Legionary (12 page)

Inside, Pavo sat at a long table, gripping a goblet of half-watered wine. He was surrounded by a mob of rather seasoned legionaries from the XI Claudia; scarred, burnt, grizzled and proud of it. Having returned from their mission to the far-flung land of Bosporus that morning, they were keen to hit the town. To say they were rowdy would be somewhat of an understatement; every so often, the table rocked and jumped, tipping goblets and vases to the chorus of raucous laughter as the legionaries would regale their colleagues and the assortment of local women with tales of their sexual misadventures.

Pavo’s head swam as he drained the last of his cup. With each sup of wine, his nerves had dulled — almost to the point where he felt up to joining in with the banter. One more mouthful first, he reasoned giddily, tipping his cup back and letting his mind fill with the obscenities he could use to litter his sentence. As he tilted it back down, the curvaceous figure of the young redheaded barmaid again filled his view and at once, his mind emptied.
Beautiful
.

‘Roll your tongue in, Pavo,’ Avitus cackled. ‘Think you’d never seen a pair before!’

Pavo turned to the short, bald veteran who had introduced himself a short while ago. ‘As if! Worked my way around the best lookers back in Constantinople, I did!’

‘Course you did, lad. Course you did,’ He slapped a hand on Pavo’s shoulder.

As a slave, he would often wonder at the beautiful but sour-faced senatorial stock who would visit Tarquitius’ villa with their fathers, yet they would merely eye him in distaste like a scraping from the sole of their sandals. One ‘outside’ chore had been a bit special though; two years ago, at
The Eagle,
near the Hippodrome, he had just returned from a surveillance mission for the Greens. Having stalked a top man of the Blues as he drunkenly staggered back to his home, Pavo watched as he pulled the key from the tiny crevice by the shutters; that information had been like gold dust to the Greens. And the buxom lady, at least twice his age but with curves in all the right places, who was plonked onto his lap as a reward, seemed all too happy to congratulate him. For some time that evening, he had felt alive like never before, as they hungrily thrust against each other again and again. Afterwards though, it had been awkward — what was there to talk to her about? How could a slave hope to entertain a free woman? She had quickly bored of him and just as fast as his spirits had soared, they plummeted again as he trudged back to Tarquitius’ villa and the slave quarters.

This girl, though, she was different.

Emboldened by the wine, he sneaked a wink at her. To his absolute delight, she responded with a smile, amber locks tumbling across her milky white face. Then he noticed Sura standing behind her, making a thrusting gesture with a look of pained ecstasy on his face.

Enraged, Pavo wobbled to his feet, slapping a palm on the table to steady himself, when he felt a hand grip his forearm. The bull-like legionary to his left glared at him. His battered nose wrinkled in distaste as he looked Pavo up and down.

‘You with us?’ He grunted as he lifted his goblet to his lips with his club-like fingers, the smallest of which was missing a half above the knuckle.

Pavo allowed the initial wave of fear wash over him and then gulped the dregs of his wine to fuel a reply. ‘Yes, I’m with the Claudia,’ he said with a forced casualness.

The legionary raised an eyebrow, wrinkling his forehead. ‘Which century?’

‘Er…’ he started, sensing all eyes on him. No point in lying. ‘I’m one of the new lads…still deciding which century to put me in.’

The legionary stared at Pavo, his face stony, and the rabble around them fell silent. Suddenly the legionary’s face creased as he bellowed in laughter. ‘You’re a recruit! You’re not with the Claudia yet, lad!’ He roared.

Pavo’s skin burned and he shot a glance to the barmaid — she hadn’t heard, he noted with relief. Then he glared back at the gnarled tank sitting next to him, feeling his veins run rich with wine now. ‘I’m as good a fighter as any of you here, and we’ll be recruited into the centuries in the next few weeks!’

The legionary pointed the stump of his little finger at Pavo. ‘This is the sign of a legionary; someone who has seen some action, and left a bit of himself on the battlefield to prove it. You’re a raw recruit, no good to anyone yet. Eh, Avitus?’ He retorted with a half-smile, winking to the smaller legionary across the table.

‘Leave it out, Zosimus. I bet he could kick your arse!’

Pavo knew he was being toyed with. He decided to play the game.

‘Is being an ugly whoreson also necessary to be a legionary?’ He grinned, eager to keep the banter flowing. The huge legionary’s face fell stony — and then grew scarlet. It was possible he had gone a little too far.

‘Right, you little bugger, outside now!’ He slurred at Pavo, shooting to his feet. The gathered troops all let out a roar of drunken approval that broke down into a gaggle of laughter.

‘Come on! Everyone outside to see Zosimus getting his arse whipped by a recruit!’

With a collective whoop, Pavo found himself being lifted from his feet and swept outside by the exodus of legionaries.

Sura had been returning from the bar with two fresh goblets of wine. He had made a witty gesture behind the woman Pavo had been eyeing all night — all in good faith, he thought — and then all Hades had erupted. He watched, stunned, as Pavo was washed outside by the wave of chanting legionaries, and closed his eyes.

‘Oh bugger!’ He murmured.

‘Is that your friend?’ A soft voice asked. It was the fiery vixen.

‘Aye — always getting himself into bother,’ Sura sighed, brushing his hair back from his eyes subconsciously.

‘There are an awful lot of men angry with him,’ she mused.

‘Aye, he needs my experienced hand to guide him through life,’ Sura chuckled, arching his brow and puffing out his chest. ‘So what’s your name?’

She looked cross. ‘It’s Felicia. And yours?’

‘Decimus Lunius Sura, unofficial king of…’ he began uncertainly.

‘Well,
Sura,
’ she cut in, ‘aren’t you going to help your friend?’ She was definitely cross.

‘Well, I…’ he began.

‘There’s a horse out the back,’ she cut him short again, pointing to the open shutter behind the bar. ‘Bring it back before dawn.’ With that, she planted her lips on his. After a lingering moment, she leant back. ‘Off you go now.’

Sura’s eyes grew as she cut through the crowd to the bar. After a moment, he shook his head clear and he stumbled back from the crowd to make for the black of night via the shutter. As he climbed out, he looked back, still bemused.

Felicia wore a mischievous grin.

Pavo swayed on his feet, nearly as drunk as his foe, who could barely hold his head up. The cool of the night air swirled around them, numbing Pavo further.

‘I’m going to show you…’ Zosimus murmured into his chest, waving a finger wildly in the air.

Pavo surveyed the situation as well as his cloudy head would allow him; surrounded by a circle of massive legionaries, grinning in drunken anticipation — a sea of teeth and sparkling eyes. This wasn’t the time to display the techniques that Brutus had been teaching him, they would have to wait. If he were to back down, he would look like a fool in front of this circle of what he hoped would be his future colleagues. Only a swift, telling blow would do. The jaw, neck, and stomach presented themselves as likely places that would down the inebriated figure of the legionary. Then the failsafe popped into Pavo’s head from the afternoon with Brutus. He took one step forward, and then swung his right foot with all his strength and coordination straight into Zosimus’ groin.

A cushioned thud sounded and the crowd of legionaries let out a chorus of ‘oooh’s’ and then fell silent. Zosimus simply let out a whimper before crumpling to the ground.

Pavo stood back. How many times had that little manoeuvre saved him, he marvelled.

‘There, I showed him; I am worthy of the Claudia!’ He roared confidently, jabbing a thumb into his chest. The circle of legionaries turned to him, grinning like sharks. Pavo gulped.

‘All moves are fair play at
The Boar
, surely?’ He pleaded.

‘Yep,’ one of the circle grunted, ‘and we’re about to show you a few more.’

‘Get him!’ One of them roared, and at once, they sprang towards him. Pavo ducked under the myriad shovel hands that shot out to grab him. A smash of legionary heads from above triggered a chorus of enraged roars.

Then a voice called out. ‘Pavo! Grab my hand!’

Pavo glanced through the forest of legs, his head swimming; Sura pelted towards him on horseback, hanging from the saddle, holding out an arm.

He rolled between the legs, throwing himself directly in front of the horse’s hooves. ‘Whoa!’ he cried, skidding back from being trampled and grasping the lifeline of Sura’s arm. His shoulder groaned in protest as he was whipped from the ground and crunched onto the tough leather saddle.

‘
Mithras!
Talk about a taste of my own medicine,’ Pavo grumbled as a sickening pain spread from his groin.

Sura spurred the mount into a bolt and the legionary rabble slipped into the darkness behind them with a chorus of curses. ‘Next time I think you should only take on a century, rather than an entire legion of veterans, single-handedly,’ Sura slurred as they made for the legion fort.

Pavo let out a chuckle, feeling suddenly invincible.

‘Oh, and you’ve got Felicia to thank for this one!’

Pavo felt a wave of jealousy burn his neck. ‘The barmaid?’

‘Aye, we were chatting for ages. Nice girl…good kisser.’

‘Just shut up and ride!’

Gallus stood in front of an ornate, polished bronze mirror. He fastened his cuirass into place and then took to polishing the dulled sections of the breast moulding. It was very different from his day-to-day battered and rusting mail vest, but anything that wasn’t pristine in the Imperial Palace would mark him out as a wretch from the border legions. He saw the metal shine up at last and gave a sigh of semi-contentment, his eyes setting on his reflection — his gaunt features looked even colder than he had remembered and the flecks of grey by his temples seemed to have multiplied into definite streaks. How long since that face had bore a warm smile.
Olivia
. He rubbed his eyes. He pushed the memory back.

He turned his thoughts to the previous evening. The feasting had ended before sundown after a seventh course of stewed dates and yoghurt, but the chatter had rolled on late into the evening as they had sampled more and more of the delicious range of vintage wines from the imperial cellar. He wasn’t a big alcohol drinker, but had been wary of causing offence refusing the slave-girls who constantly buzzed around the table and he had soon come to appreciate the potency of the stuff.

Valens, the man behind the purple cloak, had proven to be a surprisingly warm character once the business of war and politics had been addressed. The bishop, of course, maintained a holy sobriety. First impressions of this man suggested that he might be a harmless character, but his eyes had a glint of impeccable sharpness in them that Gallus could not quite gauge as being cunning or simply alertness. The presence of Tarquitius at the table had caused the majority of the alcohol abuse. His constant calls to sample more of the fine wine had always been answered, though Gallus had noted with a keen interest that the man himself took to diluting his portions with up to five parts water while the dux by his side took his wine neat. Tarquitius persisted in moving the subject of conversation back to the military situation along the Danubius, and it was clear that agendas were being pressed more forcibly as the night wore on. Whether it concerned the XI Claudia’s fortunes crossed his mind a few times, but in the end, the wine carried his thoughts away.

Satisfied that he was impeccably polished, Gallus pulled at the chamber door and stepped into the towering hallway. This place was designed to make a man feel smaller than a mouse, and it worked. As usual though, he straightened his back and held his head high, marching confidently past the occasional sneering candidati. Then he came to an open
caldarium
, where the playthings of the emperor and his retinue lay strewn; cups, clothes and shoes scattered everywhere. Then, as he passed the pool, a group of giggling girls sank into the water to hide their naked breasts from him. Gallus afforded only a batted eyelid before moving on — years of celibacy had taught him precise self-control. To kiss Olivia’s sweet neck one more time he would forgo all other pleasures of the flesh. He stepped over the mixture of goblets and robes punctuating the floor, while a single unfortunate slave darted around in a vain attempt trying to reinstate perfection before Valens could lay eyes on the mess.

Gallus moved on past a particularly stern looking candidati, through to the garden terrace. Valens leaned on the balcony overlooking the city, his purple robe billowing gently in the spring breeze as he surveyed his capital through the heat haze. Beside him, a pair of slaves waited patiently with a vase of what looked like iced water and fruit pieces. There was no sign of Nerva, Tarquitius or the bishop.

‘Come and see this, Centurion,’ Valens called.

Gallus took a deep breath, shook the fog of his hangover from his mind and walked from the cool interior of the palace and out into the baking morning sun to join the emperor at the edge of the balcony. The air was sharp with the salty tang of the waters of the
Propontus
and the docks below fizzed with activity. All excitement centred on a fleet of some fifty newly constructed triremes lined up against the harbour wall, boarding planks linking them to the dockside. Slaves scurried back and forth across them laden with cargo like a train of ants. Near the first ship — a grand looking thing, painted with an emerald boar emblem — stood a stocky, red-haired figure, in full gleaming decorative armour.
Wulfric
, Gallus assumed.