Legionary (30 page)

An icy finger traced Pavo’s spine, he touched the disc of the phalera medallion through his mail vest. This was life on the edge of a blade; the life Father had known until the last. He closed his eyes momentarily and imagined Father beside him.

‘We’ve got our work cut out here, gentlemen,’ Nerva continued. ‘Clearly, the Huns primarily make use of the mounted unit, and they ride with a skill and dexterity that is simply…’ Nerva shook his head in silence as he searched for the words.

Gallus puffed out a breath. ‘…it’s impressive, sir. They ride as if they were born on the saddle.’

Nerva glanced at him, his eyes distant, before continuing. ‘This is the key; they number over fifteen legions, some twenty thousand riders and infantry.’

‘Twenty thousand?’ Pavo gasped, unable to bite back the exclamation from his lips. ‘They outnumber us five to one!’

Nerva, Gallus and Amalric turned to him in distaste.

‘Perhaps a sentiment you should not share,’ Nerva spoke firmly. ‘It’s not numbers that win battles. Roman military skill and bravery has seen the imperial armies over taller hurdles than this, boy.’ Pavo felt the skin on the back of his neck burn. ‘In any case, whether we should face them or not is a moot point as things stand. We have no means of retreat — the fleet is crippled. In any case, I’d rather not attempt to cross the sea again only to arrive in Constantinople with our tails between our legs, with a shattered navy and a hugely expensive failure of a mission as our only gifts to the emperor.’

Pavo felt smaller than a mouse. The tribunus was still pent-up with frustration inside and he had simply lit the fuse. Gallus cut in to spare him a thorough bollocking.

‘So the question is — how do we make best use of our numbers? It has to be strategic engagement. We surely cannot afford a pitched battle against their number of cavalry on the open terrain inland.’

Nerva firmed his jaw.

Gallus had said it perfectly, Pavo thought — the same sentiment as his own but put tactfully. But the tribunus wanted the moment as his own; ‘We will move inland, at a quick march, via a series of strategic points that Amalric has highlighted on our maps. We may be able to make use of the towns and ruined forts that are dotted around the landscape. This will allow us to do three things; measure the true size of our opponent’s forces, collect the resources needed to repair our ships and finally,’ he turned to Amalric, ‘round up any Gothic survivors — Amalric has promised me they will fight alongside us on this. Ultimately, our goal is to reach the old citadel of Chersonesos as originally planned,’ he drew his finger from the landing site to the bottom of the diamond, ‘just to the west of the southern tip of the peninsula. It will take us about two to three days to get there. We have no idea of the state of the place — it’s been off the trade routes for years because of pirates. It remains our best chance though — Amalric tells me that the citadel remains standing, with crumbling but functional walls. The place was a large Gothic trading centre until the Huns fell upon it three months ago — they tore everything of value from the place and moved on. Crucially though, the citadel has a dock. If we can establish a bridgehead there, we can repair our ships without fear of attack.’ Nerva leaned in, drawing the other three closer to him. ‘This is the crux — If we can get our fleet operational then we are no longer limited to infantry mobility. With our ships we can land anywhere around the peninsula and put these Huns on the back foot. Moreover, we can send for reinforcements should we need to.’

Gallus shuffled in his seat. ‘I like the end result, sir, but it’s getting there that worries me. How will we protect ourselves while mobile? If we get caught in the open by the Huns, a marching infantry column of just over two thousand — three hundred of those injured and sick — we would not stand a chance.’ He glanced to Pavo.

‘I can’t disagree with you on that, Gallus, they’d cut us to ribbons.’ Now Nerva glanced at Pavo, the merest hint of forgiveness traced his features. ‘This is where we need to use the foederati wisely. They number at fifteen hundred going by this morning’s count,’ Nerva paused to double-check this on his notes, then he frowned, ‘although that includes the Roman recruits who joined them, who will need to take some swift training in the arts of husbandry. They
cannot
slow down Horsa and his men. Between us, I expect Horsa and his men will be the first to land on Hun spears, and any recruits lagging near the back…’ Nerva trailed off with a shake of the head.

Sura,
Pavo’s skin prickled.

Nerva composed himself and continued; ‘The foederati will split into several smaller detachments, each of which will perform a swift reconnaissance in each of the alternative routes to our next waypoint. The infantry will then proceed swiftly to the waypoint deemed safest, all the time covered by the foederati detachments. As for the fleet, well, all of our ships are crippled apart from the captured pirate quinquereme, yet we cannot abandon them. So the crew will rig them up as best as they can and make a series of short trips along the coast to stay as close to us inland as possible. One century of infantry from the third cohort will move up the coast to track the fleet’s movement, to protect the landing point of each trip. When we reach Chersonesos, we should be able to bed ourselves in and find a supply of timber to repair the fleet, and then all of our options are open again. I realise this means that we are spreading ourselves even more thinly. Though frankly, I don’t see that we’ve got any other options.’

‘Then we must go with it,’ Gallus nodded.

‘I’m with you,’ Amalric asserted.

All three nodded in conclusion and Nerva made to roll up the map. Pavo felt the familiar burn of words dancing on his tongue.

‘What if the fleet doesn’t make it to Chersonesos?’ He croaked, gulping. The three scrutinised him — almost as if they didn’t understand. ‘I just mean — if the Huns are so mobile and so numerous, and they obviously have the jump on us in terms of our positioning and…’

‘Get to the point,’ Gallus cut in firmly.

Pavo stammered. ‘The Huns could engage our fleet at any of the landing points along the coast. If they do — we’re stranded.’

Nerva nodded, his jowls hanging in a stern sincerity, but the glint of panic was there, too. ‘Problem noted, soldier. Do you have a solution?’

Pavo shook his head silently.

Nerva turned back to Amalric and Gallus. ‘Once we have an accurate operational count, we can balance the centuries, and plan our order of movement.’ He nodded as he eyed his plans one more time. ‘By dawn tomorrow, we need to be on the move. The Huns know our position, so until then, we need a triple watch.’

Pavo was the last of the visitors to leave the tent. As he did so, Nerva grappled his arm. Pavo recoiled at the etching of barely disguised terror on the tribunus’ sweat-soaked scalp and face.

‘We all fear the same twists of fate, soldier. We can only ride the mount the gods provide us.’

A crowd gathered round the entrance to the sprawling Hun camp as a dozen weary riders trotted in. Sipping cups of tepid horse blood, chewing on raw meat, they searched for a sign from the lead rider, who rode with a motley collection of staring, severed heads hanging from his mount.

Apsikal kept his broad yellow face expressionless, lifted his head high and raised a clenched fist in the air. Roars of delight then erupted from the warriors and their families, greeting the sign of victory — a Hun could never be defeated.

Apsikal glanced down and watched the ground roll past, but couldn’t hear the cheers. His head felt hollow as he contemplated his plan.
Lie and live, tell the truth and die
. He had told the truth the last time, and had barely escaped with the promise of death should he fail again. Only one Goth had slipped from their grasp, and he and his men’s lives now rested on a ruse to disguise that fact. The crowd parted as they moved on through the seas of yurts, towards that of Balamber.

Balamber was sitting on the timber platform erected on the clearing at the tent entrance, basking in the warm morning sunshine. His eyes were drawn to the approaching commotion, narrowing to identify the source. When Apsikal’s form shuffled humbly before him, Balamber’s expression hardened. Apsikal slowed to a halt and dismounted, his men following suit. Silence fell over the thousands who crowded round to view the meeting.

‘I have succeeded, Noble Balamber,’ Apsikal gasped, his head still bowed. An excruciating silence ensued, and Apsikal shivered as he felt the invisible dagger plunging for his neck as he stared into the earth below, but no, that would be too quick. Still nothing — he risked a glance upwards. The silhouette of Balamber craned above him with the sun casting a glaring halo around his form.

‘What happened?’ Balamber spoke softly.

Again, Apsikal looked up to address his leader, squinting his eyes at the blinding sunlight. ‘We hunted down the Goths, and we exterminated
all
of them…’ He pointed to the flank of his horse and that of his second-in-command — both bore rope lassos with twenty rotting, gaping heads strung together, misted eyeballs staring out at the world they had once known. ‘…every single one.’ His voice trailed off as Balamber stepped slightly towards the front edge of his platform and rose up to his full height. His form seemed to fill the sky. The noble eyed the grotesque specimens, and Apsikal felt his stomach lurch as he did so. He followed his leader’s eyes over each one; nineteen blonde and white-skinned expressions of horror, and one last one — features mutilated beyond recognition. Balamber’s eyes stopped on this one. Apsikal shot a glance at the head and then his leader — Balamber’s fists gradually balled and then his moustache twitched ever so slightly. Apsikal gulped.

‘To fail is one thing,’ Balamber mused with a quizzical tone, ‘but to lie to your noble leader?’

Apsikal felt a distant spark of realization — the most horrible end was coming for him at the speed of the fastest mount. He fell to his knees. ‘No, we have them, all of them…’ his words tailed off.

Balamber leapt down from his platform, thumping into the dirt to tower over the cringing Apsikal. He stalked over to the mutilated head, grasped it by the tufts of hair remaining on the bloodied scalp, and wrenched it up so the crowd could see. ‘Fine skin for a Goth, is it not?’ He roared, stretching the one remaining untouched patch of skin on the neck — a dark-yellow complexion.

Apsikal felt fear thunder through him, ‘We may have recovered the wrong head — there were many bodies. It was…’ he stopped short as a stone smashed against his forehead.

‘Die like a warrior, you grovelling fool!’ The thrower cried from the crowd. Apsikal tasted the metal wash of blood coursing from his nostrils.

Balamber’s face was swept over with a black expression. ‘Enough!’ He roared to the crowd. ‘Apsikal will not be harmed…’

Apsikal looked up, his heart slowing to a controlled thunder. There was a chance he could survive! His mind scrambled as he searched for something to build on. ‘The Romans have landed! It was pitch-black when we clashed, however, we estimate a number of some three thousand and…’ Apsikal looked up again and tried to gauge his chances of being spared. ‘…and we can’t be sure about this, but their fleet looked crippled.’

Balamber’s face curled into a mean smile. ‘Wrecked?’ From deep in his belly, a terrible grumble erupted into a cackle. ‘The Roman Senate send their fleet out into a storm and then the pirate dogs honour their word to thin their remaining number. The gold of Rome shapes this world — and soon it will be in our hands! A sweet victory will be ours!’ He lifted his arms aloft and the assembled thousands roared in approval. He glared down at Apsikal. ‘
Tengri
, the mighty sky god, is about to open many doors for us. Doors to power and riches that will see us as unequalled masters of the world.’

Apsikal’s heart slowed further at Balamber’s words — he made to stand once more. As he rose on one knee, Balamber cocked his head to one side, with a calm expression settling on his face. ‘No, you should not be harmed, Apsikal. You should be rewarded…’

Balamber wheeled away to ascend his platform again. Apsikal stood up and felt elation course through his veins. Then Balamber clicked his fingers.

Apsikal’s eyes bulged at the clunk of the metalworking urn behind him and his stomach leapt and turned. Two pairs of hands clamped onto his shoulders and forced him back onto his knees, and the crowd roared in expectation. Grinning faces were mixed with horror and intrigue all around him. Apsikal glanced behind him — the remainder of his riders were systematically having their throats cut, toppling to the ground one by one. Those who were lucky enough to have their spinal cord severed in the process remained motionless. The rest suffered the indignity of scrabbling, haemorrhaging blood into the dirt as they asphyxiated. Apsikal felt his stomach heave again and his bowels loosen, then his attentions were unceremoniously ripped back to his own fate when a pair of hands wrenched at his hair, yanking his head backwards. He felt a bone in his neck snap; such was the ferocity of the movement. Another fist rammed a knife into his clenched bite, and prised his jaws apart, sending teeth and blood arcing out like some vile fountain. Then, like the rising of a terrible sun, a ladle of glowing molten metal rose into view and the bloodthirsty howls of the crowd simmered down into silent expectation.

‘You have earned your reward, Apsikal,’ Balamber purred, ‘savour every last drop.’

Apsikal stared hopelessly into the cobalt sky, pleading to
Tengri
the sky god, as unearthly pain coursed into his chest. He felt the blackness of death rush in as his body disintegrated from within.

The outline of the now deconstructed beach camp was still etched on the sand and shingle, but now the XI Claudia were formed up on the plain across the grassy ridge. The afternoon sky was azure streaked with grey, a mild breeze flitted across the tall grass and further inland and the forests hugged jagged peaks still snow-capped from the winter.