Legionary: Land of the Sacred Fire

by Gordon Doherty

  ‘The little bastard,’ Zosimus said, beholding the guide’s body, scraping at his cropped scalp and shaking his head.

  ‘What’s our next move, sir?’ Pavo asked.

  Gallus eyed him. ‘We push on. We must. Water is our priority now.’

  ‘The camel rider and Yabet, sir – do you think they were just out to rob us?’ Pavo asked, frowning at the purse in Gallus’ hands. ‘What if . . . ’ he peered out through the broken fort gates.

  ‘Let’s assume it was merely brigandage for now,’ Gallus replied, weighing the purse. ‘Now see to it that the centuries are formed up.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  When Pavo had gone, and he went unwatched, Gallus dug a coin from the purse and examined it. It bore the image of a blazing fire pit, with two figures standing either side of it. An odd chill passed over his heart as he gazed at the featureless faces of the two. This was a pure-silver Persian dirham, he realised. To share this knowledge with the men might destroy morale. He tucked the purse away and filled his lungs.

  ‘Gather your equipment. We move on, and we make haste.’

  A thunderstorm raged over Bishapur, bringing with it precious rain. Ramak stood silent and unnoticed in the doorway of the grand hall of the Palace. He toyed with the silver dirham, a blaze of lightning tearing across the sky, bringing the coin’s temple motif to life and lighting his eyes like a fire. He looked from the coin and into the hall. Three tall arches opened up the north wall of the high-vaulted chamber, offering a panoramic vista of the night sky and myriad guttering torches from the lower city, spread out below and cowering under the tempest.

  The floor of the grand hall was crowded with finery and the spoils of war. Fine sculptures, ancient shields and ornate pottery. Then there was a line of suits of armour from spahbads past. Many of them had lived and died as his puppet, he enthused. At that moment, his eyes settled on the lone, ox-like figure standing at the end of this line, by his father’s armour. Spahbad Tamur gazed through the arches and into the night. He was muttering to himself, or perhaps to his dead father. Doubts, fears. I have conditioned him well, Ramak thought. Fear will keep this oaf by my side. Then, when my ambitions are realised, I can dispense with him as I did his father . . . then perhaps I can bring his son to heel?

  So little stood in the way of his ambitions now. There was just the splinter in the flesh that was Emperor Valens’ desperate bid to find the lost scroll. He looked back down to the coin and grinned. That ember of Roman resistance would be snuffed out soon enough.

  Chapter 9

  After leaving the accursed fort, the column marched south-east and into the endless golden flats for another day and a half without incident – the only enemies being the fierce heat, the arid desert air and the near empty water skins. Deprived of the camels, they once more carried their shields and the scraps of rations not stolen by the dromedarii. The going underfoot both helped and hindered the pace of the march. When it was unbroken, the pace quickened, but when they came across pitted, cracked land, men stumbled and slowed. There had to be an oasis or a spring of some sort soon – the map was marked with such locations, but finding them precisely would be next to impossible without an experienced guide. With Yabet dead and the camel riders gone, they were in dire trouble.

  Despite this, they had been glad when the ruin of that accursed fortlet had fallen away into the haze behind them; if some follow-up raid had been planned to finish off the mission, then they would find nothing but two graves at that place: Yabet’s and that of the long-dead legionary skeleton. Carbo, Baptista and the Flavia Firma men had carried out the burials with full Christian rites.

  ‘Slow!’ Gallus barked from the head of the column. As one, they dropped the pace to a walk. All necks stretched to look ahead.

  Pavo saw nothing. But he felt something underfoot. A tremor.

  ‘Riders?’ Sura said, stepping forward from the front rank.

  The heat haze rippled, then shapes emerged from the south-east. Thrashing, knotted legs, pained groaning and trilling cries. Camel riders, hundreds of them. Easily twice as many as the legionary column, a tall dust cloud billowing up behind them. They wore loose white robes, whipping in their slipstream. They wore linen scarfs on their heads. A few carried hide and cane shields and some held spears. All of them carried bows.

  Gallus paced ahead, one hand raised, the other on his sword hilt, eyes scouring the approaching pack.

  ‘Desert raiders,’ Carbo hissed, recognising them first.

  Pavo’s eyes darted. These riders were the bane of the no man’s land between the two great empires, siding with Rome and Persia in turn and as it suited them. Then he spotted the handful in their midst, wearing Roman helms and carrying legionary spears. The dromedarii. ‘Treacherous bastards!’ he spat. The sentiment was echoed all along the Roman ranks. Just then, a chorus of ululating battle cries split the air and the desert raiders split into a wide crescent, as if to envelop the legionary line. At that moment, the soldier’s curse struck Pavo like a lance, swelling his bladder and bringing thunder to his heart.

  ‘Double line!’ Gallus bellowed. A buccina sang to underline the order and the legionary standards waved frantically. Carbo rushed off to head up his own century. Pavo jogged over to push into place alongside Zosimus on one side and Sura on the other. Over one hundred shields clattered into place, presenting a wall, half ruby and half blue. Only spear tips, helms and determined eyes were visible over the rims. The single rank behind pressed into place. This shallow but wide formation would make it harder for the raiders to threaten the flanks. ‘Front ranks, ready plumbatae!’ Gallus cried, stepping into the line to take his place just right of dead centre.

  Pavo stood alongside Sura and Zosimus. The wave of desert raiders made as if to charge the Roman line. ‘They won’t come at our spear wall,’ He insisted as he trained his gaze down the length of his spear. ‘They’re archers. They’re going to wear us down’

  But big Zosimus wasn’t listening. ‘Just another few feet,’ he growled, his knuckles white on the shaft of his plumbata. Then at just over a hundred paces away – just outside of plumbatae range – the raiders split in two and washed past either flank. As they did so, they loosed a storm of arrows.

  ‘Shields!’ Gallus cried from the centre.

  Pavo’s shield arm tensed instinctively, hefting it overhead. The hail hammered into the Roman shield wall and his whole body juddered, splinters of wood spraying overhead. Wet punches of iron piercing flesh and the torn cries of the stricken rang out. Glancing left and right, he saw the determined grimaces of his comrades and the shafts of afternoon sunlight where the unlucky few had fallen, those nearby showered in blood. Some two hundred and twenty men exhaled in relief.

  ‘Turn!’ Gallus cried. As one, the Roman line about-faced, presenting shields and spears to the riders reforming into one band again in the north. The raiders’ looked relaxed and confident. Some of them wore broad, shark-like grins as they nocked their bows in a leisurely fashion – as if hunting game. Pavo glanced over his shoulder to see the legionaries of the rear rank crouching and fumbling with their packs. Moments later, he heard the stretching of wood, horn and bowstring behind him.

  ‘Archers, ready!’ Gallus cried. Like a rising wave, each of the legionaries in the rear rank stood tall, lifted their bows high, arrows nocked and bowstrings stretched.

  The desert raiders’ easy demeanour vanished at the sight of this. A canny grin touched Pavo’s lips. Roman infantry carrying bows was still a novelty in these parts, it seemed.

  ‘Loose!’ Gallus boomed.

  Over one hundred bowstrings twanged in unison. The confident line of raiders at once dissolved into panic. Apart from the few who wore shields or armour, many were punched from their mounts as the arrows thudded down upon them, tearing through skin and smashing bone. Well over seventy of them fell. The rest sank into disarray, some slowing, others immediately wheeling round ready to take flight.

  Now! Pavo mouthed the word, and saw Sura
, Zosimus and the men nearby do the same, all eyes trained on Gallus.

  Before the lead desert raiders could rally their men, Gallus broke ahead of the Roman line, grappling the Claudia standard from the aquilifer, then swiped the banner down in a chopping motion. ‘Forward!’ he cried. As one, the shield wall burst into life like some iron insect, the shields jostling, the legionary war cry and the wailing buccina spilling across the desert plain.

  But the raiders did not crumble in the face of the legionary charge. Instead, they rallied, the lead riders barking encouragement to them. They were shaken, but angered too. Many had thrown down their bows and drawn their swords – long curved blades. They whipped their camels forward and unleashed their trilling battle cry once more, haring to meet the Roman advance. As Pavo raced forward, he saw one rider howl and kick his beast into a charge. Their eyes met, and he realised it was one of the traitor dromedarii. At the last, he leapt up to meet the man’s vicious sword-swipe.

  With a tumultuous roar and a crash of shields, blades and bone, the two sides came together. Pavo’s spear clashed with the dromedarius’ blade and the blow jarred him to his core, sending him spinning into the melee. For a moment, he could see nothing but thick dust. Then it cleared like a curtain being whipped back and he saw the dromedarius again, only feet away. The man leant out and tried to cut down over Pavo’s shield. Pavo butted out with his shield, deflecting the strike and the boss bloodying the camel’s nose. Then he swept his spear up and into the rider’s armpit, bringing forth a shower of dark blood. The man crunched to the ground. Pavo swung round to see another blade swooping down towards him. He parried weakly, dropping his spear, but then tore out his spatha and sliced it up and across the rider’s throat. The camel hared from the melee, dragging the flailing, dead rider in its wake.

  Pavo stooped to take up his spear once more, twisting this way and that to make sense of the surrounding chaos. In every direction the cries of torn men were incessant, the swirling, crimson-streaked dust offering only glimpses of flashing steel. Dull shapes barged and battered at his shield, an iron blade glanced off his helmet and another nicked the skin on his nose. As the dust thinned, he saw the bloody tumult all around. Legionaries disappeared under sweeping, charging camels. Heads spun clear of bodies as the curved blades swept to and fro. Camel riders were skewered on legionary spear tips and toppled from their saddles. He saw one rider barged from his camel, toppling to the dust only for another beast to trample across his skull, which burst like a watermelon, instantly stilling his thrashing body.

  Pavo backed away, choking on the dust, straining to seek out his comrades. Only feet away, the banners of the XI Claudia and the XVI Flavia Firma waved to and fro defiantly, dust-coated and blood-spattered. Many legionaries had fallen. He saw one Flavia Firma comrade surrounded by two desert raiders. His spatha was bent and his mail vest torn. Pavo barged through the fray to his comrade’s aid, but was halted in his tracks as a blade swept up, slicing the legionary from gut to jaw. The force of the blow spun the legionary around and sent a wet splatter of blood and gut wall across Pavo’s face. Then the riders turned their attentions to Pavo. Their blades sang, swiping down at him. One he met with a parry, and the second blade crashed off his helm, sending him staggering backwards, half-blinded, before toppling into the slick carpet of gore. A legionary spear hurled from somewhere in the dust cloud took one of the riders in the throat, then a plumbata punched the other one in the gut. Pavo glanced up to see the pair of Flavia Firma legionaries who had saved him cry out as another camel rider thundered past behind them, tearing across the backs of their necks with his blade and bringing forth thick sprays of lifeblood. Moments later, this rider was punched from his horse on the end of a legionary lance. This battle teetered on the edge of a blade. If they could stand together, it could be won, he thought, seeing Habitus and Sura fighting nearby.

  But all hope drained from him when he saw something, through the battle and to the south-east. The horizon was rippling once more. The blood in his veins turned to ice. More riders. At least five hundred.

  ‘We’re dead!’ Habitus cried.

  ‘Enough of that talk!’ a blood-soaked Sura snarled, cutting down one camel rider then barging through to bunch up beside the beanpole legionary.

  Pavo pushed up to stand by Habitus’ other side. ‘Think only of your sword and of the guts of the riders before you,’ he snarled as the three hacked and parried desperately. Yet he could not help but glance at these new riders as they drew closer. They were different, he realised. Horsemen, not camel riders. They wore light robes like the raiders, but they were armoured in dark-brown, hardened leather cuirasses, and many wore iron helms, some plumed. Many of them stretched in their saddles, lifting bent bows into the air. Then they loosed.

  Pavo gawped up at the incoming hail. It hovered, then turned to rain down for them. He clutched the phalera on his chest instinctively, waiting on the blow that would end the quest for the scroll, end his quest to find what had become of Father.

  He shuddered at the series of wet thuds and gurgling cries that rang out all around him. But he, Sura and Habitus were unharmed. He blinked and the trio shared an incredulous frown. All around them, the desert raiders had fallen limp, arrows quivering in their backs and necks, blood washing from their mouths, swords slipping from their lifeless grasps, their bodies sliding from saddles to thump into the dust like butchered meat. Not a single legionary had been harmed by the volley. The few raiders – just seven of them – who had avoided the strike broke out in a babble of panic, twisting in their saddles, only just noticing the approaching horsemen. ‘Maratocupreni!’ they cried. Then, as if the word had tainted the air with some dark curse, they broke from the melee and thundered off to the south-east.

  At this, one of the leather-armoured horsemen broke from the approaching five hundred and hared after the fleeing raiders. This rider sported a helm with a long, swishing plume. With the grace of a centaur, the rider nocked and loosed arrow after arrow. The seven fleeing desert raiders were punched from their mounts one by one. Only one slipped away and disappeared back into the heat haze from where he had come.

  Pavo released his tight grip on the phalera and allowed himself to breathe again. He glanced back over the dark-red mess that stained the plain. Camels and men lay tangled, jutting white bone and spilled guts adding to the glistening crimson film that coated everything. The stench of blood and open bowels was rife in the baking sun and a cloud of flies buzzed eagerly over this feast while a venue of vultures screeched overhead. Amongst the carnage, the surviving legionaries stood, panting in disbelief, some retching into the gore. Carbo stood with them, his spatha bloodied and his chest heaving. Gallus stood nearby, his face plastered in blood and taut with fury. More than half of the column had been slain, he realised. He saw the gawping, lifeless faces of many from his century and from Quadratus’ – many he had considered good friends. A hardness gripped his heart at this – a hardness he saw reflected in Sura’s stony gaze at the scene. They called this the soldier’s skin. It was welcome at times like this.

  ‘Who are they, sir?’ Habitus muttered, eyeing the approaching five hundred.

  Pavo frowned. ‘I don’t know, but keep your shield up.’

  ‘There is no need,’ a voice spoke. Carbo stood a few feet away, cleaning his spatha with a rag. The man’s well-weathered features were clad in the filth of battle.

  ‘Sir?’ Pavo hesitated, glancing to the riders, hearing their chatter and the whinnying of their mounts as they came closer.

  ‘The Maratocupreni have made their choice,’ Carbo said. ‘If they wanted to side with the camel raiders, you would be dead by now. We all would.’ He sheathed his blade then flicked out a finger and jabbed it to the ground. ‘Lower your shields and sheathe your weapons.’

  Pavo saw the blood-spattered Gallus approaching, gathering the legionaries together. He had taken the lead from Carbo and was ordering them to lower their weapons likewise.

  ‘You’d better be
right about this,’ Gallus said, casting a frosty look at Carbo, then eyeing the mysterious riders.

  Pavo watched as the rider with the long, swishing plume rode to the fore, the rest following in a loose pack. They slowed to a trot then came to a halt a few strides from Gallus and Carbo. Their skin was swarthy, they sported narrow, fine features, and almost all of them were clean-shaven. They wore smears of kohl on each cheek, just under the eyes. They eyed the filthy Roman banners with narrowed eyes. The lead rider’s face was cast in shade from the helm.

  ‘Tribunus Gallus of Legio XI Claudia Pia Fidelis,’ Gallus saluted. ‘Your intervention was timely.’ His tone was terse, almost suspicious.

  ‘Ah! Typically warm Roman gratitude,’ the lead rider laughed mirthlessly.

  This one was slender and small, Pavo realised, noticing the narrow shoulders upon which the composite bow hung. And there was something else. The voice was husky but light.

  Then the lead rider removed the helm, revealing the dusky and delicate face of a young woman. Her almond-shaped eyes dominated her face, her neat nose and pursed lips. The whipping, swishing plume was in fact sleek, dark locks scooped up in a tight topknot, the tail draped down her back.

  ‘Izodora of the Maratocupreni,’ she introduced herself.

  The smears of kohl on her cheeks gave her a fearsome glare. Fearsome yet comely, Pavo mused. Then her gaze snapped onto him. Instantly, he looked away, embarrassed.

  ‘You chose to loose upon the desert raiders and not us. Why?’ Gallus continued.

  ‘They were desert raiders, yes, but they were not here for mere brigandage. I have clashed with them before – they spill blood for Persian coin. I chose to loose upon them because they were the aggressors,’ then her gaze hardened, ‘or at least that is how it seemed. You and your men seem to have strayed far from the Roman borders and into the desert. Perhaps I should have chosen differently?’ She sat tall on her saddle and cast Gallus a glare that almost matched that of the tribunus. ‘So, where are you headed, Tribunus Gallus?’