Legionary: Land of the Sacred Fire

by Gordon Doherty

  Pavo heard the ensuing pirate roar of approval and shot a glance out to sea. Indeed, the second liburnian was slicing towards them, a hundred or more eager crewmen perched around the edge of the vessel, eager to join and surely turn the fight. But, like a predator lunging from the waves, the prow of Centurion Quadratus’ trireme hammered into the side of the second liburnian. The smaller ship crumpled under the impact and the crew were cast into the waves.

  The pirates before Pavo fell silent and blanched at this, some backing off only to be cut down by the legionary advance. The last few even took to leaping overboard, preferring to take their chances with the sharks instead of the blood-soaked Roman blades. At the last, only the pirate leader remained. He backed away, towards the stern, readying to leap into the water. But he glanced down there only to see the blacktip sharks gorging on the foolish pirates thrashing nearby. Dissuaded by this sight, he looked up to the panting, snarling, gore-streaked Roman century.

  Gallus strode over to the captain and lifted his spatha to the man’s throat, his icy glare trained along the blade’s length. Pavo saw the pirate’s languid grin fade and his confidence waver. The man dropped his bloodstained falcata. The blade stabbed into the deck and quivered. He raised his hands either side in supplication.

  ‘There is no need for any more bloodshed,’ he said, unclipping a bulging leather purse from his belt. It was worn and bore a flaking image of a tawny gold lion. ‘The man who hired me promised me riches that could pay a whole legion for a year. This is but a downpayment.’ He held out the purse to Gallus, shaking it with a thick clunking of coins. ‘I will let you have this,’ he said, his eyes glinting. ‘You could retire, live the life of a senator or a noble with your family?’ he searched Gallus’ eyes. ‘Just put me ashore.’

  Gallus glowered at the man, his knuckles whitening on the hilt of his spatha, the tip of the blade poking into the man’s skin. Pavo was sure he would swipe the pirate’s head from his shoulders. Then, when a droplet of blood trickled from the man’s neck, Gallus blinked, as if woken from some trance. ‘Centurion Zosimus . . . put this man ashore,’ Gallus said stonily, sheathing his spatha and turning from the man to stride to where the beneficiarius and his crew had established a gangplank between the two interlocked vessels

  ‘Sir?’ Zosimus frowned as Gallus swept past him. Then realisation dawned. ‘Ah, right, with pleasure, sir.’

  The pirate leader held the purse out towards Zosimus, grinning weakly.

  Zosimus looked him up and down, then swung a tree-trunk leg up and into the man’s crotch. The resulting thud conjured a chorus of pained gasps from the watching men of the century. The pirate leader could only mouth some obscenity soundlessly as he doubled over, eyes bulging. Zosimus turned away from the man and jabbed his elbow back sharply. The captain fell from the side of the vessel, flailing, then plunged below the waves.

  Pavo stared at the spot where he had stood, and heard the man’s last gurgling cries of terror before they were cut short and replaced by the ripping of meat and crunching of bone. He felt not a pinch of sympathy for the man as he counted eighteen felled legionary comrades lying still on the bloodied decks. He sheathed his spatha, nodded to Sura and followed the century back onto the trireme.

  From the cliff top overlooking the limestone cove, a figure watched as the two triremes set sail once more to the east. The brief had been simple; crush the Roman expedition before it even reaches Antioch. So he had furnished with coin the overly confident Cretan pirate captain to sink the escort and the main expeditionary fleet. But the foolish brigand had been more interested in torturing the escort crew than looking out for the main expeditionary force. And the crew of the two triremes seemed a hardier lot than expected. Limitanei, or so he had been told, but this group seemed as battle-hardened as anything he had seen on the eastern frontier.

  Just then, something on the shoreline caught his eye. A ragged man had crawled from the waves, bleeding profusely from one thigh where much of the flesh had been ripped away. He noticed the gold hoops dangling from the ears. Was this the foolish captain, somehow having thrashed his way clear of the feasting sharks to drag himself ashore – surely not? He flitted down the rough staircase hewn into the cliff, then scuttled across the white sand to the bloodied man. The pirate captain looked up at him weakly, stretching out one hand, his face ghostly white.

  ‘He-help,’ the captain trembled.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ the figure nodded. ‘I’ll see you right.’ He crouched by the captain’s side, plucked the leather purse with the tawny gold lion from the man’s grasp and tied it onto a chest strap he wore under his tunic. Then he slipped a serrated dagger from his belt, grappled the captain’s sodden locks, wrenched the head back and tore the blade across the man’s throat. A surge of dark blood erupted from the captain’s severed windpipe and his body sagged then flopped onto the sand lifelessly.

  The figure wiped his dagger on a rag, stood and looked again to the departing triremes. A stiff grimace wrinkled his face; he would have to hurry back to the Antioch before he was missed. More importantly, he would have to send messengers to his paymasters to report this failure. His mood darkened as he thought of those who had gone before him and failed. Their deaths had been far, far darker than anything he had witnessed here today.

  Chapter 3

  Just after noon on the eleventh day, the triremes reached the Syrian coast, left the open sea and entered the estuary of the Orontes River. The sea winds died and the remiges worked the oars to take the vessel upriver. They passed by shimmering green crop fields, clusters of juniper woods, stretches of golden dust and sun-bleached rocky hills before coming to a small timber dock. Two auxiliaries stood at the end of the jetty, wearing light linen tunics and felt caps to protect their scalps from the sun. This pair helped dock the ships and then showed them onto the road to Antioch.

  So the vexillatio set off along a road that followed the banks of the Orontes, through a series of valleys carved by the great river. At first, the march was a welcome relief after weeks at sea. Pavo marched at the rear of Zosimus’ century, clacking his cane on the flagstones to keep the men in formation, occasionally marching ahead to talk with Zosimus and Sura.

  But as the afternoon wore on, the dry air seemed to sap the spring from their steps. The cicada song grew ferocious and the dust seemed to cling to their throats. After a while, the only noise was the crunch-crunch of boots and the grunting of Centurion Quadratus slapping a persistent mosquito from his neck repeatedly, then swiping at it with a volley of curses as it buzzed around his head. When he threatened to rip its wings off, the insect seemed to take heed at last and leave him alone – only to buzz across Pavo and Sura’s heads and set about feasting on Centurion Zosimus’ stubbled scalp.

  Pavo chuckled at this, then winced, feeling the sun sting on his arms – more than at any time on the deck of the trireme. He had noticed how Sura’s fair skin had become dappled with freckles from their time at sea. But now his friend had definitely turned a shade or two pinker, with his neck approaching an angry red.

  ‘The sun here feels different, eh?’ Pavo said, marching level with his friend

  Sura shrugged nonchalantly.

  ‘Here, tie this round your neck,’ he insisted, pulling the linen batting that padded the inside of his intercisa and offering it to Sura.

  But Sura waved him away; ‘Back in Adrianople, they used to have this fire walking thing. In the alleys behind the basilica. People would bet that they could walk on hot coals for a count of ninety. Nobody managed past seventy. Not one,’ he puffed out his chest and jabbed a thumb against his breast.

  ‘Until you?’ Pavo snatched the words from his friend’s mouth.

  Sura confirmed this with an all-knowing nod. ‘By the time we reach Antioch, I’ll be in fine fettle. I’ll show them how to drink, and I’ll give the local women a bit of Thracian charm,’ he chuckled at this, a mischievous grin spreading across his face.

  Pavo cocked one eyebrow in doubt then took a sw
ig from his water skin. ‘We might have to be cautious here, Sura. From what I hear, Antioch – indeed, this whole land – isn’t like Thracia or Moesia. They’re devout Christians in these parts. Sober, solemn types. There won’t be taverns full of roaring, ruddy, drunken dogs.’

  ‘Cah!’ Sura swiped a hand through the air as if swatting an imaginary gnat. ‘Not till we get there.’

  Pavo tried and failed to stifle a chuckle. ‘We should tread carefully, that’s all I’m saying.’

  Sunset cast a deep pinkish-orange light and stretched shadows across the land, and brought a welcome cooling of the air. At the last light of day, they rounded a bend in the valley and set eyes upon the magnificent city of Antioch, Emperor Valens’ headquarters for his struggles with the Persian Empire.

  The panting of the column died away at the sight. They had all seen the majesty of Constantinople; this place was smaller but by no means was it any less magnificent. The city’s colossal, baked limestone walls enveloped a section of the Orontes valley. The northern and southern walls bridged the river and the eastern walls strode undeterred up the steep slopes of Mount Silpius, the battlements up there surely providing a fine vista of the Syrian Desert that lay to the east. Sturdy square towers studded the wall, crested by purple imperial banners. The battlements were well garrisoned, sentries patrolling every twenty feet or so. Up on the mountaintop walls, he saw the outline of ballistae, the bolt-throwing devices fixed and pointing eastwards. Inside the walls, he could make out a sea of marble structures; palaces, arches, aqueducts, domes, columns, arenas and many Chi-Rho topped Christian churches. The majority of these structures seemed fresh and unblemished – clearly recent constructions.

  As they came closer to the city, Pavo noticed activity on the wall up ahead. A few hundred feet east of the point where the Orontes flowed under the bridged section of the wall, the flagstoned road they marched on met with the Porta Orientalis. This arched, north-easterly gate was low and wide. Atop the two towers bookending it, a cluster of sentries filed into place to scrutinise the approaching vexillatio.

  Just then, one raised a buccina to his lips and the sound of the horn keened through the valley. It echoed between the mountains either side, as if a thousand shade armies were signalling in reply. When the melody of the horn finally died, Pavo and the vexillatio came to a halt before the gate. Pavo saw that the men up there were legionaries, silver Chi-Rho emblems etched on their blue shields, and each of them wore the stoniest of glares. A faint breeze blew around Pavo’s shoulders as if to highlight the silence.

  Finally, Gallus stepped forward. ‘Tribunus Manius Atius Gallus of the XI Claudia Pia Fidelis,’ he held up a scroll and shook it. ‘Emperor Valens awaits our arrival.’

  The legionaries on the gatehouse seemed deaf to his words for a moment, then grudgingly gave a curt nod and signalled for the gates to be opened. Pavo glanced up just before they marched under the shade of the gateway. The legionaries glowered down on them, noses wrinkled, eyes flinty.

  Sura leant in to Pavo’s ear. ‘Friendly bastards, eh?’

  Gallus stood in the cool shade of the palace campaign room, awaiting Emperor Valens. The marbled floors and towering arched ceilings seemed intent on magnifying his every shuffle or clearing of his throat. The Christian mosaics adorning the walls glared down on him accusingly, their gold-flecked and austere lustre amplified in the dancing lamplight. He had been given the chance to bathe in the nearby thermae then dress in fresh clothes before this meeting. Now he stood in his freshly polished mail, helmet clasped underarm. He was ready.

  Ready for what? he mused, not for the first time. The emperor’s brief had been succinct, to say the least; Bring your best men to Antioch.

  He sighed and turned his gaze on the eastern wall of the chamber. There, a tall, arched window lay ajar. A clement night breeze tumbled in and brought with it the thick scent of incense, burning on the sill. Outside, blackness reigned, punctuated only by starlight and torches. The crickets lent a chorus to the endless babbling of the Orontes. A lectern stood before the window, bearing a scroll with a chart of the night sky etched upon it. In the centre of the room, a map of the empire covered a broad oak table. Upon it were carved wooden pieces – each representing a legion. Gallus eyed the clusters of pieces in Thracia and those here in the east. Everywhere else, there were precious few pieces.

  Footsteps shook him from his thoughts. He stood rigid and readied to salute, his eyes darting to the doorway. When Valens entered, he wore an earnest, welcoming look that belied the austerity all around him. His snow-white fringe partially masked the network of frown lines on his forehead and dangled to a point just above arched eyebrows and sharp, studious blue eyes. He wore a long, purple robe and a ceremonial, muscled bronze cuirass. Flanking him were two candidati, the tenacious warriors who seldom left his side. They wore no armour, preferring just light and pure-white linen tunics for swiftness of movement. They carried gold-threaded spears, spathas and white shields emblazoned with a gold Chi-Rho emblem.

  Valens stopped before Gallus.

  ‘Imperator!’ Gallus barked, throwing an arm up stiffly.

  ‘Tribunus Gallus,’ Valens said with a nod and a gentle smile. ‘At ease. Much has happened since last we met.’

  Gallus felt pleasantly disarmed by the emperor’s familiar tone. And Valens was right, he realised, thinking of that brief spell at the palace in Constantinople over a year ago. He had dined with the emperor and a rabble of power-hungry vultures whose ambitions lay masked behind senatorial and ecclesiastical robes. The calamitous Bosporus mission had followed soon after. The months that followed saw the Danubian Limes torn apart, the XI Claudia forced to flee into southern Thracia as the Goths went on the rampage. ‘Much has happened, Emperor, and much of it regrettable.’

  ‘The regrets are for me to reflect upon, Tribunus. You and your men have done your utmost to protect the empire – indeed, that is why you are here,’ Valens said, then turned away and paced across the room. ‘Perhaps one day the empire will be but a distant memory. Yet the people who choose to remember it will recall the legacy of the brutish Emperor Valens.’ He spread out his arms by the open window. ‘In times of relative peace and prosperity I have embellished the cities of the empire in an effort to breathe life into those ancient settlements and hope into the hearts of their peoples. Constantinople, Alexandria, Nicomedia, Adrianople, I have cared for all these places as if they were my homes. Here in Antioch I commissioned the fine, open space of the new forum, dedicated to my departed brother,’ he pointed to the circular clearing across the river, part-hidden in the sprawl of domes and marble structures. There, a column stretched into the night sky, with a gilded statue of Valentinian perched on its tip, in muscled armour, one hand on his heart and the other holding a spatha skywards.

  Gallus stared at the sight of the dead Western Emperor. His top lip twitched. Hatred built in his veins. He thought of Olivia, of Marcus. It had been under that cur’s reign that . . .

  ‘I spent vast sums from the imperial treasury on revitalising the Great Church of Constantine,’ Valens continued, stirring him from his dark thoughts, nodding to the largest of domes to the south-east, ‘because the people implored me that I must. And there are the baths, the arena, the gardens . . . ’ he stopped, his head dropping a little. ‘But this will be forgotten. The dark tide of war will be my legacy. Yes, I have waged wars, and bloody ones too.’ He shook his head as if stirring from some troubled memory. ‘But now the tide of war has turned against the empire, Gallus, and ferociously so.’

  ‘Thracia can be saved, Emperor,’ Gallus interjected. The words came from his heart.

  ‘From where do you draw such hope?’ Valens asked, looking over his shoulder from the window, one eyebrow arched.

  These words seemed to search inside Gallus’ armour. At once, he touched a hand to his purse, feeling for the idol in there. ‘Mithras stands with the legions back in Thracia.’

  ‘Then let us pray he betters Wodin and the Gothic hordes
,’ Valens said with a mirthless snort. ‘But the fate of Thracia must wait. For a more ferocious and wily enemy now prowls at our door. The eastern frontier is on the brink, Tribunus.’ He swung round from the window, his eyes shaded under a deep frown. ‘Persia’s gaze is upon us.’

  This was it, the moment Gallus had been waiting for. The brief that had brought him and his men east. ‘Emperor?’

  ‘Shapur has taken control of Armenia. Ten thousand Persian riders now patrol those lands and puppet the fickle princes who once swore loyalty to Rome.’

  ‘And you suspect the king of kings now readies to invade the empire?’ Gallus’ eyes narrowed as he said this, his gaze flicking to the campaign map.

  ‘Nobody knows what is brewing in Shapur’s mind. But I have heard rumour and counter-rumour that he is coming under ever-increasing pressure to make a decisive move,’ Valens’ expression darkened. ‘There are many within Persian lands who resent the House of Sassan. They see no reason why their ancient houses should not rule Persia in Shapur’s stead. They will demand that Shapur moves upon our empire or they will have his head and seize his throne. The taking of Armenia serves as a dark portent. Roman Syria is in absolutely no state to deal with an incursion of any kind.’ He strode over to the campaign table, resting an oil lamp near the centre of the map. Beckoning Gallus over and gesturing to the stools beside the table, he sat and tapped the spot on the map north-west of Constantinople, where the new temporary limes had been set up in Thracia. ‘Had it not been for the Gothic migrations across the Danubius, I would not have had to divert many of my eastern legions to those lands.’ He then swept his finger across the map, almost tracing the route of the XI Claudia’s voyage, bringing it to a rest in the area just east of Antioch. Here, more than forty soldier-pieces were spread out in a line running north to south. ‘The number of pieces here is misleading. Many of these legions are little more than vexillationes, some numbering only a few hundred like your own. Barely twenty five thousand men, stretching from northern Syria, all the way down to Egypt. And nearly half of them are mere limitanei . . . ’ he looked up, fixing Gallus with his gaze. ‘I mean no offence, Tribunus. The border soldiers here barely compare with your kind – and that is exactly why I summoned you.’