Legionary

Chapter 49

Every season seemed to have touched the valleys of Bosporus at once. A summer heat swirled in the air over the spring green grass carpeting the valley floor that the legion marched upon; lush pine forest coated the horizon inland to the right of the column, punctuated by towering grey mountains, capped in pure white and a tang of pine danced on the gentle breeze.

Pavo eyed the peaks and then looked to his left to see the shimmering waters of the Pontus Euxinus, slipping gradually between the green slopes as the legion moved inland. He tapped his fingers onto the disc of the phalera briefly, wondering if he would see the waters again.

‘Pavo,’ Zosimus grunted. ‘I hear you know your onions about these Huns? Felix says you’ve been brown-nosing Nerva about it.’

‘Eh?’ Pavo shook his head, glowering ahead at the optio. ‘Just stuff I’ve read.’

Zosimus looked entirely unimpressed. ‘Well, let’s hear it then?’

Avitus and Quadratus marched a fraction closer to get within earshot.

Pavo sighed, remembering the recruits swapping horror stories about the Huns on the deck of the Aquila. Keep it down-to-earth, he thought. ‘Well, there is a section in the library in Constantinople that’s stuffed full of scrolls from old writers. There’s a bundle from a geographer, an Egyptian called Ptolamaeus, who knew a lot about the people outside of the empire. And just by chance, he’d been in contact with them — the Huns. He wrote about how they lived; always on horseback, sleeping on their horses even! They don’t settle either; he wrote about them being far to the north and east of here, but he reckoned that because of some power struggle way to the east, it was only a matter of time before the Huns came west and arrived at the empire. Anyway, that’s really all I know.’

‘I think it’s a safe bet that that is a latrine-load more than we know put together and doubled, Pavo,’ Avitus mused less than subtly.

‘Aye, but what about their armies — do they have legions, what do they do with prisoners, all that stuff?’ Zosimus quizzed.

Pavo’s mind flashed with the memory of one scroll. Etched on it was a scene of a battlefield; the Huns had fought, won, and left behind a curious and massive dark heap in the centre of the plain, circled by carrion birds. He looked straight ahead. ‘They don’t take prisoners.’ The three listening in fell back in an uncomfortable silence.

Finally, Zosimus shot back. ‘Well, they’ll be tasting iron soon enough.’

Quadratus and Avitus replied with a throaty chuckle.

Just then a murmur of excitement rippled through the column. The foederati scout up ahead waved frantically.

‘Theodosia, dead ahead!’ Gallus boomed over his shoulder, raising a hand. ‘Full halt!’

Pavo craned his neck to examine the plain below; a squat stone wall ringed a collection of thatched and tiled roofs — once a Roman town, now Gothic. But something wasn’t right — the place was still, lifeless. The buzz of excitement had died as the rest of the column saw the tell-tale signs; the walkway on the wall was deserted, no smoke rose from the chimneys and no flag or banner flapped on the pole in what looked like the town centre. Amalric had talked of his people having been exterminated — but this looked as if they had simply vanished. Something was terribly wrong. Then he spotted the dark circle of vultures spinning in the grey sky above.

Gallus turned to the column and eyed the front line of the first century. ‘Pavo, Avitus, Zosimus, Quadratus. You’re going ahead to scout for any danger — stealth is the key here. I don’t want the legion stumbling into a trap, so keep your heads down and let’s see what the story is in there. Avitus, you have the lead.’

‘Sir!’ Avitus barked stepping forward. ‘Right, ladies, drop your packs and spears — swords and shields only for this. Move!’

The three leapt forward at the diminutive Avitus’ incongruous roar.

‘Thinks he’s a bloody centurion,’ Zosimus grumbled.

‘Pipe down, Zosimus,’ Avitus snapped over his shoulder as they jogged ahead, doubled over while flitting through the tall grass.

Pavo longed to see a trader, a child, a guard, anyone as they thudded down to the dirt trail approaching the main gate. But nothing. The gate itself lay ajar, but not far enough to see inside.

‘Sir?’ He gasped.

‘Pavo — keep your voice down.’

‘Sir,’ he whispered, ‘Should we look for an alternative entrance?’

‘Gate’s open — why should we? You reckon it’s a trap?’

‘It just seems…too easy?’

Avitus continued his jog, gritting his teeth. The other three kept with him until eventually he relented and stopped. ‘Fair point. You don’t just leave the town gate open, eh? All right, what are our options?’

‘We could chuck a rope up the wall?’ Quadratus suggested, stroking his moustache.

‘There’s got to be a guard entrance. And if the main gate’s open that might be too?’ Pavo offered.

‘Yep,’ Avitus scanned the stonework. To the left edge of the town, a small, arched timber panel presented itself. ‘Okay, Pavo. Your idea so you’re up — get in there and give us the thumbs up from the wall. Then we’ll come in the main gate. If we don’t see you, we know you’ve had it.’

Pavo gulped as a pang of cool terror grasped his heart. ‘Me?’

‘Don’t be a fairy about it,’ Zosimus growled. ‘Look on the positive side — there could be nobody in there and we could all be sitting down eating roast boar and supping ale before sunset. Now get a move on!’

‘Oi! I’m in charge,’ Avitus hissed.

‘I should’ve been put in charge over you two clowns,’ Quadratus sighed.

‘You? You couldn’t organise a hangover in a wine cellar,’ Avitus snapped.

Pavo stepped away from the quarrelling three. Sod it, he thought, stalking forward in a crouch towards the guard door.

‘Attaboy, Pavo,’ Zosimus hissed after him.

The wall was the height of three men and the mortar was flaked in disrepair, but there were no signs of siege damage — if it had fallen to the riders then it had not been taken by force. He slowed as he reached the guard door. Nudging the timbers with his shield boss, the door creaked back on its hinges, sending a shiver up his spine. The gloom before him offered up only the first few stone stairs of a staircase, no doubt leading to the battlements above, then darkness prevailed. Next time, I keep my mouth shut.

He stepped into the shadows. Looking up, a tiny square of white light presented itself as the doorway onto the battlements. Here we go. He stalked up each stair carefully, tapping his sword flat ahead of him like a blind man. The staircase wound upwards squarely and he broke into a hop as his confidence grew along with the white light above. A wave or the middle finger, he wondered, what should I give them as the signal? He chuckled as he sprang the last few steps. Then the breath stopped in his lungs and his heart lurched. A glint of iron appeared and disappeared just above him.

Time stopped as he stood frozen in the darkness, his thundering heartbeat filled his head. Then a scream filled the stony enclosure, echoing from the walls like a thousand warriors, and Pavo ducked behind his shield instinctively — just as a sword hammered into its rim, sending a shower of sparks through the air. In the instant of illumination, the twisted features of a scar-faced warrior appeared.

‘What the,’ Pavo gasped, steadying himself. Then, from behind him, footsteps thudded up the stairs and another war cry pierced the air. ‘Oh bugger!’ He cried, swinging his sword into the blackness behind him and butting his shield out above him. Then a sword whipped past his chest, scraping his armour and another hacked into the stair by his ankle. Pavo threw down his sword and shield and leapt from the stairwell — clawing out at the blackness, his fingers whipping through the air in the brief moment of weightlessness. Just as he braced himself for the plummet onto hard stone below, his fingers snapped onto something and his body slapped against the stonework — the other side of the stairwell. His attackers roared as they smashed swords with each other.

Pavo pounced on the instant of confusion, pulling himself up, feeling around the floor for the stairs. Sprinting upwards, the square of white light was just above. He lurched up until it grew and enveloped him as he burst out onto the battlements, gasping. The signal! He panicked, rushing for the edge of the wall, but there was nothing; just grass where he had left them. Just then, his two attackers bundled out into the walkway too. They stalked towards him, flat yellow faces grinning as they noted his lack of weapons. Pavo whipped out his dagger, backing off. The warriors were both built like bulls — short and stocky, with flowing dark locks and wispy moustaches. They wore layers of skins and leggings, with crude linen armour over their chests and held long, straight swords in their hands. Filling the width of the battlement, they forced him backwards. Pavo craned to see over the parapet. He whipped his hands up, waving, and roared — surely Avitus and the lads would be watching, but still the plain lay empty. The Huns barked at each other in their jagged tongue, agitated, and then one relented, turning to roar out across the town. From the streets, the clopping of horses’ hooves rattled out, a Hun rider raced towards the main gate, lowered in his saddle — then burst from the gate and thundered across the plain.

Bugger! Pavo hissed to himself as the rider shot for the horizon. Then he turned to his two attackers, raised his dagger, and remembered his own words to Zosimus only moments ago. They don’t take prisoners. His legs wobbled as he staggered back. Then he thumped into the end wall of the battlement — the breath lurched from his lungs. The Huns smirked and ran for him.

Pavo slid to the ground, kicking out towards the nearest Hun’s gut. He felt the man’s ribs crack as he fell backwards. Then the glistening sword of the other Hun arced down for his neck. Pavo, penned in at the corner, could only brace himself and tear his dagger across the path of the blow. A metallic screech sent sparks flying as his dagger caught the blow and sheared in half. The shard of dagger blade sclaffed up and across his knuckles, gouging deep into the skin and chafing the bone.

Roaring in agony, instinct took over and he sprang up to headbutt the momentarily vulnerable Hun, catching him right on the nose. A sickening crack rang out and the Hun moaned, dropping his sword. Pavo dipped to take the weapon, bringing it up to rip it across the Hun’s midriff — but the linen armour rendered the blow harmless and the sword flew from his hand into the town below. Jumping backwards the Hun reached for the bow slung on his back, wrenching back the shaft and the razor-sharp bone tip. Pavo’s eyes widened — it was now or never.

As the Hun’s fingers slackened on the arrow, Pavo leapt, punching upwards to knock the bow offline. The arrow rocketed upwards and he brought the stump of his dagger ripping into the Hun’s throat. With a gurgling scream, the warrior toppled from the battlement into the town below. Pavo’s limbs felt leaden as he staggered back from the edge, then he heard a dull growl behind him. His stomach lurched as he spun to face the noise; the sweating, pinched features of the first winded Hun stared back at him, teeth gritted as he pointed his sword into Pavo’s face.

‘Your life is over, Roman. Just like the Goths,’ he nodded towards the town centre.

Pavo glanced over, but could see nothing behind the taller buildings in the way.

‘They opened their gates, expecting mercy — they thought we might let them live as slaves. They were wrong! Now you will join them. Tengri wills it…’

A distant whirring caught Pavo’s ear; iron…coming his way.

‘Duck!’ he heard behind him.

Dropping to his knees in lieu of any other strategy, Pavo felt a spatha zip over his head from behind, then plunge into the Hun’s neck, sending a torrent of dark blood into the air. The warrior tumbled into the town below, lying broken next to his comrade in the bloodwashed packed-earth street. Pavo turned to see Avitus at the end of the battlement.

‘What kept you?’ He stammered.

Pavo stood well back as the legion filtered into the town centre. Zosimus, to his immediate right, was still pale at the sight of the mountainous feast that awaited the vultures.

All around the flagpole. Pink limbs and shards of white bone projected from the grotesque pile. Severed heads of men, women and children, locked in spasms of pain and gaping emptily into the distance. All this was coated in a dark-crimson sheath.

Amalric looked at the scene with the cold expression of a man who had seen the same — and worse — many times over. He stood with Nerva in a solemn silence.

‘We’re always one step behind, eh?’

‘Sir?’ Pavo blinked, turning to Gallus beside him. However, the centurion’s gaze was lost in the mountain of gore.

Then a lilting harmony rose up, a soft voice gliding through a foreign lament. Amalric. Horsa came to stand beside him, placing an arm on his shoulder.

Pavo looked around the circle. He thought of Tarquitius’ grim prophecy.

You will be dead within the year, boy, I can guarantee it…