Legionary

Chapter 28

The cobwebs of blackness drifted from his mind and Pavo winced. Every inch of his body screamed. He prised open an eye to survey the familiar ceiling of the barracks, and as a waft of chill air danced over him, he pulled up his hemp blanket and for once appreciated the warm comfort of the damp and scratchy straw mattress.

The weary journey back to the legion fort had been trance-like, with the remaining six Romans hitching a ride on the mounts of the foederati. Nobody spoke. Pavo had stumbled into the barracks and collapsed into a deep, thick sleep. That had been morning, and he had no idea how much time had passed. It was clearly night, going by the warm glow of torchlight from the courtyard. Shuffling his head around on the pillow, he could see the barracks were almost empty; just the shape of Sura in his bunk accompanied by steady, low snoring.

The voices in his mind squabbled with memories of the battle, and reluctantly, he allowed them to speak. He closed his eyes, squirming as the rhythmic scything of the bloody business still echoed in his ears. Every one of the recruits apart from him and Sura were now dead. His stomach tightened as he recalled them sitting in the mess hall that morning, laughing, relaxed and warm. Then he wondered if fate could have been kinder and had Spurius along on the mission, but he shook the dark thought from his head. Then he thought of Brutus.

He had not seen the remains of the centurion and his party, but the image of the red and white gore coating the field would never leave him. The man was a brutal sadist, no doubt, but absurdly he was one of the warmest people Pavo had ever known. Guilt traced his skin when he realised that he didn’t even know if Brutus had a wife or a family. All he knew of the man was that his father was a slave. Pavo touched the phalera and vowed never to forget the centurion.

He prised himself from his bed, feeling the bite of the night chill on his legs as they touched the flagstoned floor. Managing a hint of a smile as he sidled past the snoring Sura’s bunk, he threw on a heavy cloak and pushed open the barrack door. Outside was chilly; guards whistled as they strolled in the courtyard and the battlements, but otherwise all was still and silent. As he approached the mess hall, a muted rumble of banter escaped the cracks in the hefty timber door.

He pushed open the door to be hit with a welcome blast of hot air, then squinted at the deep orange glow pulsating from the hearth. All around the mess hall, recruits and legionaries were slumped in inebriation and muttered in muted tones. Men had been lost today and the usual raucous drunkenness was off the menu. The door swung shut, thumping, and all heads looked up at Pavo, their faces sombre and tired.

Pavo felt his throat turn to dust and his cheeks burn. Was he expected to say something? If so, what on earth could he say to comfort or inspire at a time like this? He gulped. Then Centurion Gallus stood up, opening a hand to the vacant stool at the table. He was dressed pristinely in full armour, the only one in the mess hall to wear more than a tunic and boots.

‘Join us in having a drink to remember the comrades we have left behind,’ Gallus spoke quietly, but it sounded stern, like an order. The scarred figure of Zosimus pushed the vacant stool out with a filth-encrusted leather boot.

Pavo moved to take the seat with a nod. Gallus eyed him sombrely as he did so. Ice cold, Pavo thought, I’ve nearly died beside the man and he still looks at me like a leper. His heart ached for poor Brutus.

The low murmur soon picked up once again and Pavo found a fresh jar of ale placed in front of him. He looked around the table as he gulped at the cool, bitter liquid. Any banter with the older, grumpier legionaries was hard at the best of times. The ale will help with that, he figured, taking another gulp.

Gallus rubbed his stomach and raised a hand to the kitchen staff.

‘Bring on the food, whenever you’re ready.’

Pavo suddenly realised how hungry he was. After the chaotic fight with Spurius the night before and the comfort-free night in the cells, he hadn’t eaten since early that morning, and only the rush of the battle had kept him on his feet through the day. Now, his mouth watered as the kitchen door opened and the meaty tang of roast pheasant coiled out and around the tables. In the few months that he had been with the XI Claudia, the staple diet of beans and stew had gone past the stage of monotony and into sheer awfulness — this meal was going to be a good one. He was jolted from his gastronomic trance when Centurion Gallus clipped the edge of his cup with a follis, bringing all heads up.

‘You all fought bravely today. Not just bravely, but effectively. We took out ten veterans and ten recruits this morning.’

Pavo’s senses keened and he fixed on the centurion’s words.

‘Only a handful of my veterans made it out of that death trap of an ambush,’ Gallus sighed. ‘But that two recruits scraped through as well tells me that they are either damned good,’ he paused, eyeing Pavo with that iron stare, ‘or bloody lucky!’

Pavo blushed as a chorus of muted laughter filtered around the hall, along with a gentle slap on the back from Avitus. He took a swig of ale, begging its bitter wash to flush away his discomfort. Then, a steaming joint of pheasant was plonked in front of him, the skin roasted and glistening as the meaty juices trickled onto the bed of beans underneath.

‘To our lost comrades!’ Gallus boomed, lifting his ale cup.

‘To our lost comrades,’ the hall replied in unison.

To Brutus, Pavo echoed in his mind, sipping from his cup. He gazed into the swirling liquid, watching the bubbles rise up and disappear like a never ending tide, like legionaries charging into the field, he thought sourly.

‘Our legion is severely depleted, soldier.’ Gallus spoke. Pavo started — the centurion had sidled up next to him, unnoticed. ‘Firstly from the harvesting of our second-line officers by the I Dacia and even more so by these Gothic raids in the last few days. We are looking to our recruit pool to reinforce our number — we need at least fifteen hundred infantry. You are going to be joining my century. The first century.’ He paused for a moment, watching Pavo’s face for a reaction. ‘I’ll have my eye on you, soldier, I have a feeling it’s best to keep the troublemakers close.’ He held Pavo’s gaze. ‘And one more thing; your sparring partners, Spurius and his big mate…’

Pavo craned forward.

Gallus’ expression was like stonework, ‘…they’re gone. Off with the I Dacia. Seems Tribunus Wulfric likes the fiery ones in his ranks.’ The centurion shook his head, eyes distant for a moment. ‘Anyway, as you were.’ With that, he was gone.

Pavo stared into the space Gallus had been seated. At once shocked, embarrassed and euphoric, he knocked back another mouthful of ale. The punch of the golden liquid now swam like a delicious torrent through his mind as the words sank in. Nothing darkened his horizon now. Nothing. No Tarquitius, no Fronto, no Festus, no Spurius. He felt giddy at the sensation of relief.

‘Anyway,’ Felix cackled, having surreptitiously flanked him on the other side, ‘that means I’m your optio, so you’d better not go drinking too much of that ale and making an arse of yourself in front of me now, lad.’ He motioned towards the other veterans around the table. ‘And over here are your brothers from today; Zosimus and Avitus. I don’t think you’ve met Quadratus?’ A blonde, moustachioed giant, rivalling Zosimus in stature, grunted over the rim of his ale cup. ‘You’ll be in our contubernium; so you’ll march with us, drink and eat with us, and share a tent with us…so you’d better not be a farter.’ The optio glared at Quadratus, who shot back an open-mouthed look of innocence.

Pavo had barely given the legionaries each a nod of greeting, when a bowl of swirling garum and dates was set down next to his pheasant. He followed the delicate hand that held the plate, all the way up the slender arms — and there was that fresh, milky white fresco-like face of Felicia, the barmaid from The Boar and Hollybush; bright blue eyes framed in amber locks tumbling down over her ample breasts. Did she remember him from the night he had compromised the integrity of Zosimus’ balls?

‘Er, thanks,’ he simpered, ‘you work here too?’

‘Volunteer, actually,’ she spoke briskly and then turned away.

‘Leave it, Pavo,’ Avitus whispered, ‘her brother died in our ranks a few years back.’

Pavo looked back at her, eyes heavy. ‘Goths?’

Avitus hissed back. ‘Like I said, leave it!’

Felicia caught his gaze again as she worked her way around the table. ‘Was there something else?’

‘Eh…’ Pavo stammered, ‘Any chance of another ale?’

‘Another ale? Don’t know about that — I don’t want you starting a fight again tonight,’ she scowled. At this Zosimus cocked an eyebrow and examined Pavo’s face again, then shook his head.

Pavo’s face burned and his heart sank. ‘No,’ he offered, ‘I’ll be making sure we all behave tonight.’

A mock gasp of indignation from the legionaries was followed by a pitying shake of the head from the barmaid, her features melting into a sarcastic grin.

‘You? But you’re only a recruit,’ she sighed.

As she turned and slinked away, Pavo’s neck boiled with humiliation, yet his eyes hung on every swing of her broad hips. The stifled sniggering of Pavo’s companions rumbled into harsh cackling. He turned on them, his teeth grinding. All the faces were wrinkled in hilarity. Then the barmaid drifted past behind Zosimus. She winked at him. His heart skipped a beat, his jaw fell open and the tension fell from him like a stone.

‘I think she might have guessed that you like her,’ Avitus sniggered.

Pavo, lost for words, raised his eyebrows in defeat.

Felix cast an arm round his shoulder. ‘You’ll get used to her tearing you to shreds. It means she likes you.’

Pavo grinned.

‘Trust me, I would know,’ Avitus added eagerly.

Pavo frowned.