Legionary

Chapter 45

A mild breeze swirled around the campsite of the XI Claudia. Memories of the carnage and chaos of the night before had softened a little in the morning light as the refreshed legionaries milled around the tents and campfires, their eyes puffy from a precious but short spell of sleep. The night watchmen were now staggering to their tents to catch up on that precious commodity.

While the other seven of his contubernium bantered and ate outside, Pavo sat cross-legged inside the tent. After returning from Nerva’s tent, he had collapsed into his cot and fell into the thick fog of sleep instantly, only for the dark dream of his father to wake him after only moments. This time, his father had beckoned him from the sandstorm, as before, until the empty wells of his eye sockets were fixed on him again. This time though, Father’s lips had moved weakly. He had mouthed something…then grasped Pavo’s forearm.

He had woken, bathed in a clammy sweat with a yelp, only for Zosimus to voice his disapproval in a string of muttered obscenities. After that, the morning meeting with the tribunus had played on his mind all night, and despite his body crying out for a long, thick sleep, he had lain, open-eyed, while the other seven of his contubernium snored incessantly, or in Quadratus’ case, farted violently. But as he was in with the veterans, he dared not complain.

He brushed at the mail vest frantically — still the rust clung to it like shield glue. ‘This is hopeless!’ He hissed, throwing the weighty vest to the floor to begin on his dull, battered helmet again. He only had a few more moments to attempt to bring his gear up to a presentable state — then he would be standing in front of the tribunus of the legion, expected to talk and to advise. His stomach shrivelled. Ignoring the latest hoot of laughter from outside, he spat on the cloth and rubbed vigorously at the crown of the helmet. Yet all his work that morning had managed to bring up was a dull shine at best — even the tip of the iron intercisa crest was bashed into a smooth curve instead of the sturdy sharp fin it was supposed to be. He eyed the muddy heap that was his tunic and sighed, hanging his head and letting his aching hands drop to his sides. It was hopeless. He leant back, resting his head on the foot of his cot. His mind buzzed with the fog of three days awake. So tired, he thought. Calm settled over him and his mind swam with the memory of Felicia’s warm body wrapped around him.

His eyelids fell shut.

Outside the tents of the first century, Optio Felix gulped at his broad bean stew, chuckling to the ‘most-debauched-tale’ contest that had been struck up on a whim between Zosimus and Avitus. Quadratus and two younger legionaries alternated grimaces and chuckles as each man put dignity to one side in front of their colleagues purely in the name of one-upmanship.

‘…and then her grandmother joined in as well!’ Zosimus offered, his face wrinkled in determination that his unsavoury story would beat anything Avitus could conjure up.

Gallus strolled towards the contubernium, refreshed and fed. His face dropped as he picked up on the details of the conversation, and he veered towards Felix. ‘Sorry to draw you away from the hilarity, Felix.’

‘On the contrary, sir, thanks. I think I might be about to hurl up my stew if I listen to any more of that! Honestly, have they no shame?’ The optio winced.

Gallus chuckled. ‘Where’s young Pavo? Is all this soldier’s talk too much for his guts? He’s got a big meeting this morning — Nerva’s tent.’

Felix nodded. ‘Yes, he’s in the tent, thinks he can spruce up his legionary gear so the tribunus will promote him to emperor.’

‘Aye,’ Quadratus chortled through a mouthful of stew, ‘I told him you can’t polish a turd!’

‘Well he can turn up in silver armour if he wants, but if he isn’t at the tribunus’ tent before Nerva turns up then he’s dead meat.’ Gallus surveyed the camp, his eyes locking on to Nerva, making his way back to his own tent from the canteen area. ‘Well he’s late as it is. I’ll sort him out,’ he muttered, striding towards the contubernium tent. He grabbed the leather flap, and whipped it back to release a pungent cloud of sweat and farts. Coughing sharply, he pulled his head back, ‘Mithras! You boys need to see the capsarius — smells like a dead rat in there — you want pulled through with a spruce tree!’ He spluttered to Felix and the rest. Quadratus stared back in a wide-eyed protest of innocence.

Ducking inside the tent, Gallus eyed the setup; all of the cots were empty and made up apart from one at the far end. The slumbering figure of Pavo, slung half on the cot and half off, snoring like a boar, brought Gallus’ blood to boiling point.

Gallus gritted his teeth and booted the side of the cot. Nothing stirred. Again he booted the cot so the bundle of blankets flapped up in the air. Yet still nothing. Pavo’s mouth hung open, his face a picture of total serenity.

Gallus crouched down next to Pavo’s ear and rested his elbows on the side of the cot. ‘Pavo,’ he called in a honeyed tone. ‘Breakfast has been served — care to join us?’ At this Pavo’s face curled into a full smile, and he grunted happily. Gallus’ face twisted.

‘Now wake up you little turd before I have you stoned to bloody death!’ He roared at full centurion volume, whipping the cot up and over. Pavo tumbled onto the dirt floor, flapping at the edges of his blanket as he sprang to standing position in a flash. Gallus stepped backwards, his face pointed in rage.

‘Reporting sir…duty calls!’ The bewildered Pavo stammered.

‘Duty calls? We’ve been here before, soldier. What in Hades kind of way is that to address your centurion, your primus pilus?’ Gallus retorted, his voice laced with fury.

Pavo’s eyes rolled as he adjusted to his surroundings and he blinked at the thick matter that had collected in them. Gallus allowed a deliberate silence to pass.

‘Sir…I…oh, bugger,’ Pavo grumbled as he shook his head clear. ‘I’m sorry, sir I was only trying to…it will never happen again.’

‘Too bloody right. We all had a long wait for sleep before last night, and you’re no better than any of us,’ growled Gallus. ‘I’ll tell Nerva you were waiting on me. So be outside the tribunus’ tent by the time I’ve had my morning turd, Pavo,’ he snapped. ‘If you’re late for that, the tribunus gets to hear about your performance.’ Gallus whipped around to leave, and then barked back over his shoulder with the slightest hint of mischief, ‘And sort your kit out — it’s a bloody disgrace!’

As Gallus disappeared through the flap, Optio Felix came in before Pavo could take a breath.

‘Get moving, Pavo!’ He roared.

As Pavo stumbled around the tent to gather up his gear, his mind reeled — he burned with shame but felt an odd spark of…elation; the ice-cold centurion had torn strips from him, but the way he done it was almost human — like the way he would talk to the veterans. He grasped his kit in both arms and hopped through the tent flap into the brilliant blue morning. He just had time to note the circle of grinning legionaries awaiting him before torrents of icy cold water crashed into either side of his head and for a moment he felt as though he was underwater. His ears cleared and the sound of roaring laughter filled the void, and he blinked away to see the grinning faces of the legionaries of his contubernium. Spotting the buckets behind the backs of Avitus and several others, he pointed and opened his mouth, but before he could protest, Felix butted in.

‘Pavo. Tribunus’ tent. Remember what the centurion said — he’s probably wiping by now.’

‘I’ve got an appointment with the tribunus, let me through,’ Pavo stuttered.

The larger guard of the two looked at his colleague with a raised eyebrow. ‘Got an appointment, apparently.’

The smaller guard replied. ‘Getting his teeth checked is he?’ Before bursting into a snigger, shared by the other guard, who added.

‘Aye, bog off, son, the tribunus is busy.’

Pavo felt his blood boil. The delayed rage from his rude awakening and subsequent humiliation now came steaming to the surface. ‘The primus pilus sent me, and he’s in a foul mood. So let me through or you’ll have him to deal with!’

Suddenly, the first guard stood at attention, his face rigid, stepping to one side. ‘Sorry, sir!’ Pavo grinned — that had shown him — then moved one foot forward to enter the tent, when a hand slapped onto his shoulder.

‘As you were, soldier,’ Gallus nodded to the stiffened guard. ‘So you made it,’ Gallus observed coolly without looking at Pavo, beckoning him on through the tent flap.

Inside the tent was pleasantly warm, with a small fire smouldering in a brazier. Nerva’s cot lay dishevelled, the blankets lay knotted across the floor — maybe the tribunus had had a restless night too? However, Nerva sat at his table in an incongruously crisp, white tunic, his jowls quivering as he muttered to himself, staring at the map. His hair was still wet and combed neatly back from washing, and despite a slight bagging under his eyes he looked a different man from the tired, irritable figure he had cut late into the previous night. Pavo glanced down at his own filthy kit — a stark contrast to the tribunus. At Nerva’s side, the equally transformed figure of Amalric was seated, free of chains, and wearing his cleaned blonde hair tied back from his narrow features. He too wore a clean legionary tunic and apart from the cuts and bruises on his face and arms, he looked alert and fresh. His expression was one of keen interest in the maps and papers that Nerva had spread across the table.

Pavo’s sense of unease grew for a few moments, as the tribunus and the Goth remained engrossed. Then Gallus shuffled impatiently, before offering a polite cough to announce their presence.

‘Gallus,’ Nerva smiled. ‘Come in, draw up a stool.’ He beckoned with his hands before lowering his head into the maps again. Gallus drew a timber stool from the side of the tent and sat across from Amalric. Pavo stood still, realising his name had not yet been mentioned. He was not keen on committing another foolish mistake today.

Nerva traced a finger over the map and Amalric nodded in agreement and Gallus craned over the parchment for a better view. Looking up, Nerva began; ‘We have some vital new information about our surroundings from…’ he stopped, staring up at Pavo. ‘What are you doing, boy? I told you to draw yourself a stool!’

Flustered, Pavo dropped his starchy legionary pose and stumbled over to the table, swiping at the remaining stool. A boy, he repeated over in his head, they think I’m just a boy! Then, pulling his seat in, he bashed the edge of the table, sending a goblet of water near the edge of the map spinning precariously on its base. Gallus quickly wrapped a hand around the stem of the goblet, and shot Pavo a look of wide-eyed disbelief, before turning back to Nerva, who took the goblet and placed it on the ground with a shake of his head.

‘As I was saying, we have some vital new information about our whereabouts and the local populace now. Last night was fraught and some things were said which should not have been said.’ Amalric looked both Gallus and Pavo in the eye in turn. ‘Amalric has sworn loyalty to the empire. As long as we are an enemy of these…Hunnoi.’

‘Can he prove his loyalty, sir?’ Gallus spoke firmly, holding the Goth’s gaze. ‘I mean, the Goths have a history of backstabbing us. And remember Brutus, sir? We are already relying on them for nearly half our manpower — maybe we should be more cautious in allowing them to influence our strategy?’

Pavo’s mind flashed with the gritty images of the battle in the countryside — Brutus would be with them now around this table were it not for the Goths.

‘Amalric has made his intentions clear, Gallus. A common enemy has wiped out his people, and he offers us his knowledge of their abilities and weaknesses. And remember that the Goths who raid over the Danubius are of the Thervingi — pawns of that belligerent whoreson Athanaric.’

‘But his very people,’ Gallus continued regardless, stabbing an accusing finger at the Gothic prince, ‘the ones on this land, the Greuthingi, slaughtered half my first century on the reconnaissance…’

‘We were fighting for our lives!’ Amalric barked — his tone was of frustration rather than rage. Gallus braced and the air grew thick with tension. ‘I do not know of what happened to your century, but my people — and remember all of them are dead now — were being hunted like animals. Is it any wonder they attacked a unit of foreign soldiers on their land?’ A silence ensued, Gallus and Amalric holding each other’s gaze. Finally, Amalric continued; ‘Turn your mind from distrust, Roman. Your people will be ground into the dust like mine if you cannot.’

Gallus raised his eyebrows and turned to Nerva.

‘We are in no position to bargain, Gallus. Last night made it clear how thin our intelligence is on this sortie — we need him and he’s offered to help. Bear with me on this one.’

Amalric spoke at Gallus across the table. ‘Centurion — my race consists of heroes, dogs and nobodies, just like yours. I don’t presume to justify the actions of the Goths you talk of who attacked your men. All I care about is finding and finishing those who slaughtered my wife — slaughtered her in front of my eyes.’ The Gothic prince punched a fist into his palm, his words fizzing through clenched teeth.

Pavo watched as Gallus and Amalric stared at each other and something changed in the atmosphere around the table. The Goth’s eyes were glassy, his lips trembled, and Gallus wore a wrinkle of pain on his face — a rare insight through the centurion’s wall of iron. Another silence ensued.

‘Then I’ll go with that,’ Gallus spoke at last. Then his face fell expressionless again as he leaned over the map. ‘Let’s see what we can thrash out.’

Nerva visibly relaxed and pulled his stool in closer to the map. ‘Amalric has told me more than we would ever have worked out in months of roaming this peninsula aimlessly.’

Pavo and Gallus pulled in closer.

‘First of all, and most importantly, we know where we are. Well you might have guessed we are on the Bosporus peninsula, but now we know we are here,’ Nerva jabbed a finger into the map, at the right-most tip of the diamond-shaped peninsula, ‘around halfway up the eastern coast. That storm must have been a mighty one — pushed us right past the headland!’ he flicked his eyebrows up, eyeing the distance the fleet had been blown from the planned landing point at the southern tip. ‘Furthermore, Amalric has gone into detail about the Hunnoi that we spoke of last night.’ He glanced at Pavo, who nodded a little too enthusiastically. ‘They are known more commonly in Scythia and beyond as the Hun.’ Pavo felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. ‘They came here just over six months ago, and since then they have stopped only to rape the settlements in their path. The Goths haven’t been chased from this land…’ Nerva looked each of them in the eye, his expression grave, ‘…they never left.’

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.’