Legionary

Chapter 23

Pavo’s vivid dreams were ripped from him, and stark reality came flooding back with a dull clanging of iron. He lurched bolt upright, pawing the sleep from his eyes.

‘What in Hades?’ he croaked as the iron clattering grew louder and faster. At the same time, his body provided him with a rippling report of the previous evening’s injuries.

‘Awake yet, dung-breath?’

Pavo’s heart sank as he recognised the dank stench of the fort prison. Even worse, Spurius lay in the adjacent cell, glaring, rattling his knuckles along the bars. He slunk back onto the cold and crumbling cell wall, squinting through swollen eyes at the parchment-thin slots near the ceiling. The sliver of light they allowed in sent a fiery pain through his head and he shuffled on the damp and hard hay-mattress to escape the glare.

‘You shouldn’t have made things so complicated last night,’ Spurius sighed.

‘Aye, sorry for that,’ Pavo spun around, his nausea rising into rage, ‘should’ve just let you kill me, eh?’

‘Well you’re alive, so stop moaning.’

Pavo shook his head in disbelief and then prised himself from the disgusting bed, then shuffled over to the iron barred cell gate. He pressed his face against the bars — providing a cool relief to the cuts and bruises to his face. Outside he could see only a corridor stretching off to the left.

‘You keen to get out? If I were you, I’d be praying they don’t come for us for as long as possible.’ Spurius sucked air through his teeth. ‘Forty lashes if we’re lucky.’

‘Why are you even talking? Animals don’t talk,’ Pavo threw back over his shoulder. Then his blood cooled — the rest of the cells were empty. ‘Where’s Sura?’ He croaked.

‘Relax, he’s in the hospital. Just pray he’s not in the bunk next to Festus,’ Spurius mused in semi-interest.

Pavo slumped down on the bunk again. From the shadows, he afforded a look at his enemy; Spurius’ naturally craggy features were embellished with a rash of scratches and bruises, his mouth was twisted in an agitated wrinkle, but his eyes were most interesting — under the permanently creased brow they gazed in melancholy at some bronze figurine he wore on a chain around his neck. Pavo looked at the legionary phalera hanging round his own neck and wondered what story Spurius’ trinket held.

‘So what’s this all about, Spurius?’ He ventured.

‘Eh?’ Spurius grunted, his face pinching into the more familiar aggressive gurn.

‘One minute you’re spitting venom at me, threatening to kill me — the minute you get the chance you decide to let me go? That’s twice now.’

The air grew thick as Spurius simply stared back at him in silence, before he finally replied. ‘It’s a long story…you wouldn’t be interested.’

‘Try me,’ he said.

Spurius let out a long, tired sigh and his expression became saturnine. Just as he took a deep breath to speak, the outer jail doors creaked open — both of them shot up to the cell doors.

A deep babble of voices echoed along the corridor. Pavo strained to see the source of the commotion. Five figures in black armour stood around a centurion — it was the one from last night, his stony, sunken, wolfen features unmistakable. Pavo’s neck burned in embarrassment — what could he possibly say to excuse the whole sorry scenario?

As the party strolled past the empty cells, their voices became clearer and Pavo recognised the jagged tongue — Gothic. They slowly worked their way down to Spurius’ cell.

Pavo eyed the men; all of them towering near the jail ceiling, they wore the beards and flowing fair hair of the northern tribesmen. Their armour was Roman, but embellished with painted symbols and dripping with trinkets. The largest of them eyed Spurius and Pavo, before shaking his head.

‘Deserters? Cowards in other words. Not for us,’ he spoke in broken Greek, ‘you got any murderers?’ He grinned as his colleagues roared at this.

Pavo felt his skin burn — deserters? His tongue strained against the urge to blurt out the story — now was not the time.

The centurion stepped forward. Pavo nervously eyed his long and pointed features, his firm jaw and the piercing ice-blue eyes spoke of determination and going by the bounty of phalerae hanging from his breastplate, he was pretty important. The centurion grimaced. ‘Well I don’t know what your criteria are, but the jailhouse and the hospital are hardly going to provide fit and worthy officer material. You are free to request a drill inspection of any men of the Claudia, but I suggest we move on to the barracks now. The active legionaries will be preparing for training — that’s where you will source the men for your legion.’

The five Goths nodded grudgingly, and then turned to walk back down the corridor. The centurion followed them with a sigh.

‘What’s happening?’ Pavo ventured, pressing his face against the bars of the door.

The centurion pivoted, his glare burning into Pavo.

‘If a soldier addressed his primus pilus in such a manner, I’d have him lashed. From a deserter though, I’m not surprised.’ Then the centurion’s face wrinkled in a sneer as he eyed Pavo’s gangly form. ‘Or are you some kind of starved beggar we picked up in the countryside?’

Pavo’s eyes widened. He backed up from the bars, his throat dried up and he shook his head.

‘I’m sorry, I…I’m a new recruit, sir. Numerius Vitellius Pavo.’

‘Recruits will be the death of this army,’ he grumbled. ‘I know all about you. Missed my evening meal because of the ruckus you caused last night. So do yourself a favour; it’s Centurion Gallus — don’t forget it, because I’ll have my eye on you. Troublemakers don’t last long in my ranks. Lucky for you I’ve got bigger problems to deal with right now.’

As the centurion turned to stalk down the corridor, Pavo slumped back onto the bunk with a groan. Centurion Gallus; he’d heard the name countless times in the mess hall, the inn and in the training yard. A man with a heart of stone, they said. Ruthless, they said. A man they would follow without question, despite the odds, they said.

A man who despised him.

‘Not the brightest introduction you could’ve made, Pavo,’ Spurius mused.