Gods & Emperors (Legionary 5)

by Gordon Doherty

  ‘Our new leader?’ Pavo offered. ‘Mad as a cut snake.’

  ‘He’s doing what he said he would though,’ Sura interjected. ‘That’s four warbands removed from the board, and several more herded further north in just over a week. How many men have we lost in that time?’

  ‘Three,’ Zosimus said with a grin. ‘That takes some doing.’

  ‘Aye,’ Pavo said, ‘you know I’d give anything to have Gallus and Dexion back and in charge of the legion. We all would. But this man is a shrewd one. He knows what he’s doing. Maybe he’s not so crazy after-’

  ‘Halt!’ Bastianus bellowed, raising a hand as if he had spotted an enemy up ahead. The manic general slipped carefully from the saddle of his roan and swung his head round to face his weary men. ‘Turn! Face the sides of the road!’ he screamed, spit flecks shooting from his mouth, the lone eye darting, his face stretched in alarm.

  A murmur of angst broke out as the column at once dissolved into two parts, one half facing the northern edge of the road, the other facing south as if preparing for a sudden attack on both flanks. Pavo’s eyes swept over the countryside. No Goths, no movement at all out there in the mix of deep orange light and long, stretching shadows. He glanced to Bastianus and caught the briefest glimpse of mischief in the man’s eye.

  ‘Cocks out,’ Bastianus roared, ‘and… piiiiiiiisssss!’

  A moment of stunned silence passed while Bastianus rummaged to lift up the front of his tunic. Then came the distinctive hiss and patter of liquid hitting dirt. A puff of steam rose and the Magister Peditum sighed in liberation. The men broke down in laughter and a chorus of muted but relieved curses.

  ‘A dash of danger – always helps me along, if you take my meaning,’ Bastianus boomed as he continued to soak the roadside, the rest of the column going about their business likewise. ‘Gets the old bladder bulging, eh?’ With a grunt and a shuffle, he was finished. He tucked himself away then took to striding down the centre of the road, between the two walls of urinating men. ‘We’ll camp here tonight,’ he mused, eyeing the plateau just off the road, ‘then tomorrow, we’ll leave the highway again and cut north through the plains.’

  Pavo’s head switched round at this. Leaving the road meant they would not pass Narco after all. He tried to find some logical reason to put to Bastianus to change his mind, but the Magister Peditum continued before he could find one.

  ‘The town of Bizye, south of the Mons Asticus uplands, is still in imperial control. But its walls are in a state of disrepair and its garrison is weak. The Goths have bled the place almost dry,’ he continued, glancing to Agilo, who nodded his affirmation of this. ‘They’ve helped themselves to tribute: draining the grain silo and stripping the gold and bronze from the temples. The people there are gaunt and impoverished. That battered town has nothing left to give. And it seems that a warband is on its way there once more. When they reach Bizye and find no tribute to take, they will likely opt for slaughter.’

  A series of muted grumbles sounded along the column.

  ‘If they reach Bizye,’ Bastianus added with a dry smile.

  Narco can wait, Pavo thought.

  The plain just south of the hazy blue outline of the fertile Mons Asticus mountain range was a picture of serenity: a carpet of tall, golden grass basking in summer heat. The gentle, warm afternoon wind sighed through the high stalks, swaying them, but not enough to reveal the Second Cohort of the XI Claudia, knelt in silence there in a two-deep line.

  Pavo felt the dry soil under his knee tremble. He stretched his neck a fraction and saw a pillar of dust rise from the cleft between the hills to the north. A savage cry from that direction heralded the arrival of a thick band of Thervingi spearmen. They swung into view and spilled from the cleft, jogging onto the plain. Pavo heard Cornix’ breathing grow short and fast as the enemy infantry quickened towards their hidden position.

  ‘That’s not one warband, that’s two!’ Cornix hissed as the enemy came to within a few hundred paces.

  ‘Perfect,’ Sura replied with a dry smile.

  ‘Shame it’s not three,’ Pavo added, then looked along the crouched line and saw Bastianus’ eye trained on the Goths, his lips itching to make the call.

  ‘Rise!’ the Magister Peditum cried at last. As one, the Second Cohort shot to their feet, instantly shoulder-to-shoulder, clacking their shields together and rattling their spears into place between the gaps. ‘Haaaa!’ Pavo cried in unison with Sura, their hubris rippling through the men either side of them and the second rank who roared likewise.

  The Goths gawped, momentarily slowing, then erupted in an excited chatter as they saw the lone cohort before them – just four hundred and eighty men to their two thousand. Their shock fading, they bounded forward, drawing sparkling longswords as they went. ‘We are a wall!’ Pavo screamed just before the Goths crashed against them like a herd of maddened oxen with a rattle of iron upon iron. A maw of swords flashed out at him, clashing from his helm and the rim of his shield. Near-blinded, he thrust out his spear, tearing into unseen flesh but knowing that, alone, his cohort was doomed.

  But they were not alone.

  ‘Haaaaaa!’ came the pealing cries. Two sets of voices. Two more cohorts. Zosimus and the First rose from the grass on the Goths’ right flank and Quadratus and the Third shot up on the enemy left. Like iron jaws, they fell upon the warbands’ flanks.

  ‘Haaaaa!’ the Lancearii, slingers, archers and ballistarii howled as they too rose from the grass to swarm around the Gothic rear like closing gates, loosing javelin after javelin, an endless hail of shot and arrows. Pavo lashed his spear up, battered his shield forward and felt a warm spray of blood lash across his skin from comrades by his side and foes alike. For a moment, the Goths seemed set to best the trap and he felt his cohort straining to hold its line. But hold it they did and, surrounded, the Gothic cries of zeal became the screams of dying men and their efforts now turned entirely to flight. They barged and kicked, clambered and scrambled clear of the Roman death grip, managing to surge through the missile infantry lines.

  Only breaths after it had begun, it was over. Pavo staggered and fell to one knee as the press of battle before him faded, the Goths speeding back through the tall grass from whence they had come. The Lancearii, slingers and archers were ready to loose on their backs, just waiting for Bastianus’ order.

  ‘Let them go,’ Bastianus cried shrilly. ‘We need some of the hairy bastards to survive to tell the rest of the warbands that it’s a bad idea to linger in this part of the world.’

  Pavo rose, using his sword like a staff. A carpet of blood and bodies lay before him, over seventy legionaries lay dead or groaning amongst the Goths. Seventy comrades gone in mere heartbeats. Bizye had been spared a visit from this warband, but it remained broken and bereft of food for its populace. So many more towns across Thracia teetered on such a precipice. He thought of the grain Emperor Valens had shipped in from Egypt and the islands: while it had relieved the threat of famine in Constantinople and the southern coastal cities, it had not been conveyed to places like Bizye for fear of attack in transport. Hunger, he realised, might be the death of many more Romans than any Gothic sword. Grain was fast becoming the currency of this treacherous war.

  He saw Bastianus crouched by a patch of unbloodied dust, dotting the ground and plotting his next move. An idea formed in his mind, and he walked over to join the general.

  ‘Look,’ Hartwig said, slapping the back of his hand across his fellow-warrior’s chest. His finger shot out across the sun-baked prairie. Golden dust, tracts of short, green grass and… wagons!

  ‘Seventy, eighty of them, coming this way,’ Jarl, crouched by his side atop the dusty knoll, whispered like a man enchanted by the sight of unexpected gold. ‘An imperial caravan,’ he realised, eyes searching into the sweltering horizon: somewhere far to the south lay Perinthus, the imperial coastal city. Rumour had it that Egyptian grain had been shipped there. Now, it seemed the empire dared try to feed its inland cities
with it. ‘They think they can ride across our soil,’ he said, jealously eyeing the wagons, each with an arched timber frame, covered with dust-stained white cloth. This convoy was headed for Adrianople, he guessed. Packed with grain. He cast a look over his shoulder at the thousand Thervingi spearmen concealed behind the knoll.

  ‘They’re coming this way,’ Hartwig whispered, stroking his sandy beard. ‘Just a few scout riders as an escort too,’ he pointed out the three unarmoured men with spears riding alongside the train.

  ‘And the plain is empty apart from the convoy. Just dust and air. No nooks, no high grass, no forests, no cliffs for that cursed wraith legion to conceal themselves in,’ Jarl added.

  ‘They haven’t been sighted since Mons Asticus,’ Hartwig said with a tremor of ire.

  Jarl spat into the dirt. Hartwig’s brother had been killed by this elusive band of Romans on the plains of Mons Asticus three days ago. Many more warbands had been trapped, assaulted or driven north by them. ‘They will pay when next they take to the field. And if we take this grain, they and every other Roman will grow weak with hunger.’

  ‘Aye, and imagine if we were to bring such spoils before Iudex Fritigern?’ Hartwig mused.

  ‘I’ll be having a few loaves of fresh bread before we hand it over, I can tell you,’ Jarl grinned, rubbing his paunch. ‘And if the drivers are carrying coins…’

  ‘Then they’d most likely go missing in the confusion,’ Hartwig flashed a matching grin.

  ‘Do we spare them?’ Jarl said, pointing to the driver of the foremost wagon, a man wearing a wide-brimmed hat. ‘Fritigern was clear that we should. But…’

  ‘But he’s not here,’ Hartwig finished for him.

  Jarl nodded in agreement then silently raised a hand overhead, scooping it forward. His thousand warriors rose and stole around the knoll-side, ready to waylay the caravan when it came into view. He and Hartwig scrambled down through the dust to join them just as the crunch and grind of cartwheels grew closer. There was a moment of stillness before the foremost wagons rolled around the knoll-side.

  ‘For the glory of the horde!’ Hartwig howled, swiping his spear through the air like a standard, waving the warband on. They flew across the short stretch of dusty ground towards the flank of the convoy, weapons raised, seeing the wide-eyed wagon-drivers gawp and shout in panic.

  ‘Take the foremost wagons!’ Jarl bellowed, seeing the drivers fumble with the reins. ‘Barge them onto their sides and-’ his words stuck in his throat, trapped there by shock, as the driver stood up and yanked at a rope: the white cloth enshrouding the body of the wagon dropped like a sail, revealing not a granule of wheat, but a bunch of some thirty ballistarii, crossbows loaded, eyes trained along the bolts. In the next heartbeat, Hartwig saw it all: the wagons all along the train shed their awnings, exposing packs of slingers, archers and ruby-shielded legionaries. The wraith-legion. With a thrum of crossbow levers, the ballistarii loosed. A bolt took Hartwig in the eye, casting him into blackness.

  Jarl wailed, staggering back with the rest of his warriors, as the legionaries crammed aboard the wagon he had been about to clamber onto hurled their plumbatae. The weighted darts thumped into his men, wrecking chests and faces and one thwacked into his knee, lodging there. With a howl, he pitched onto his back, gazing into the sky, cradling the knee as blood pumped from the wound. The pain was indescribable, and he could barely comprehend what was going on around him: seeing just the packs of ruby warriors leaping from the wagons and falling upon his warband. Screams and a mizzle of blood floated in the air above him and when they faded, he was laughing giddily – maddened by the shock from his grievous wound. A cluster of faces appeared, staring down at him, outlined by the sky. A bald, eyepatch-wearing madman and a clutch of legionaries.

  ‘No grain for you Goth,’ the one with the eyepatch growled. ‘Though I suspect you’ve enjoyed your last meal anyway. The real grain caravan is behind this one, on its way to Adrianople, Bizye and Nike.’

  Curse you, you dog-ugly Roman, Jarl tried to reply, but emitted some garbled, pained animal sound instead.

  A legionary – hawk-faced and young – suggested something to the bald one, who nodded his assent.

  ‘Fritigern keeps two main camps. Kabyle and…’ the hawk-faced one asked.

  Jarl felt his breathing grow shallow and began to see dark spots in the sky.

  ‘And?’ the legionary repeated. ‘Where is the secondary camp?’

  Jarl laughed weakly, feeling his face and neck growing cold. ‘The place we house our grain surplus? You think Fritigern would tell a wretch like me?’

  With a zing, a spatha was drawn and poked under Jarl’s chin. ‘Talk, Goth,’ a blonde-haired and moustachioed bull of a legionary insisted.

  Jarl sought out some caustic riposte, but the black spots conquered the sky, the coldness claimed his body and death swept him away.

  ‘He’s dead?’ Bastianus said then spat into the earth. ‘Damned inconsiderate, if you ask me. Still, a fine plan, Centurion. The wagons drew them to us like flies to a corpse.’

  The praise was lost on Pavo, who gazed into the dead Goth’s eyes, imagining the knowledge in there evaporating like mist. ‘And this second camp of theirs, we’re like the flies, chasing them to find out its location.’

  Zosimus glowered at the body. ‘And as long as we can’t locate it, we can’t threaten it.’

  ‘Locate it?’ Agilo said then whistled. ‘Mithras knows I’ve tried. My riders have striven to scout further north but it’s crawling with Goths up there.’

  ‘And it’s our job to keep driving them up there too,’ Bastianus said, eyeing the surrounding lands with a mean eye. ‘Send the wagons back to Perinthus, bury the dead, then we should be on our way. Our job is not yet done.’

  Soon, they were on their way again, marching through the remainder of the hot afternoon. Pavo fell into a trance of sorts as they went. He barely noticed when the crunch-crunch of boots on dust changed into a firmer clatter of hobnails and soles on flagstones. He blinked, seeing that they had re-joined the Via Militaris. It was like a splash of cold water to his face. He eyed the milestone at the side of the road and felt a shiver of realisation: they were again nearing the Narco waystation. He counted off the miles as they progressed, willing Bastianus to stay true to the highway this time.

  Just as the sun was slipping behind the western hills, Bastianus called for them to halt and make camp in the lee of a gentle hillside. Pavo’s face creased in confusion. This was it, he realised: the site of Narco. But here or as far along the road as the fading light allowed him to see there was nothing – certainly no waystation. Had he miscounted the miles?

  He unslung his light pack and stretched, surveying the patch of flat ground and the trickling stream nearby before helping the Claudia lads to mark out the camp perimeter. When he heard bleating behind him, he turned to the hill overlooking the site. A few sheep were munching on the grass up there, and an old shepherd stood alongside them, resting his weight on a crook. A rare sight, Pavo thought, for almost every country-dweller had fled to the cities. A young man – the shepherd’s boy, he guessed – came hurrying over with several skins of water and a bag of bread loaves. The boy made his way to Bastianus.

  ‘My father saw you coming and had me draw this water and bring bread for you. It is a joy to see the imperial standards in the countryside. It has been so long.’

  ‘You live out here?’ Bastianus said, impressed.

  ‘We are the only ones in these hills not to have fled to the cities. I have been pleading with Father for some time to do so. My cousin lives in Bourdepa a few weeks’ trek to the west and he has a spare room we could have. But Father has lived here since he was a boy and he insists our shack is our home. He is adamant that the war will not drive us away. He nearly wept with joy when he saw your legionary banners approach,’ the lad smiled, then his face creased as he glanced back at his aged father on the hillside. ‘You will make these lands safe once more, won’t you?’ he aske
d.

  Pavo saw the manic look in Bastianus’ eye fade – just as it had when he had connected with Colias at that crucial moment. ‘We’ll try. By the gods, we’ll try.’

  The young man smiled and handed one of the skins to Bastianus.

  The Magister Peditum gratefully accepted it and tipped most of it over his gleaming bald head. The mad look returned. ‘But damn, that is good.’ he spluttered in thanks, then called up to the old shepherd on the hillside, raising the water skin like a cup of wine. ‘May your sheep grow fat and your cock stay hard!’

  Pavo saw the look of bemusement this conjured on the shepherd’s face, then wondered just how well the old fellow knew these lands. ‘Lived here since he was a boy?’ he muttered to himself. He climbed the hillside towards the shepherd. ‘Centurion Pavo,’ he introduced himself. ‘My commander, he is…’

  ‘Amusing,’ the old fellow finished for him.

  Pavo chuckled. ‘He’s certainly that.’

  ‘I once served this legion you know,’ the old fellow said, pointing a knotted finger at the Claudia’s ruby bull banner. ‘Still have my armour – one of my few possessions. I served under all manner of tribuni. Bright and dim, bold and craven, prim and perverted. Lots of perverts,’ he added with a knowing eye.

  ‘He’s not our tribunus,’ Pavo said. ‘Tribunus Gallus is our true leader.’ When he saw the old man look around as if to locate the tribunus, he added: ‘he’s… absent. Lost somewhere on the western road. My brother Dexion is with him. We pray they will return to us, but it has been some time and we’ve heard nothing,’ he said with a sad smile, then drew the folded paper from his purse.

  ‘What have you got there?’ the old man said.

  ‘A forlorn hope,’ Pavo sighed. ‘I’m looking for a place near here. A place called Narco.’

  ‘The old waystation?’ the old man said, eyeing the paper with interest. ‘Then you’ll be disappointed.’