

  ‘Where did you get this shot?’ Pavo asked.

  ‘It is what I have remaining from the time before my men were disbanded.’

  Pavo’s eyes hung on the lead piece. ‘You have much left?’

  ‘Not really. My contubernium and I have been using this lot all day,’ he replied sheepishly.

  ‘Can you make more?’

  Herenus frowned. ‘Well, I can try. I’d need a smelting furnace, some lead and a cast – I can make a cast, I suppose, and-’

  ‘Do it,’ Pavo said. ‘Take whoever else you need to help you. You can use the oven in the fort – I’ll arrange it with Comes Geridus. If you need any materials, come to me. Make as much as you can, plenty for all the slingers here.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Herenus said.

  ‘Good thinking. But will he have the time?’ Zosimus asked as Herenus beckoned a handful of his tent-mates and headed for the fort.

  ‘Maybe, maybe not. It’ll lift their spirits, if nothing else,’ Pavo replied. He gazed on down the valley to the eastern end, seeing the tiny dots of the advance lookout posts, one on each valley side. The men stationed there were under no illusions as to their responsibilities: the first sight of an approaching enemy and the buccina was to be blown hard.

  Still nothing.

  He gazed down at the timber wall blocking the pass and noticed the sagittarii stockpiling arrows and javelins there. Then he saw that Quadratus had now put his Sardicans to work in assembling the newly-fashioned ballistae along the edge of the fort plateau, pointing down into the mouth of the choke-point. Meanwhile Zosimus’ century was at work atop the fort walls, hefting slabs and stones into place as the crenels were gradually reconstructed, and fitting the new, iron-strapped timber gates onto the fort’s double entrance. The pass was unrecognisable from the near-deserted, crumbling ruin they had come to nearly a month ago. Five centuries of men would man this redoubt and man it well, he insisted.

  ‘Strong enough?’ Zosimus said, reading his thoughts.

  Pavo almost imperceptibly shook his head. ‘Something tells me it’ll take more than a firm defence to hold this place.’ His gaze and Zosimus’ had turned to the fort. Through the open double-gateway, they saw the principia. ‘I can’t help but feel that the old man in there – Master of the Passes – might be the difference. If he can believe in himself once again.’

  That night, whipping winter winds drove along the valley from the east. Wrapped in their thickest oiled woollen cloaks, the sagittarii stood watch on the timber stockade down in the pass, and at the advance lookout posts further down the pass, while the four centuries of the XI Claudia sat around a fire sheltered outside the fort’s western wall. They ate a meal of steaming spiced wheat porridge – a recipe of Cornix’ invention – and hard tack biscuit.

  All eyes were on Trupo as he held both palms out, a small purple gemstone in one. He clapped his palms together three times, then held them out again. The gemstone was gone. Trupo beamed as if awaiting a chorus of applause. All he received was the odd sniff and shuffle.

  Zosimus blew into his hands then shook his head. ‘That was rotten. Probably the worst trick of the night,’ he said, stooping to pick up the gemstone where Trupo had so obviously cast it down. ‘What about a story? Come on, you Sardicans must have some tales to tell,’ he said with a wicked grin, one eye slightly bulging.

  Perhaps feeling under pressure, Rectus piped up: ‘Well, there was this one time when Libo and I were on patrol. We marched to Trimontium and were given the evening off.’ He grinned as he lost himself in the memory. ‘We met a couple of women that night. Shapely women,’ the grin intensified as he outlined such a figure with his hands. A gruff chorus of chuckling rang out across the gathered men.

  Libo sat a little taller, casting haughty looks around with his good eye, proud to be mentioned in this tale of sexual prowess.

  Rectus continued; ‘Then they invited us back to a room they shared . . . ’

  Suddenly, Libo’s face fell. He shook his head urgently, trying to catch Rectus’ attention.

  But Rectus was in full flow. ‘We were drunk, you see, and it was dark. I tumbled into the room and felt around for my woman. I finally grabbed her and she grabbed me. It was all groping and kissing, you know?’ Another rumble of throaty laughter. ‘She’s a fiery one, I thought as we tumbled around . . . until the two women lit a lamp on the other side of the room,’ Rectus shot an awkward look at Libo.

  Libo’s head fell into his hands.

  Rectus shrugged and flicked his head to one side. ‘Aye, that was a quiet march back to Sardica the next day, I can tell you . . . ’

  A stunned silence and a few stifled shudders greeted the climax of the tale.

  Ever the entertainer, Quadratus stepped into the breach. ‘Here, I’ve got a trick,’ he said, lifting a piece of kindling from the fire, burning at one end, then bent over, holding the flame near his buttocks.

  Having seen this trick before, Pavo decided to act on his instinct. He got up, swept his cloak around his body and paced from the shelter of the fort’s western wall. As he went, he heard a noise that sounded like a duck being strangled followed by a whoosh of flames, and the night sky behind him glowed orange for just an instant. ‘Mithras, what evil is this?’ one rasping voice called out in terror over the chorus of gagging and retching that followed along with Zosimus’ howls of protest.

  Pavo edged around the fort’s south-western corner and glanced out into the bracing tempest, looking east, down the pass. He saw only blackness. He shielded his eyes with a hand and scoured the night. Only when he caught sight of the orange glows of the two braziers atop the valley sides at the eastern end of the pass did the tension in his stomach ease. Yet the driving wind took to keening, as if mocking the buccina call of alarm they all feared – nobody knew how close Farnobius’ horde was, only that he was coming, and surely at haste. He slipped back from the storm, into the lee of the fort’s western wall and the warmth of the fire. As he strolled, listening to the banter, he looked through the open double-gateway and into the fort, seeing the dull glow of the fire within the principia’s doorway, and wondered if Geridus even shared these fears. He thought again what the old Comes might bring to them should he shake off his malaise. To have a legend like him stand with them in the defence of the pass would surely steel the men’s hearts. More, if they could tap into but a fraction of the man’s fabled guile . . .

  Just then, he heard a scraping noise, high above. He looked up and saw a shadow atop the southern gate tower, hobbling around the hide-covered object, supported by a cane.

  Geridus! Pavo realised. What are you up to, you old cur?

  ‘I’ve seen that before,’ a voice spoke next to him. It was Rectus. The lantern-jawed legionary was looking up at the tower-top with Pavo.

  ‘Aye, spends his days inactive in his principia, guzzling on wine, and then hobbles up there to spend his nights talking to the blackness,’ Pavo mused.

  ‘No, I mean that gait. I’ve seen soldiers suffer from it in the past. I used to be a medicus, remember?’

  Pavo’s eyes narrowed.

  Pavo entered the principia. Inside, the hearth blazed as usual and an intense heat swirled. Geridus sat by the fire, having returned from his sojourn to the top of the southern gate tower, his skin lashed with sweat from the effort and a wine cup in his hand as always. On the table by his side lay a plate of rabbit meat.

  ‘Sir?’ Pavo said.

  Nothing. Just the crackling of logs on the fire. And . . . that infernal tink-tink noise. It came and went, as if emanating from somewhere inside the principia building. Pavo shook the distraction from his mind and repeated; ‘Sir?’

  ‘What now?’ Geridus said in a low drawl, his head lolling. The exertion of the climb up the stairway in the southern gate tower had clearly taken its toll. ‘I would rise to show you out, but I fear I cannot take another step today.’

  ‘Sir, Farnobius’ Goths will be upon us within days. The men have worked the skin from their hands to
put in place a stockade down in the pass, battlements on this fort’s walls and ballistae along the edge of this spur.’ He held out his scraped and callused palms as if to prove these claims. ‘The fragments of broken or lost legions we have gathered now call themselves the XI Claudia and they will stand against the Goths. But they will stand stronger for the sight of you. Do you know that they whisper your moniker?’

  Geridus’ chest jostled in a chuckle. ‘The Coward of Ad Sal-’

  ‘Master of the Passes,’ Pavo cut him off sharply with a steely tone that reminded him of Gallus.

  Geridus’ head rose, shakily, his eyes bloodshot and his bald pate gleaming. ‘What use is a name, lad, when I can barely walk for more than a few moments?’

  ‘The ailment that prevented you from riding to Ad Salices? The sickness that has been misconstrued as cowardice? Show me it,’ Pavo said.

  Geridus was taken aback by his bluntness. But a moment later he lifted the hem of his robe to reveal bare, swollen feet and horribly bloated and rubicund ankles. It was as if he had been striding barefoot through nettles.

  Pavo sat near Geridus, realising that military decorum would not be required for this conversation. He eyed the swollen joints and the purple, angry toes and knew it was as Rectus had suspected. ‘Have you ever had a physician look at this?’

  Geridus beheld him for a moment, then his chest bucked with a mirthless laugh. ‘Of course I have, lad. It was one of the first things I did when it blighted me. Indeed, as the Battle at Ad Salices raged on many miles to the east, I was in these lands being examined. The fellow poked and prodded at me then told me of my curse. No hope, he said, none at all. Worn joints and advancing years, he said.’

  ‘You have gout,’ Pavo said flatly.

  ‘What? No,’ Geridus waved a hand and swigged more of his wine.

  Pavo stood and waved a hand to the doorway. Rectus entered.

  ‘I had a comrade who suffered from this, sir,’ the lantern-jawed legionary insisted. ‘It rendered him immobile for days.’

  ‘This is not a matter of days. I have shuffled and hobbled on these ruined ankles since Ad Salices. Eight months have passed and on not one of those days have I been able to place my feet in sandals or boots, let alone lace them up.’

  Pavo sighed, realisation sinking into place like a heavy stone in his stomach. ‘And since the day you were forced to miss the Battle at Ad Salices, have you taken comfort in wine and meat?’

  Geridus’ nostrils flared in indignation. Such a flash of vigour was an oddly welcome sight. ‘I have remained here and done as I wished, and who would not, when all outside these walls seem to be whispering of my cowardice?’

  ‘Wine and meat aggravate your condition,’ Rectus said. ‘The legionary who had this was restricted to water and wheat porridge. He was well within a week.’

  Geridus’ eyes darted. ‘And I drank the grape-must the physician prescribed for me. For weeks! Yet this blight only intensified.’

  Pavo felt a needling sense of something darker coming from this chat as he saw Rectus’ eyes widen in horror. ‘He prescribed you grape-must? Sir, that serves only to aggravate gout.’

  Geridus fell silent, his eyes darting and his jaw dropping. Then he roared aloud with a laughter bitter enough to curdle milk. ‘Damn you, Maurus . . . damn you!’ he growled, smashing a ham-like fist into the table that almost crushed the timbers.

  Pavo frowned.

  ‘The jackal who is to replace me. He was there that day. It was he who summoned the physician.’ He sat there, chest rising and falling, eyes burning into the table’s surface.

  The veil of malaise had fallen at last, Pavo realised. But when the giant warrior made to rise, he crumpled back into his chair, wincing. ‘Drink nothing but water, and plenty of it,’ Rectus said, bringing over a water jug from a shelf by the hearth, pouring a cup and putting it before Geridus. ‘And keep your feet raised,’ he said, drawing another chair over before Geridus and lifting the man’s legs onto it. ‘You should eat nothing but wheat porridge and bread. No meat, no alcohol.’

  ‘By Mithras, legionary, are you trying to kill me?’ he said in a dry burr, scowling at Rectus.

  Pavo grinned at this. ‘No, he’s trying to save us all.’

  Rectus’ thumbed at his lantern-jaw, then clicked his fingers. ‘Ah, and one last thing,’ he said, then plucked a hemp sack from the shelf and hurried from the hall, barging from the principia. A moment later he returned, the sack full of broken up ice from some frozen water pool, and pressed the sack onto Geridus’ raised feet.

  ‘Mercy!’ Geridus cried, his head shooting back.

  ‘Keep the affected joints cool, and you should be walking without pain within days.’

  ‘And why, why, would I want to walk: to stand against the Goths? My reputation is already tarnished beyond repair, lad. No battle will restore my name.’

  Pavo sighed and shook his head, stepping forward to hold Geridus’ gaze. ‘I marched to Sardica a few days ago to levy more troops to defend this pass.’

  Geridus rolled his eyes. ‘Patiens try to touch your arse, did he?’

  A thin smile grew on Pavo’s lips. ‘No . . . but I watched as he and his acolytes told stories of you. Of no interest to you though, I’m sure.’ He said this and then swung on his heel as if to leave.

  Geridus’ scowl faded and his eyes grew keen, his neck lengthening. ‘What’s that?’

  Pavo turned back and didn’t bother repeating himself, well-aware that the Comes had heard him clearly. ‘He savoured the telling of your part in, or rather your absence from, the Battle of Ad Salices.’

  Geridus’ eyes blazed.

  ‘They were in fits of laughter,’ Pavo twisted the knife. ‘Those fat, useless officials in expensive robes, bellies stuffed with goose and wine.’

  A low growl like that of an angered hound grew in Geridus’ chest. It rose and rose and his lips curled back until his teeth were bared. With one arm, he swept the table clear of his cup, wine jug and meat.

  Pavo did not flinch as the contents of the table clattered past him and across the fort hall. ‘Patiens’ wiped tears of laughter from his eyes as he ridiculed you.’ He took a deep breath as he prepared for a somewhat risky final line. ‘I must say, it was very entertaining . . . ’

  Then, as if launched from a catapult, the giant warrior shot to standing, his immense frame covering the fire and his vast shadow bathing Pavo. ‘How dare you?’

  Pavo held his gaze. ‘You seem to be on your feet again?’

  Geridus started in shock, glancing down at his ankles, automatically moving to grab his chair for support. But he slowed, realising he did not need to – the ice-sack had already taken much of the swelling away. He looked up and glared at Pavo, a glare that was finally tempered with a dry smirk. ‘You wily whoreson,’ he chuckled. ‘I’ll abide your cure, but I will be sure to lament it at every turn.’

  Pavo nodded at this.

  ‘Yet your faith in me is ill-placed. I am but one man, and even if I can shed my affliction, you cannot expect one more Roman blade to alter the fate of this pass?’ Geridus said.

  ‘Perhaps not, but you are no mere warrior. Just the sight of you on the defences would stir our men’s hearts and weaken those of Farnobius’ horde. And,’ he mused, ‘I feel that with your mind clear of the wine and your ailment, you could help bolster this pass without even moving from that chair.’

  Geridus’ eyes narrowed. ‘Ah, yes, the art of deception upon which my erstwhile reputation was founded?’

  ‘Exactly that. I have been thinking over it myself. The terrain, the materials, the expectations Farnobius might have as he approaches us.’

  Geridus sat back down and gestured for Pavo to sit opposite. ‘Then we should have much to discuss,’ he said with a renewed brightness in his eyes.

  The following day, Pavo crouched behind a knoll as an ever-angrier noon sky of roiling grey clouds gathered. The wind screeched and howled around the rugged terrain near the eastern end of the Succi Valley.
Trupo, Cornix and the rest of his century were crouched behind him, panting, desperate not to let their fatigue tell. They had been well-disciplined so far in this bout of ambulatum training – manoeuvres like these might not help them in a defensive battle at the Trajan’s Gate defences, but it would bond and strengthen them further and keep their minds sharp.

  ‘Not a sound,’ he whispered to them, cupping a hand to his ear. A faint scratching, scrabbling sound danced on the gale. Coming from over the knoll? Somewhere over there, Quadratus’ century of Sardicans and Zosimus’ century of young recruits moved – and it was a certainty that the youths in that unit would betray their position again with some tell-tale noise. He heard the noise again, closer – massively closer. Behind him? His heart thundered and he swung round to see Sura, crouched behind him, helm removed and held between his knees and his fingers fiddling to reattach a bunch of white feathers to the sides of his intercisa helm.

  ‘Sura for fu-’

  ‘How will they know I’m an optio otherwise?’ he shrugged.

  ‘By not acting like an arsehole?’ Pavo suggested. ‘Remember the last cur we met with wings on his helm?’ he said, thinking of the loathsome Barzimeres.

  ‘Aye, true,’ Sura said, his face falling. He tossed the feathers to one side and put his unadorned helmet on again. ‘Hold on, listen!’

  All listened in now. It was clear this time: the dull thud-thud of boots, approaching from the other side of the knoll.

  ‘We can get to the top of the hill before them, throw up a spear line!’ Cornix suggested.

  ‘No, that will just drive Quadratus’ men back, it won’t give us victory – and that’s what this exercise is about,’ Pavo whispered tersely.