Brutus turned, grinning at Pavo. He always wore that trademark evil grin at the training sessions. ‘Also notice that you’re exhausted, and now imagine I’m the next ugly whoreson in an enemy army of thousands, all queuing up to gut
you
. You simply don’t have the energy left to resist me. On your guard!’
Pavo’s limbs roared in protest, but Brutus was poised and ready — no backing out. He sighed, got into a combat stance, and waited.
The two men began to circle each other. Brutus’ eyes bulged, fixed on him, anvil jaw set like a carving. Pavo locked onto a slight dip of Brutus’ right shoulder — he was going to hit his left. Instinctively, Pavo dived, swinging his training sword into what he expected to be Brutus’ unprotected left flank. Instead, Brutus pulled from the faint, easily parrying the wooden blade; Pavo found himself flapping in midair, with both his arms wide out to his side, his neck and chest completely exposed. Fast as lightning, Brutus brought his sword down onto the centre of his chest with little more than a gentle tap.
‘Kill,’ he calmly called as Pavo slapped onto the dust. ‘Not a drop of sweat on my brow either, you’ll notice?’ Pavo again sat up in the dust. ‘As well as by-the-book legionary tactics, you’ve got to be a bit dirty, too, eh?’ Brutus grinned. ‘Spurius and his monkeys will have you for breakfast every single time you fight if you present yourself like that.’
Pavo shuffled up to lean on his elbows at the mention of Spurius. So the sadist centurion did know what was going on.
‘I get it. Any chance of some more tuition?’ He croaked.
‘I’ve got other runts to batter into shape,’ Brutus said, ‘but I’ll teach you what I know. I can’t give you twenty years of legionary warfare experience though. That you’ll have to gain for yourself.’
Pavo pushed himself to his feet up again.
‘Where do we begin?’
‘You should begin by calling it a day. You’ve learned a good first lesson — don’t be a hero — play safe and if you can, be a dirty bugger.’ Brutus scratched his head for a moment, his eyes darting around the sand. ‘You know what I mean…er…a boot in the stones is worth two on the feet…’
‘Yes, sir,’ Pavo nodded. His skin prickled with pride and at the same time he had to suppress a laugh at the centurion’s clumsy metaphor.
‘And get back to cleaning the bogs — I want a pristine setup for my evening turd!’
‘Yes, sir,’ Pavo sighed, his shoulders sagging.
Brutus nodded briskly before marching off. Pavo hesitated for a moment before calling after him.
‘Thank you, sir.’
Brutus did not turn or respond.
Pavo strolled from the training yard in the dying light, the slightest hint of support from his centurion and it felt like there was an army behind him. As he approached the latrines, he heard Festus choking — probably cleaning out a particularly fetid latrine. He smiled. Perhaps the whole world wasn’t against him after all.
Chapter 15
Gallus stared at the ornate cutlery. He felt all eyes on him in the cavernous palace hall as he eyed the array of utterly foreign implements flanking the mysterious shellfish in front of him; it seemed like the zenith of the Roman Empire waited with bated breath on his choice.
The Emperor Valens sat at the head of the table, dressed in a purple silk robe, his hair snow white and combed forward in the traditional style, dangling over austere, high arched brows and cobalt eyes. His seat was flanked rather ominously by two standing figures in white tunics, armed with spears and scabbards; the
candidati
, cream of the
palatini
and sworn to defend the emperor to the last. To the right, the aged Bishop Evagrius of Constantinople was seated beside the blubbery Senator Tarquitius. Facing the imperial and ecclesiastical lineup were, along with Gallus, the other representatives of the XI Claudia; Optio Felix, with his beard combed to two perfect points and Nerva, the jowel-faced, shaven headed tribunus, head of the legion. Unlike Gallus, Nerva had turned down the chance to wear full military decoration and instead he wore simple red robes and his usual intense expression on his face — one that always made Gallus a little nervous, given the tribunus’ firebrand reputation. One last figure made up the table; the balding, rotund and ageing dux of Moesia, Vergilius — already glassy eyed and ruddy cheeked from quaffing wine, the crimson blotches contrasting sharply with his sparse and unkempt white locks.
Gallus eyed the dux; upon stepping off the gangplank of the
Aquila
and onto the city docks, a messenger from Senator Tarquitius had brought the good news; the senate was willing to back the proposal to send an invasion force back to the Bosporus. Since the senator first had Vergilius’ ear over a year ago, the dux had been obsessed by the prospect of the XI Claudia going on the offensive. Cheap rhetoric, other officers had called it, but Vergilius’ eyes had sparkled as Tarquitius spoke of the military legends of ages past. The wine loving, palace dwelling dux was in charge of the limitanei legions all along the eastern Danubius, officially. And despite the dux’s ineptitude he also held a dual post as
Magister Militum per Illyricum
, incredibly making him master of the nearest sibling dux — the dux of Dacia Ripensis. All this made the incompetent sot Vergilius the one man linking the armies of the north with Emperor Valens himself. And all because he embraced the Arian strand of the Christian faith, Gallus mused — at least that was how Nerva had put it, but the thick gold cross hanging around the dux’s neck lent weight to the theory. Yes, Christianity was enshrouding the empire from the top down it seemed, while the rank and file stayed true to Mithras. But as the dux had spiralled upwards incoherently and unchecked, it was the men below him like Nerva, the tribuni who led the individual legions, who truly held the borders together.
Gallus glanced across to Evagrius, who was using the small, curved knife to crack the shell in front of him. Breathing an inner sigh of relief, he followed suit. The emperor didn’t seem too interested in his food, prodding at the shell without conviction. Then he looked up to address his guests.
‘So let’s not wait for the sun to set before we hear of it; what happened over there? I’ve heard rumours of warring Gothic factions and ruined forts. Those people just won’t settle, no matter how much we throw at them,’ he mused, eyeing a faded scar on his forearm.
Gallus perked up at once, sensing all eyes falling on the three of them, but he held his silence and looked to Tribunus Nerva. He had fought alongside Nerva many times since he had been a young man, mainly along the Danubius frontier, fending off Germanians, Goths, Suebians and Alamanni. Ten years junior to his commander, Gallus looked to him as a role model; unfailingly, Nerva had shown himself to be willing to throw himself into the heart of the battle and risk his life on the front line. After so long, Gallus could even overlook the older man’s failings, his stubbornness and blinkered approach to tactics.
As Nerva began to recount the reconnaissance report, Gallus looked across to the emperor. Valens too held an awesome record of military success behind him in his rise to the throne — a welcome buck in the trend of feckless emperors that had seen the empire crumble in the years before his ascension. Although the empire lay fractured between the East and the West, with men like Valens at the helm there was always hope.
Nerva’s tone changed and he slowed as he broached the point of the dark riders on the peninsula.
‘There is an issue with an unidentified people that Centurion Gallus encountered. Only small parties were ever sighted, but they were heavy cavalrymen, and there is the possibility that it is they, and not rival Goths, who are driving out the local populace.’
Gallus felt words push at his lips. But, knowing it was against all protocol to speak over his tribunus, especially in front of the dux and more so the emperor, he bit his tongue. He was jolted, though, as Senator Tarquitius spoke out sharply, cutting off Nerva mid-sentence.
‘This region has been in the wilderness and in the hands of barbarians for many years now. We have to expect a variety of unknown peoples in the region. What would be a concern would be if they were in a great number. Fortunately, the reconnaissance reports only small bands of these people,’ he paused just long enough to stir the inevitable question from other side of the table, but again continued just as the breath filled Gallus’ lungs, ‘but in the event of a larger force, the recently commissioned comitatenses legion will be patrolling into Scythia and beyond. The I Dacia will be a fine addition to the imperial army, and they could easily come to the aid of the XI Claudia if need be — eh, Vergilius?’ He nudged the dux, who simply looked up from his empty cup, eyes red in inebriation.
Gallus’ mind spun as he took in the politician’s words. A new field legion in the current climate? He glanced at Nerva, also wearing a wrinkled brow.
‘Comitatenses?’ Nerva gasped. ‘Forgive my bluntness, but they don’t come cheap. Thousands of men needing rigorous training in field combat, and then armed and armoured in the best equipment we have.’
‘All hail the I Dacia!’ Vergilius boomed, wine spilling from his raised cup.
The emperor shot a glare of contempt at the dux and then sighed. ‘Indeed, this will seem a rather violent steer away from recent policy. But,’ he added, looking up with a glimmer in his eyes, ‘we have new resources.’
Gallus eyed the emperor; Valens wore a steady expression that betrayed little of his thinking. That itself told Gallus a thousand things about the man.
‘Tell them, Vergilius,’ Tarquitius nudged the dux again.
Vergilius snapped his fingers and a slave darted over to fill his cup with unwatered wine. Then he spoke, his words were rounded and over pronounced with the effects of alcohol. ‘The Thervingi Goths to the north of the Danubius are split. Their two
would-be
kings, Fritigern and Athanaric,’ he pulled a wide-eyed and sardonic expression, ‘are tearing at each other. It’s a bloody power struggle — but all the better for us.’ The dux grinned, bringing a chorus of sycophantic laughter from the senator. ‘But it gets better; after years of battering our weary limitanei, Fritigern has seen the light,’ the dux raised a finger high as if addressing the forum, ‘and has agreed to become an ally of the empire. With his allegiance, we have access to thousands of highly skilled Gothic fighters, who can form the basis of this new legion, and many more.’
‘More
foederati?
With all due respect, my emperor — Gothic mercenaries cannot replace Romans,’ Nerva spoke firmly, addressing the emperor and hiding his anxiety well.
‘Seeded with the better Romans from our legions, they will become effective Roman troops,’ Vergilius interrupted. ‘The XI Claudia must have a few prime candidates for Roman role models?’
Gallus had to bite his lip once more while Nerva waited in vain for support from the rest of the table before replying. ‘We have some fine soldiers, indeed. But we can’t afford to lose any manpower. Our number is below eight hundred already — we can barely call ourselves a legion anymore. And what of the cost — the cold, hard gold required to pay for this new legion,’ he paused momentarily, ‘and our expedition?’
Vergilius spun his chalice and he gazed at the wine lapping the rim. ‘Ah yes, the reconquest Bosporus.’ The dux leant forward keenly. ‘Well, our holy bishop has solved one of those problems for us — the Holy See will fund both initiatives…entirely. A gift from God, if you will!’
Gallus’ eyes darted across the face of the bishop; his features lay settled in a peaceful smile under a pure white crop of hair, his expression in direct contrast to that of Nerva, whose features were pinched, lips wriggling in search of a reply.
Valens cut through the tension, his voice steady and unaffected by the wine. ‘Let us proceed with the reconquest of Bosporus. The empire needs to move outward and forward. With their specially commissioned fleet, I trust that the new I Dacia legion will be within sailing distance of the peninsula to support the XI Claudia, should they be needed?’
‘Indeed, they will!’ Vergilius cut in.
Tarquitius coughed, leaning across the face of the dux. ‘Permit me, Emperor. There was the…
other
element to the Gothic truce, too?’ Then he turned to Vergilius again.
‘Ah, yes,’ the dux slurred, ‘While Fritigern has chosen the path of a wise man; Athanaric remains relatively cold to us. But he knows the value of diplomacy — he has offered to supply an able strategist from his own court to lead this new legion.’ He nodded vigorously at the widening eyes of Nerva, ‘Wulfric may not be Roman, but he is highly capable from what I hear, and what’s more,’ he grinned wildly again, ‘this move guarantees us a truce with Athanaric’s Goths. A vital prerequisite to any expedition to the Bosporus given the temporary fragility that would leave our borders in.’ The dux’s words had become staccato and bullish as he finished, his face reddening and his eyes watering.
A gentle smile rippled across Bishop Evagrius’ face, and Senator Tarquitius raised his chalice.
‘To Tribunus Wulfric and his new legion, the I Dacia,’ he toasted, ‘and to the Bosporus mission!’
Emperor Valens remained expressionless.
Gallus glanced to Nerva; concern swirled on their faces.
Chapter 16
The town of Durostorum glowed like a beacon on the banks of the Danubius as the blackness of night set in. Legionary watchmen stood alone in the darkness atop the watchtowers stationed at every third of a mile along the riverbank — alone, but all too alert to the barbarian danger that lurked on the northern banks. There hadn’t been a raid in days now, and that meant trouble could not be far away. All the while, behind them, the town’s nightlife rumbled on in a heady cocktail of noise and colour.
At the centre of the town,
The Boar and the Hollybush
inn, sporting the traditional vine leaves and ale stirring pole emblem at its open doorway, was bursting at the seams. Built of hefty stone blocks and roofed in the local thatched style, the inn looked like it had stood on that spot in the town centre for a thousand years. A pair of
kithara
players plucked an upbeat ditty and a pair of
timpani
rattled out a jangling rhythm. Legionaries and townsfolk packed the hay scattered ground outside, ale being ferried out to them across a sea of hands to a chorus of cheers while a tang of roasting goat, stew and stale vomit permeated the air.