Legionary (43 page)

‘Don’t worry, Sura,’ Spurius grumbled, ‘I know you need the muscle more than me — you scrawny runt.’

‘Right, that’s it!’ Sura lurched forward; Pavo threw up an arm just in time to catch him.

Spurius dropped his cold stare and let a chiselled, broken grin creep over his face. ‘I only need five men.’ He nodded to five who jogged over to him.

‘Was that his idea of a joke?’ Sura mumbled.

‘Take it easy, keep your cool,’ Pavo whispered back.

‘Be seeing you,’ Spurius grunted, offering a hand to Pavo.

The wind whipped up, cooling the sweat bathing Pavo’s sweat and saltwater soaked scalp. Dawn pierced the sky at last and he took his old enemy’s hand. ‘Hope you get things sorted out,’ he nodded.

Spurius nodded in return, then turned and whirled his hand over his head, pointing two closed fingers to the shadows at the end of the wharf. In a dull rumble of hobnailed boots, they were gone.

‘You trust him? Because I don’t,’ Sura muttered.

‘He got us here. Whether I trust him or not doesn’t matter anymore, we’ve got too many other things to think about.’

‘Aye, we do. Don’t expect me to call you sir, by the way,’ Sura chirped.

Pavo shot him a grin and then turned to the remaining fifteen I Dacia legionaries. His skin burned at the thought of having to issue orders to them. He bit back the uncertainty, reassuring himself that they were all a good couple of years younger than him.

‘Right, this is the crux of it. We’re all in this together — we must save the legion, and in doing so you can save yourselves from execution, clear your names. And believe me, you’ll be heroes if you pull this one off — the empire is at stake here! We can’t have any more incidents like this one, so from now on we need caution and stealth all the way. You’re civilians from here on in, not soldiers, no matter what happens. Keep your daggers on you, but leave the spathas — anyone spots them and we’ll be rumbled.’

They all nodded and murmured in agreement, tossing their swords into one of the empty crates. Pavo felt his chest swell — they were listening to him, their eyes keen just as he had seen when men listened to officers.

‘The key is to get to the Imperial Palace. I don’t know how we’re going to get on once we get there, but let’s cross that bridge when we come to it. We’re already low in number, but I propose that we split into two groups. Sura, you take eight and I’ll take the other seven. Use your instinct and see what our options are. Keep a low profile but ask around — there’s got to be a way of getting in there. We should meet up at
The Eagle
, a shithole of an inn near the Hippodrome, a few hours before dusk tonight.’

‘Yes,’ Sura nodded, before adding begrudgingly; ‘…sir.’

‘Good. Let’s make this quick and we could be on our way to save our brothers before dawn,’ he said optimistically, then glanced at the I Dacia legionaries, ‘and remember, you lot could be heroes.’ The men gave a murmur of agreement.

Sura waved his half of the party on behind him and made his way along the dock wall in search of a safe place to ascend into the city streets in search of the emperor. Pavo looked up the opposite stretch of the dock and turned to his men.

‘Let’s go!’

Above the scene of the landing, the two guards looked down on the events, then glanced at each other nervously. One pulled the small purse from his belt, fingering the thick gold cross.

‘We accepted this, so we should tell the bishop.’

‘This stinks — but aye, let’s go.’

With a nod of agreement, they scuttled off into the streets.

‘Come on then, you whoresons!’ Gallus snarled as hot blood sprayed across his face. He ripped his spatha back from the chest of the Hun infantryman and kicked at his gut, sending the body toppling like a log onto the thick carpet of gore below the walls. His vision was sharp in the centre and blurred at the edges, his joints ached and his muscles felt numb from the relentless hacking and stabbing. But the delicate line of Roman defence had managed to hold on desperately; no Huns had established a bridgehead at the top of the thirty or so ladders that clawed at the battlements. ‘Don’t let a single one of these buggers breach us. Use every dirty trick in the book to keep ‘em out!’

He smashed his sword hilt into the nose of the next Hun who tried to head charge him in the gut. With a howl, the soldier stumbled onto the battlement and straight off the edge to plummet onto the flagstones inside the fort, where he was quickly despatched by the thin pocket of reserve auxiliaries. Gallus turned back to face his next opponent, his teeth grinding like rocks. But there was nobody there. The next Hun was only halfway up the ladder. He glanced around the foot of the wall — the Huns were thinning. ‘We’re doing it lads, keep it up!’ He squinted at the I Dacia who had withdrawn and waited near the edge of the plateau. ‘Don’t be shy,’ Gallus roared, wiping the blood from his sword flat then holding it up to catch the sun, ‘there’s plenty iron waiting for you over here!’ The legionaries of the XI Claudia, gasping and crimson coated, roared in appreciation. Then the ground started to rumble.

First, it was like a distant thunder clap, then like a storm directly overhead as all across the lip of the plateau the Hun cavalry washed forward.

‘We’ve not even dented ‘em,’ Zosimus moaned.

‘Stay firm, Zosimus,’ Gallus cut in. But his own heart plummeted; a few thousand infantry — the weakest Hun soldiers — had been mown down, but the legion were close to spent, just as the Huns were sending in the first wave of some seventeen thousand cavalry.

In a flash, the Hun cavalry had swept past the front of the fort to circle at the sides. At the same time, a fresh wave of a thousand infantry thundered towards the front walls. From the left of the fort, the twang of countless arrows being loosed rang out.

‘Shields!’ Gallus roared. The walls became a thin testudo, the legionaries crouching behind the parapet to protect their front. As he ducked down, he breathed a sigh of relief that the tinny rattle of arrowheads on shields far outweighed the gurgles of pain from those caught out. But almost immediately after the first volley had landed, the cavalry on the right unleashed another even thicker volley. This time the cries of pain were numerous.

‘Sir, their infantry — they’re almost at the walls!’ Zosimus yelled over the arrow hail as he lifted his shield to peek over the front parapet.

‘Covering fire, Zosimus, their cavalry are pinning us down, nullifying what little we have. How long do we have before their spearmen are on the ladders?’

Zosimus snatched another glance. He turned to Gallus, his face fallen. ‘Half a stadia, sir. And the I Dacia are coming too.’

‘If we stay pinned down like this we’re dead meat!’ Gallus could only feel the vibration of his chest as he growled, such was the din. He waited for the lull between arrow storms then punched up from the shield roof of the legionaries on the wall. He hammered his sword against his shield boss. ‘Clear those flanks!’ He roared across the din of battle. At the same time, the front ranks of Huns parted to allow the I Dacia a clear run at the walls with more ladders. Gallus turned to the auxiliary units; they were pinned near the back of the fort by the arrow hail and the catapults lay unmanned. He waited for the brief pause in the bombardment and then bellowed; ‘Catapults, blind fire to both sides of the fort — now!’ The auxiliaries lunged forward, scurrying around the three catapults, winding the ropes, turning the devices on their bases to face flank; two to the right and one to the left. Gallus ducked under his shield for the next rain of arrows, then darted up again as they slowed — the I Dacia ladders were resting on the walls. He glanced over the edge to see a swarm of Wulfric’s men scuttling up the ladders for the battlements. They had but an instant. ‘Come on, come on!’ Gallus cried, but the auxiliaries were faltering, several slain with the last bout of arrow fire. One skinny auxiliary, no more than a boy, heaved at the east-facing catapult all alone, until a wounded soldier came to his aid. It was finally shunted around to face the swarm of Huns on the eastern flank. The first of the I Dacia were only rungs from the wall tops. Gallus could hear their fingers scrabbling on the parapet when finally a voice cried out from the courtyard. ‘Ready, fire!’

‘To your feet,’ Gallus cried, ‘to your feet!’

With the twang of rope and bending timber, three heaving catapult volleys lurched over the fort walls and troughed their way through the packed Hun cavalry swarms, smashing men and horses alike like kindling. At the same time, the walls rippled to life with a battle cry, the squat testudo suddenly bristling into a solid line of sword points. They hacked into the first line of I Dacia as they attempted to hop onto the battlements. The next line was only a rung behind.

‘Fire plumbatae at will!’ Gallus cried. ‘Thin them out at the ground!’

A volley of plumbatae spat forth, toppling the I Dacia around the ladder bases. Then rocks were toppled onto them. It was a soup of iron and gore, but still the I Dacia were but dented, and the Hun cavalry were reforming for another pass.

‘And keep the catapults spitting!’

Gallus smashed his spatha into the face of the I Dacia legionary who dared raise his head over the ladder top. Hot blood sprayed the centurion, soaking him in a fresh layer of gore. ‘For the empire, men, for the empire!’ He gasped.

The Augusteum was thriving as usual. The blistering summer afternoon heat prickled on Pavo’s skin as he pretended to look at the Hippodrome up ahead, sneaking darting glances to the palace gates as often as he dared; two urban guards stood like marble sentinels either side of the gate — their build and ugliness surely a key factor in being chosen to guard the emperor himself.
Great for the emperor
, he thought,
not so good for us
. He realised that one pass of the palace walls was normal, two passes suspicious, but now in their third they must look bloody stupid. He held a hand to his moist brow to block out the glare of the sun and his eyes relaxed at the moment of respite. Eyeing the wall tops discreetly, he felt his heart fall again; dotted along the walkways, at every ten paces or so, stood a member of the candidati, pristine in a white tunic and wearing the same stiff-jawed expression of sincerity. The urban cohorts were buggers, he thought, touching his thumb to the tender pink scar on his temple, but these guys were utterly ruthless. The cream of the loyal palatini, they were brute-strong, nimble and skilled beyond anything in the legions. Most of all they would gladly die for the emperor.

Beside him walked a soldier of the I Dacia named Cato. He was at least four years younger than Pavo and was a bag of nerves. Despite that he was a good lad at heart, clearly given no option but to take the bribe of gold along with the rest of the I Dacia and he was now eager to restore his honour.

‘There’s no way we’re getting in there,’ Cato murmured.

Pavo rolled his eyes, and then chuckled dryly — this lad was him just a few months ago. ‘Yep,’ he sighed, ‘and the side gates are guarded just as heavily.’

‘We could wait for the emperor to come out?’ Cato offered.

‘Nah, been there, the emperor travels with more protection around him than he has on those walls,’ Pavo reasoned, his mind flitting with images of the legionary shield boss being whumped into his face as he tried to gatecrash the imperial procession two summers ago, ‘we’d be skewered if we got within a hundred paces. And I’ve been given the strictest of orders to speak with the emperor only, so it’s got to be inside the palace.’

Cato sighed, his shoulders slumping.

Pavo nudged him with his elbow. ‘Let’s see what Sura and his lads have come up with.’
The Eagle
rolled into view as they left the outer palace grounds behind them. Washed in white paint and hiding behind the shade of a palm thicket, the building strived to look somewhere close to clean, but the stench of stale urine and vomit wafted out to greet the pair as they approached.

‘Urgh!’ Cato wretched.

‘Wait till you taste the ale…’ Pavo cocked an eyebrow.

Another of his party of seven leaned against the wall next to the entrance. Upon recognizing the approaching two, the legionary straightened up and gave them a nod, before strolling inside.

The belly of the inn seemed to contain the afternoon heat rather than provide respite from it. The faded timbers were plastered with dubious stains, coated in layers of dust, and the battered oak tables were dotted with handfuls of toothless and lame veterans and filthy street dwellers. At a table near the back, the rag-tag group of disguised legionaries were devouring platters of cooked meat and sinking foamy, pale ale in gulps.

‘By Mithras, you must be desperate?’ Pavo mocked in a low voice as he pulled over a free stool to join them.

Sura was at the head of the table — his fingers pressed to his temples. ‘We need something to keep us going — the cooked rat, or whatever it is, isn’t bad with a bit of garum.’

‘I’ll pass,’ Pavo replied quickly. ‘Any ideas? Because all we saw was a wall of stone brimming with candidati just desperate to gut the first chancer who wants to take them on.’

‘Bollocks,’ Sura spat, ‘same with us. We’re waiting on some divine inspiration then?’

Pavo sighed, rolling a piece of the meat in his fingers, pressing at the fatty rind until it came away. ‘There is another option.’ At once, all fifteen hunched in to get within earshot. He kept his eyes on the scarred surface of the table. ‘Scum like us won’t get near the palace. But I know someone who might be able to.’ He paused for a moment, feeling sick at the thought; the despicable character that had used him like a dog — Tarquitius’ disgusting buttery features crept into his mind.
Show your face in this city again…and you will die horribly
. The words rasped in his thoughts. But something else dawned on him; he was not afraid. He took a deep breath and looked up.