Legionary (13 page)

‘You’re a man with the heart of a soldier…a true Roman,’ Valens enthused, cupping an arm around Gallus’ shoulder. ‘This is Rome as it used to be, and can be again. The transport fleet for the new I Dacia legion.’ Valens chirped, brushing his palm across the scene below.

‘The new legion? It’s been mustered already?’ Gallus asked.

‘Well, just the command structure…and the supporting navy, of course. The fleet is being prepared to move up to the Danubius delta, and will select recruits for the new legion along the way.’ He shook Gallus’ shoulder firmly. ‘Only a core will be sourced from your legion, so don’t worry. And I’ll see that your fort is supplied with plenty of new recruits.’

Gallus suppressed the meld of protests that swam into his mind; stripping the borders to create one floating legion? How many places could this one legion protect at once? He bit his lip and searched for a different tack. Then he noticed something under the veneer of Valens’ enthusiasm. The emperor had shrewdness in his eyes, almost as if he wanted to coax a reaction.

‘And what of these Goths who are to be supplied by Fritigern?’ Gallus played along.

Valens’ lips curled a little at the edges, and his eyes keened, locked on Gallus’ face. ‘Then the fleet will move up the Danubius to pick up Fritigern’s men. Once they are kitted out, we are ready to deploy the legion. Quick responses to any border attacks, Centurion,’ he purred, ‘that’s the key to keeping the rest of the northern tribes back — send the fear right through them with swift, decisive action!’

Gallus nodded, but he could sense now that Valens was definitely testing him, and the rhetoric was deliberately cheap.

‘And Wulfric?’ Gallus nodded to the armoured figure at the dockside. One of Athanaric’s best men, standing like a peacock in the heart of the empire.

‘That’s our man,’ Valens nodded, his face dropping. ‘By all means I’d rather have your tribunus in there to lead them; any Roman would get my vote, but politics wield the heaviest sword. Damn it if that’s not always the case.’ The emperor’s tone was laced with a trace of venom. ‘An emperor can no longer rule as one.’

Gallus felt his mouth run dry. Fritigern’s men filling the Roman ranks made him uneasy, but this one man of Athanaric’s filled his heart with trepidation. ‘Do you trust the Goths?’

Valens turned to him; his face had fallen stony. ‘Do you?’

Gallus searched Valens’ cobalt eyes; did the emperor share his doubts? ‘I tend to mistrust until trust is earned, my emperor.’

Valens’ face curled into a sardonic smile. ‘A wise philosophy, Centurion. And one I fear I should follow.’

Gallus shifted uncomfortably.

Valens turned back to the docks, but his eyes stared a thousand yards. ‘Well, Centurion Gallus, I have a lot of thinking to do. But the question is valid; do we trust them?’

Gallus shuffled in discomfort as the question hung unanswered.

Finally, Valens spoke. ‘We have to, Centurion, we have to.’

Brutus leapt backwards under the swipe of the wooden sword and then dropped to his left side to steady his fall. Like a locust, Pavo hopped forward and rested his sword in Brutus’ ribs.

‘Surrender?’ Pavo chirped. Now this was being alive!

A gust of afternoon air coated them both in a red dust and Brutus glared up at him, his face boiling in a scarlet fury. Pavo gulped at the bloodshot eyes of the centurion, before the craggy face broke down into a heaving cackle.

‘You nippy little bugger! I knew I could teach you a trick or two. Here, give me a hand up,’ he grunted, offering his tree trunk forearm. Pavo reached out — and felt Brutus’ sword in his chest before he even knew he had made a mistake.

Brutus pulled him in so the two were face to face. ‘The men you will fight will be dirty buggers; they’ll try every trick in the book to open you up and spill your guts.’ Brutus pulled him closer. ‘So heed my words, don’t ever be nice to anyone with a sword in their hand. Not even me.’ With that, Brutus released his grip.

Pavo closed his eyes and shook his head. ‘You’re right. I’d be skewered by the likes of Spurius by now.’

‘That arrogant little turd? You know enough to pummel the shit out of him now. He’s a decent lad who’s got problems, but he needs to be taught a lesson, I reckon. The trick for you is to get him on his own, without that grunt of his trailing him around — that Festus one is pure animal, stone cold — slice your throat for a follis.’

Pavo shot a glance down at his own body — still gangly despite the training. Brutus shook his head.

‘Forget all the muscle bollocks; he’s had the same training as you. The only edge he ever had on you was sheer bloody arrogance and the ability to fight dirty. And that’s what I’m telling you that you have to do. Kick him in the balls and make him thank you for it before he even thinks about attacking you.’

Pavo laughed. ‘Actually, I’ve had a bit of practice at that recently.’

‘I heard about you lowering Zosimus’ chances of having children. Top soldier he is, and I’d doubt my chances against him on the battlefield, but the man’s a lumbering fool whenever he visits
The Boar
. He got what was coming to him.’

‘So he isn’t out to find me and break my neck then?’ Pavo asked.

‘He doesn’t even remember who kicked him in the nuts! All of his friends do, but they won’t tell him,’ Brutus waved his hand dismissively. ‘They find it hilarious!’

‘I might venture back to the inn sometime soon then,’ Pavo mused.

‘Why are you so keen to go back to that hovel anyway? It’s got to be the wine or…a woman?’ Brutus jibed.

Pavo’s eyes widened as he tried to think of a way out of the subject, when out of nowhere a shout rang round the yard.

‘He’s after the one with the big tits!’

Brutus and Pavo looked up. Sura, swinging his sword, swaggered towards them, chuffed with his timely entrance.

‘The barmaid? Ah, a fine choice, well known to the Claudia,’ Brutus mused.

‘And to me,’ Sura added casually.

Pavo felt a burning in his chest. He made to stand up and retort, when the centurion slung his training sword round to point at him.

‘Two against one it is!’ Brutus roared and then winked at Sura, who reached into his scabbard with a grin.

Pavo rolled his eyes and then flicked to battle mode. He kept his eye on Sura who threw his sword from hand to hand, while tracking Brutus with darting glances as the centurion darted around behind him.

‘See that patch of horse shit over there, Sura?’ Pavo quipped. ‘You’ll be wearing it!’

Sura let out an exaggerated hoot of laughter. ‘Nah, because you’ll be eating it.’

‘Listen to the gladiators, eh?’ Brutus chuckled. ‘Couple of sheep-shaggers!’

Pavo grinned as he realised they were both off guard. He let his legs buckle under him, and pivoted on the spot, bringing his wooden sword hacking into the hamstrings of Brutus. Pavo’s sword spun from his hand, tumbling across the yard behind Sura, while the centurion unleashed a howl of pain and toppled to the sand, hugging his legs.

‘Twice in a day? You’re on latrines for life, lad!’ he cursed through gritted teeth.

‘Ha!’ Pavo chirped. Then he turned to Sura; his friend stood, stunned.

Pavo glanced at his empty hands and then at Sura — his friend was in no mood for mercy. He gulped back his doubts and stalked forward.

‘All right,’ Sura chuckled, tossing his sword from hand to hand. ‘Come on then, I’ll try and not leave you with too many bruises — might need you fit to come and collect me after I spend the night humping Felicia.’

Pavo skipped and slowed towards his friend, until they were almost within touching distance. Sura ducked to the right, going for the kill on Pavo’s left. Pavo ducked outside of the would-be blow. As the wooden blade scraped across his skin, he cupped his hands together and brought them crashing down on top of Sura’s outstretched arm. The sword toppled from his hand, and Sura stumbled to the ground with a howl and then a flurry of swearing.

‘Another kill.’ He calmly stated, inspecting his fingernails.

‘What in Hades have you been teaching him, Brutus?’ Sura moaned.

‘
Brutus?
’ The decked centurion roared. ‘It’s
sir
, you little runt!’

‘Sorry, sir,’ Sura added sheepishly. ‘Fancy teaching me some of that,’ he coughed, standing up. ‘I much preferred it when he fought like a pregnant donkey.’

The docks of Durostorum swelled with bodies as the impressive I Dacia fleet dropped anchor. Having sailed up the western coast of the Pontus Euxinus, they had drifted inland via the Danubius delta that morning. The market traders flocked from their usual spots deeper in the city at the promise of heavy legionary purses.

A hot and very bothered Centurion Brutus barged his way through the mob towards the magnificent flagship’s berth — the crew swarming like ants to dock the vessel. The heckling of market traders rattled in his eardrums as he navigated the throng in the claustrophobia of the intense midday heat.

At last, he burst into precious space and a cool breeze bathed his glistening skin. Brutus marvelled at the trireme; freshly hewn and treated timber; fresh linen sails emblazoned with an emerald boar; gleaming ballistae perched on the decks like coiled snakes and a small wooden archer platform hung about one-third way up the main mast. Most striking was the prow, with a massive, sharpened-iron ramming prong, sparkling in the sunlight. Brutus had only heard of this new mobile army of comitatenses via Nerva’s memorandum that had arrived just this morning from Constantinople. He hadn’t thought too much about it, but this fleet looked very capable — someone had poured plenty of gold into the initiative. Surely not the emperor though, he reckoned. Valens had only weeks ago denied the XI Claudia a troop transfer request for fifty experienced fighters to replenish their scant number.

Suddenly, the flagship’s gangplank smashed onto the dock. The bustle died, all heads turning to the noise. Brutus craned his neck to see what was happening; six towering legionaries filed from the vessel and barged back the majority of the crowd before fanning out at the lip of the dock. They wore beards and
stigmas
— not of Roman stock for sure, but not an uncommon thing in the army these days, he mused. The soldiers looked around expectantly.

‘Oh bugger, this is my cue!’ He hissed under his breath. He spun round, feverishly trying to locate the dock watchtower. Screening the sun from his eyes, he finally found it, and at once started gesticulating to the two buccina-wielding troopers, who were obviously more interested in the events on the dockside.

‘Pay attention you lazy…’ Brutus growled. He glanced around him, spotted a beaten staff resting against the side of a market stall and hefted it like a javelin.

‘Imperial business — sorry,’ he muttered at the gawping stallholder. He loosed the staff through the air and watched it sail up and straight into the chest of one of the dozing watchmen. With a high-pitched yelp, the watchman and his partner were at once alert and scouring the crowd with venomous eyes, until they found the boiling glare of Brutus. Their faces turned pale and they fumbled their instruments to their mouths.

The buccinas blared as a group of three figures emerged from the deck of the ship. Two more tree-like legionaries flanked the equally imposing officer in the centre. Tribunus Wulfric, Brutus guessed. The stocky tribunus cut a distinguished figure in his hybrid Roman-Gothic armour. The fiery red beard and inky eyes gave him the look of a hungry predator. Not one to relish meeting on the battlefield, Brutus surmised.

‘Officer coming through,’ he grunted, bursting past the last line of onlookers. The party descended halfway down the gangplank as the centurion, red faced and breathless, arrived to greet them.

‘
Ave!
Acting Chief Centurion Brutus of the XI Claudia legion at your service. In the absence of Tribunus Nerva, I’m responsible for greeting and welcoming you to the City of Durostorum.’

Wulfric smiled. ‘
Ave,
’ he replied with an unmistakably Gothic twang. ‘Tribunus Wulfric. Here to skim the cream of the XI Claudia!’ At this, Wulfric’s men burst into raucous laughter. Wulfric grinned, making no effort to quieten them.

Brutus, stunned at the lack of protocol, maintained his stony expression. ‘So I understand, sir. If you’d allow me to escort you to the legion fort, we can introduce you to the other senior officers and then discuss the recruitment.’

‘My men and I will come to the fort later today. First we have some unwinding to do,’ he replied, nodding uphill towards
The Boar and Hollybush
, conspicuous by the cheering of early punters inside. This time both the men and the onlooking crowd erupted in laughter.

Brutus prayed for the ground to open up beneath him; his first taste of command at this level and this Wulfric was treating him like a fool. Inside he boiled with rage, but he held it back just long enough to get one more sentence out; ‘As you wish, sir. In that case, I’ll invite the senior officers of the legion to join you.’

The grin faded from the Goth’s face, and he nodded. ‘Very well.’

A doorstop of bread thumped onto Pavo’s plate. He traced a slow glance up to the cook who had provided him with the baked monolith.

‘You’ve excelled yourself again, I see.’

The cook grimaced and slapped his fist on the counter. ‘Move along,’ he hissed.

Pavo dropped his gaze and moved on with a snigger. The next cook behind the counter waited patiently with a pitifully thin strip of cheese in his hands.

‘Give him some special sauce to go on it, Cyrus,’ the first cook cackled. The second cook started brutally horking up the contents of his throat.

Pavo sighed, nodded and moved on, cheese-free. Laden with a not-so-hearty dinner, he moved along the meal-line to the wine barrels, where a queue was beginning to form. It had been a killer of a day, with another all-terrain forced march, then a gruelling session of combat training and camp construction. His limbs were still wiry but the muscles were now like gnarled rope, and despite all the pain and fatigue, he had never felt so fit. More than this, in his mind he felt so different; a real will not just to survive, but also to live. Being a freedman was good. Hard but good.