Legionary (15 page)

‘That’s no match for
this!
’ Festus crowed, sliding a spatha slowly from his scabbard, the blade catching the starlight just long enough to illuminate his stump-toothed sneer. ‘Time to finish the job from the other day.’

A shuddering thwack rang out, followed by whining and then an ungainly thump, but there was no pain. Pavo started; Sura stood where Festus had been, swaying, eyes spinning from the fall, holding a heavy strip of tree-root in his hands; Festus was a dark lump on the ground, unconscious and snoring like a boar. Spurius’ eyes widened and he stepped back.

‘Not so keen on two against one, eh?’ Pavo spat. Then he looked to Sura with a grin, only to see his friend’s eyes roll in their sockets before he, too toppled into the dirt.

Spurius grinned back. ‘That was handy, eh?’

His heart racing, Pavo paced to the side as Spurius drove them to circle each other.

Spurius shimmied and Pavo’s knees almost buckled; the darkness, the raw terror here was so far removed from his sessions with Brutus.

'Not so clever in a real fight, are you?' Spurius hissed, reading his mind.

'You try getting closer to me and you'll find out.'

Spurius snorted derisively, and then pulled a feint and another shimmy, before suddenly he sprung, barging Pavo to the ground, then began raining blows.

Damn it!
He cursed as his back thudded into the pit floor.
All that training…for this!
Pavo blocked out the dull thudding — only pain so far, nothing lethal. This fight could still be won. He felt his arms being brushed away as he tried to shield himself, and kicked out, pushing Spurius back. But like a hunting lion, the bulky soldier sprung straight back on top of him, fists raised.

'Why don't you just finish it?' Pavo croaked.

Spurius grappled at his tunic collar, wrenching him from the dirt and right up to his face.

'Why don't you just…just
disappear
?' He spat. With a tortured howl he cast Pavo back and slid to the ground against the opposite pit wall.

Pavo sat up, his ears ringing and his face numb, and stared at his enemy; Spurius ran his fingers across his cropped scalp, kicking his heels into the mud.

'What in Hades is going on with you?'

'Just bugger off, for your own sake,' Spurius grumbled, his face buried in his chest.

Pavo’s mind spun. He eyed the tree root at the far wall — an easy escape. Then he glanced to Sura — still out cold, and then to Spurius and Festus. He couldn't leave Sura here, but couldn't get him out alone.

'Spurius, I don't care what your problem is anymore. I just want to make sure Sura here is okay.'

Spurius chuckled dryly.

'Help me get him out of this pit and I'll help you with Festus.'

Spurius frowned with a look of disbelief. 'D’you think I care if that cretin lives or dies?'

Pavo followed Spurius’ glare — burning into the snoring Festus.

'I don't get it, okay? Will you just help me with Sura?' With that, he scrambled up the dirt wall. Slapping onto the earth above, he afforded a few sharp breaths before prising himself to his feet. He turned to look back down into the hole and drew a breath to try to coax Spurius once more. But something rammed into his back and instantly he was face down in the ground again. A set of hands wrenched his arms back.

‘What in the name of Mithras is happening here?’ A voice raged. Pavo twisted his neck round to see a mounted centurion glaring down at them in utter disdain, his wolf-like features illuminated in the moonlight.

‘I’ve got him, sir!’ The legionary on his back roared.

The sun peeked over the horizon, coaxed by Zosimus’ buccina cry. He pulled the instrument from his lips and filled his emptied lungs —
that’ll wake ‘em
, he chuckled to himself. He rested on his shield, glad the urge to sleep had finally left him. The guard from last night had been thrown into jail for letting a group of recruits slip out of the fort during the night. Zosimus chuckled again as he reminisced on his own distant days as a troublesome recruit, and then jumped to attention at the echo of a rhythmic march coming from the east gate. Centurion Gallus strode beside Tribunus Nerva towards the officer’s quarters, both men wearing a hardened stare.

‘I can’t believe we’re actually late — pray to Mithras Wulfric is still comatose somewhere.’ Nerva cocked an eyebrow to his primus pilus as he placed a hand on the door. ‘Ready for this?’

‘How do we play it, sir?’ Gallus spoke quietly.

‘Keep our cool. We need to understand where he’s coming from,’ Nerva whispered, then added with a tilt of the eyebrows, ‘even if what he really needs is a good chinning.’

Gallus grinned as the door strained on its hinges, and then his face fell, stunned; sitting around the scarred oak table in the centre of the meeting hall, Wulfric and his men looked fresh and well into their discussions. A parchment map was pinned open with a goblet and a dagger, and a variety of carved wooden figures lay dotted across the etched landscape.

‘Good morning,’ Wulfric offered, not bothering to turn and face them.

Gallus glanced to his tribunus; Nerva bit back a frustrated sigh before mounting a cool smile.

‘Good morning, Tribunus Wulfric. I’m glad you could join us,’ he replied swiftly, cutting across the room and breaking into the huddle, discarding all etiquette. Gallus followed suit, watching the Goth’s eyes as Nerva bulldozed into the matter.

‘So you’re considering your options for recruitment, yes?’ Nerva snapped.

Wulfric’s eyes narrowed and he moved his lips to speak.

‘Okay,’ Nerva cut in, ‘you’ll be hard pressed to get a full complement of officers from Moesia alone,’ he sighed, lifting the two figurines positioned over the large dot of ink marking Durostorum. ‘If you want a strong legion, and I presume you do,’ Nerva waited just long enough for Wulfric’s face to flush in fury, ‘then you’ve got a three to four month sortie up and down the river. There are plenty of battle-ready officers along the frontier. The key is not to strip any one section too heavily. Not with the threat of invasion hanging at every ford and bridge these days. Where you recruit, you must also provision.’

Gallus swallowed the grin trying to envelop his features. Nerva could cut the brash figure in the middle of a pack of lions.

‘Your opinion is noted, Tribunus,’ Wulfric seethed. ‘But we have a specific brief, and time is of the essence if we are to achieve it. Battle-readiness inside two weeks.’

‘Preposterous,’ Nerva swiped an arm through the air. ‘Not worth the recruitment fees.’

‘I have my orders,’ Wulfric spoke slowly. ‘Directly from your emperor.’

Nerva fell silent, stumped. ‘
Our
emperor, surely?’

‘Of course,’ Wulfric nodded, a grin crossing his face as his colour lightened to normal. ‘Shall we get down to business?’ Wulfric suggested, waving his open palm over an empty stool.

Nerva sat, and then eyed the seven figures surrounding him. Then he looked to Gallus with the slightest of nods.

‘Shall we leave our officers to their business?’ Gallus offered, eyeing Wulfric’s guards.

Wulfric looked him up and down with vague interest. The air grew thick again before Wulfric flicked his index finger.

‘Very well, one to one it is.’

Gallus caught the glint of relief in Nerva’s eyes and then turned back to Wulfric’s men. ‘If you care to follow me, I’ll take you on a tour of the fort and our morning training session.’ With a series of grunts, the five guardsmen scraped their stools back, stood and filtered towards the doorway.

‘While you’re out there,’ Wulfric cut in, ‘mark the names of the best soldiers you see. We’ll be taking them.’

Pavo’s vivid dreams were ripped from him, and stark reality came flooding back with a dull clanging of iron. He lurched bolt upright, pawing the sleep from his eyes.

‘What in Hades?’ he croaked as the iron clattering grew louder and faster. At the same time, his body provided him with a rippling report of the previous evening’s injuries.

‘Awake yet, dung-breath?’

Pavo’s heart sank as he recognised the dank stench of the fort prison. Even worse, Spurius lay in the adjacent cell, glaring, rattling his knuckles along the bars. He slunk back onto the cold and crumbling cell wall, squinting through swollen eyes at the parchment-thin slots near the ceiling. The sliver of light they allowed in sent a fiery pain through his head and he shuffled on the damp and hard hay-mattress to escape the glare.

‘You shouldn’t have made things so complicated last night,’ Spurius sighed.

‘Aye, sorry for that,’ Pavo spun around, his nausea rising into rage, ‘should’ve just let you kill me, eh?’

‘Well you’re alive, so stop moaning.’

Pavo shook his head in disbelief and then prised himself from the disgusting bed, then shuffled over to the iron barred cell gate. He pressed his face against the bars — providing a cool relief to the cuts and bruises to his face. Outside he could see only a corridor stretching off to the left.

‘You keen to get out? If I were you, I’d be praying they don’t come for us for as long as possible.’ Spurius sucked air through his teeth. ‘Forty lashes if we’re lucky.’

‘Why are you even talking? Animals don’t talk,’ Pavo threw back over his shoulder. Then his blood cooled — the rest of the cells were empty. ‘Where’s Sura?’ He croaked.

‘Relax, he’s in the hospital. Just pray he’s not in the bunk next to Festus,’ Spurius mused in semi-interest.

Pavo slumped down on the bunk again. From the shadows, he afforded a look at his enemy; Spurius’ naturally craggy features were embellished with a rash of scratches and bruises, his mouth was twisted in an agitated wrinkle, but his eyes were most interesting — under the permanently creased brow they gazed in melancholy at some bronze figurine he wore on a chain around his neck. Pavo looked at the legionary phalera hanging round his own neck and wondered what story Spurius’ trinket held.

‘So what’s this all about, Spurius?’ He ventured.

‘Eh?’ Spurius grunted, his face pinching into the more familiar aggressive gurn.

‘One minute you’re spitting venom at me, threatening to kill me — the minute you get the chance you decide to let me go? That’s twice now.’

The air grew thick as Spurius simply stared back at him in silence, before he finally replied. ‘It’s a long story…you wouldn’t be interested.’

‘Try me,’ he said.

Spurius let out a long, tired sigh and his expression became saturnine. Just as he took a deep breath to speak, the outer jail doors creaked open — both of them shot up to the cell doors.

A deep babble of voices echoed along the corridor. Pavo strained to see the source of the commotion. Five figures in black armour stood around a centurion — it was the one from last night, his stony, sunken, wolfen features unmistakable. Pavo’s neck burned in embarrassment — what could he possibly say to excuse the whole sorry scenario?

As the party strolled past the empty cells, their voices became clearer and Pavo recognised the jagged tongue — Gothic. They slowly worked their way down to Spurius’ cell.

Pavo eyed the men; all of them towering near the jail ceiling, they wore the beards and flowing fair hair of the northern tribesmen. Their armour was Roman, but embellished with painted symbols and dripping with trinkets. The largest of them eyed Spurius and Pavo, before shaking his head.

‘Deserters? Cowards in other words. Not for us,’ he spoke in broken Greek, ‘you got any murderers?’ He grinned as his colleagues roared at this.

Pavo felt his skin burn — deserters? His tongue strained against the urge to blurt out the story — now was not the time.

The centurion stepped forward. Pavo nervously eyed his long and pointed features, his firm jaw and the piercing ice-blue eyes spoke of determination and going by the bounty of phalerae hanging from his breastplate, he was pretty important. The centurion grimaced. ‘Well I don’t know what your criteria are, but the jailhouse and the hospital are hardly going to provide fit and worthy officer material. You are free to request a drill inspection of any men of the Claudia, but I suggest we move on to the barracks now. The active legionaries will be preparing for training — that’s where you will source the men for your legion.’

The five Goths nodded grudgingly, and then turned to walk back down the corridor. The centurion followed them with a sigh.

‘What’s happening?’ Pavo ventured, pressing his face against the bars of the door.

The centurion pivoted, his glare burning into Pavo.

‘If a soldier addressed his primus pilus in such a manner, I’d have him lashed. From a deserter though, I’m not surprised.’ Then the centurion’s face wrinkled in a sneer as he eyed Pavo’s gangly form. ‘Or are you some kind of starved beggar we picked up in the countryside?’

Pavo’s eyes widened. He backed up from the bars, his throat dried up and he shook his head.

‘I’m sorry, I…I’m a new recruit, sir. Numerius Vitellius Pavo.’

‘Recruits will be the death of this army,’ he grumbled. ‘I know all about you. Missed my evening meal because of the ruckus you caused last night. So do yourself a favour; it’s Centurion Gallus — don’t forget it, because I’ll have my eye on you. Troublemakers don’t last long in my ranks. Lucky for you I’ve got bigger problems to deal with right now.’

As the centurion turned to stalk down the corridor, Pavo slumped back onto the bunk with a groan. Centurion Gallus; he’d heard the name countless times in the mess hall, the inn and in the training yard. A man with a heart of stone, they said. Ruthless, they said. A man they would follow without question, despite the odds, they said.

A man who despised him.

‘Not the brightest introduction you could’ve made, Pavo,’ Spurius mused.

Centurions Gallus and Brutus flanked Tribunus Nerva at the side of the training court as the trio stonily observed the Gothic examination of the legion. Flies swarmed in the mid-morning heat. Brutus spat one from his lips.