Legionary (18 page)

Drusus stared, speechless.

Horsa now raised both hands to his sides and flashed a grin at each of the towers. ‘Do we have permission to enter the empire?’

Gallus raised his sword, instantly stopping his men. The dark figure that had risen from the corn stood stock still, topknot whipping in the wind, spear glinting in the sunlight.

‘Ready yourselves, men!’

Then, like the teeth in a predator’s jaws, equally towering figures rose up all around them — hundreds of them, like a foreign crop in the corn. The moment of calm that followed stretched intolerably; they were waiting on the Romans to make a move, to expose their jugular. On foot, he thought; not the mounted elite. Still enough to butcher his twenty with ease.

‘Sir?’ Felix whispered beside him.

‘Athanaric’s men! Only bloody politics could see us have one of his men in charge of the new legion while he sends his grunts pouring over our border to raid as they please!’ He gritted his teeth together — this was the reality of it all. ‘Shield wall,’ he barked, his unflinching gaze on the central Goth.

His blood raged at the impotence of the situation, sickeningly similar to the Gothic ambush in Bosporus — forced into a shield wall again. But it was the only option — draw the buggers in and then hit them with ice-cold iron, for all it was worth. At least it would trim the Gothic numbers for the next detachment sent out to deal with them.

‘Form a shield wall,’ he barked, ‘no gaps or you’re dead!’ He pulled the new recruits who dithered into the wall tightly. As he finished, the zipping noise of an arrow was followed by the sucking, gurgling noise of a recruit suffocating and drowning in his own blood. The small square of men collapsed in a clatter of shields and swearing into a tight square. The sharp rattle of arrowhead against shield filled the small box they had made. Gallus listened, furious. ‘They’re playing with us, but they’ll come,’ he grumbled, hand flexing on his sword hilt. Gradually, the frequency of the hail slowed. Gallus’ ears pricked up at the sound of shuffling grass.

‘On my call,’ he growled, darting a concrete glare at each of the recruits. ‘I want you to push out of this square with as much force as you can muster. We thin their number then we can fall back into a square. This is all we’ve got. Make it count.’

Pavo, crouching beside his Centurion, fumbled to dig his feet into the earth. A hairy set of knuckles grappled his arm; the face of Zosimus filled his view, forcing Pavo’s arms through the handle of his shield, into a barging posture.

‘If you want to live, do the same,’ Zosimus spat to the nine other recruits. The recruits on either side of him scrambled into a similar poise.

Gallus rested the fingers of one hand on the earth. His call would see them live or die. A fraction too soon or too late…it didn’t bear thinking about.

The tremble in the earth stopped. Gallus’ eyes widened.

‘Break!’ He barked. Then, like a tormented lion bursting free from its cage, he pushed upwards and outwards, letting a hoarse roar of caged fury escape from his lungs.

Like an amphora shattering, the neatly formed testudo square burst apart into twenty iron fangs, sinking into the thick blanket of snarling Gothic infantry only paces from them.

For Pavo, time slowed as they broke from the square. The order was simple; kill or be killed. A low-pitched roar poured from Zosimus by his side and he felt the quivering limbs of Sura on the other side of him. Then, as they each sprang outward, he was alone. He thrust his shield arm forward, waiting on impact with the Gothic lines. Instead, he fell helplessly through them as two Goths parted in front of him then those behind converged on him as he fell to the ground. A blood-spattered blade swung right for his eyes.

Fire ran through his veins and he buckled himself under the swing — the flat of the blade clattering from his forehead. Ignoring the dull pain, he scrabbled backwards, rolling behind the second line of Goths. Their third line hared in on him as he stumbled to his feet — no escape.

I’m not going out alone,
he growled, swiping his sword round the hamstrings of the first Gothic line. Two men fell, snarling, clutching their legs, blood adding to the already grotesque carpet of red mud and gristle. His gut lurched at the sight — blood spilled by his own hand; never had he hurt another person so brutally. Then a scream whipped his senses back to the here and now. Pavo saw the legionaries trying to fall back into a square, but the Goths had swarmed amongst them. Legionary recruits roared out in their death cries as the Goths scythed them down. Pavo stumbled back to fight alongside them, but then the second Gothic line cut him off.

The warrior at the centre thrust his sword point towards Pavo’s gut, forcing him into a stumble, dropping his sword. The next Goth had swung his sword high and wide and was now bringing it scything at Pavo’s head. Flat-footed and defenceless, Pavo braced for the strike that would end it all — only the pain and darkness never came. He heard the popping noise of the Goth’s spinal cord being severed, and then a head, complete with stunned expression, rolled across the scarlet mire. He glanced up to see Centurion Gallus.

Gallus headbutted the second Goth, before turning to execute a saving parry on his own flank.

‘No time to sit around and think about it, soldier. Get your sword and watch my back.’

Pavo shook the fog from his mind, snatched his sword from the slimy red muck, and thrust himself back-to-back with his centurion. Looking up, the hopelessness of the situation hit him like a hammer — hundreds of Goths jostled around them, eager for blood.

‘Take him down, soldier!’ Gallus roared beside him, nodding to a bloody and crazed Goth who raced in on them, screaming, with a sword raised above his head.

Pavo felt the phalera weigh heavily around his neck. He gripped his spatha, then lurched forward and thrust it up through the gut of the warrior before the man could execute a swing. The warrior’s warm guts washed over his arms as he sunk down to the sodden earth, eyes bulging and then dimming, face sliding past Pavo’s as the body dropped to kneeling. Pavo planted a foot on the man’s shoulder and wrenched his sword free again, barely recognising the guttural war cry that rang out as his own.

Horsa sucked in the smoky tang that spiced the warm afternoon air. His horde of foederati remained at a halt as their leader examined the landscape with a frown. Then he locked on a feint plume staining the horizon.

The auxiliaries at the bridge had pleaded with the foederati to be swift to three different locations — all under heavy attack by rogue Gothic raiders. Horsa sent two detachments of five hundred riders to check on each of the reported disturbances to the west, while he and the remaining thousand had set off at haste to locate the site of a raid on a government villa. The blustering, dark column of smoke in the distance looked a likely candidate. He raised his spear, and pointed to the horizon.

‘We have activity nearby. Be ready to engage hostile forces. Move out, half gallop.’

The swarm of horsemen hurtled forward. The smooth grassy plains slipped beneath the thunder of the foederati as they charged towards the activity on the horizon, which slowly grew clearer and closer, to reveal what looked like a pool of choppy water stained red in the sunlight. As they drew closer, the sparkling water became blood-stained armour, and the crash of waves became bitter screaming and iron upon iron.

Horsa’s frown remained until he spotted a Roman plume billowing in the wind. He raised his spear to the swarm of raiders. ‘It’s Athanaric’s men — treacherous bastards who don’t deserve to call themselves our kin. Show no mercy, men. Ahead, full gallop!’ He roared, straightening his eyepatch before lowering himself in his saddle. The foederati thundered forward.

The biting crowd of Goths were oblivious to the foederati until they were but seconds from their backs. They smashed into the Gothic rear, spilling around the circle with their far superior numbers. The Goths, stunned and packed in so tightly they could barely raise their weapons, began to panic.

Horsa powered into the Gothic mass, skewering man after man, careful to retain his spear. The roars of terror dropped off to be replaced by the grunts, gurgles and panting of exhausted warriors. Horsa glanced up after every kill — the billowing plume still stood, working its way closer to him, though surrounded by fewer and fewer intercisa helmets. Horsa hoisted his spear back to strike at the next Goth. Then the blade of another rider’s sword came bursting through the front of his intended foe’s throat.

The battle was won.

Dripping crimson from head to foot, the plumed centurion grimaced, panting and shaking. By his side stood five legionaries, one bore a smaller plume than the leader, next to him stood a towering man, a short man, and next to them two smaller, younger looking men, all sodden in the carnage. All around them, a soup of intestines, bone and flesh bubbled.

Horsa stumped the handle of his spear into the ground and used it to dismount. He walked over to face the centurion.

‘
Ave
, good Roman. We come to serve the XI Claudia!’

The cobwebs of blackness drifted from his mind and Pavo winced. Every inch of his body screamed. He prised open an eye to survey the familiar ceiling of the barracks, and as a waft of chill air danced over him, he pulled up his hemp blanket and for once appreciated the warm comfort of the damp and scratchy straw mattress.

The weary journey back to the legion fort had been trance-like, with the remaining six Romans hitching a ride on the mounts of the foederati. Nobody spoke. Pavo had stumbled into the barracks and collapsed into a deep, thick sleep. That had been morning, and he had no idea how much time had passed. It was clearly night, going by the warm glow of torchlight from the courtyard. Shuffling his head around on the pillow, he could see the barracks were almost empty; just the shape of Sura in his bunk accompanied by steady, low snoring.

The voices in his mind squabbled with memories of the battle, and reluctantly, he allowed them to speak. He closed his eyes, squirming as the rhythmic scything of the bloody business still echoed in his ears. Every one of the recruits apart from him and Sura were now dead. His stomach tightened as he recalled them sitting in the mess hall that morning, laughing, relaxed and warm. Then he wondered if fate could have been kinder and had Spurius along on the mission, but he shook the dark thought from his head. Then he thought of Brutus.

He had not seen the remains of the centurion and his party, but the image of the red and white gore coating the field would never leave him. The man was a brutal sadist, no doubt, but absurdly he was one of the warmest people Pavo had ever known. Guilt traced his skin when he realised that he didn’t even know if Brutus had a wife or a family. All he knew of the man was that his father was a slave. Pavo touched the phalera and vowed never to forget the centurion.

He prised himself from his bed, feeling the bite of the night chill on his legs as they touched the flagstoned floor. Managing a hint of a smile as he sidled past the snoring Sura’s bunk, he threw on a heavy cloak and pushed open the barrack door. Outside was chilly; guards whistled as they strolled in the courtyard and the battlements, but otherwise all was still and silent. As he approached the mess hall, a muted rumble of banter escaped the cracks in the hefty timber door.

He pushed open the door to be hit with a welcome blast of hot air, then squinted at the deep orange glow pulsating from the hearth. All around the mess hall, recruits and legionaries were slumped in inebriation and muttered in muted tones. Men had been lost today and the usual raucous drunkenness was off the menu. The door swung shut, thumping, and all heads looked up at Pavo, their faces sombre and tired.

Pavo felt his throat turn to dust and his cheeks burn. Was he expected to say something? If so, what on earth could he say to comfort or inspire at a time like this? He gulped. Then Centurion Gallus stood up, opening a hand to the vacant stool at the table. He was dressed pristinely in full armour, the only one in the mess hall to wear more than a tunic and boots.

‘Join us in having a drink to remember the comrades we have left behind,’ Gallus spoke quietly, but it sounded stern, like an order. The scarred figure of Zosimus pushed the vacant stool out with a filth-encrusted leather boot.

Pavo moved to take the seat with a nod. Gallus eyed him sombrely as he did so.
Ice cold,
Pavo thought
, I’ve nearly died beside the man and he still looks at me like a leper
. His heart ached for poor Brutus.

The low murmur soon picked up once again and Pavo found a fresh jar of ale placed in front of him. He looked around the table as he gulped at the cool, bitter liquid. Any banter with the older, grumpier legionaries was hard at the best of times.
The ale will help with that
, he figured, taking another gulp.

Gallus rubbed his stomach and raised a hand to the kitchen staff.

‘Bring on the food, whenever you’re ready.’

Pavo suddenly realised how hungry he was. After the chaotic fight with Spurius the night before and the comfort-free night in the cells, he hadn’t eaten since early that morning, and only the rush of the battle had kept him on his feet through the day. Now, his mouth watered as the kitchen door opened and the meaty tang of roast pheasant coiled out and around the tables. In the few months that he had been with the XI Claudia, the staple diet of beans and stew had gone past the stage of monotony and into sheer awfulness — this meal was going to be a good one. He was jolted from his gastronomic trance when Centurion Gallus clipped the edge of his cup with a follis, bringing all heads up.

‘You all fought bravely today. Not just bravely, but effectively. We took out ten veterans and ten recruits this morning.’

Pavo’s senses keened and he fixed on the centurion’s words.