Legionary

Chapter 50

Night fell on the coast of Bosporus as the eighth century of the XI Claudia bedded into their regulation ditch and stake encampment — a miniature of the standard legion camp. Centurion Aquinius had chosen the site carefully. The features offered by the location, on the side of a plain, were a sheer cliff face to the immediate west, a clear view to the beach, the sea and the disembarking fleet to the south and an open vista of the inland horizon to the north and east.

He had been happy to be trusted with the coast watch task — a relatively plum sortie; far less likely to run into riders on the beach, and the boats were a handy option should they find themselves in trouble. Nothing could take them by surprise here; he smiled in satisfaction, lifting his water skin to take a cooling swig, eyeing the setting sun.

Twenty sentries stood watch at regular intervals along the palisade, while the other sixty huddled around the braziers at each tent, gratefully munching boiled goat stew. It had been a stroke of luck to come across a deserted farmstead, still populated with fat livestock. Now after their day of quick march across boggy terrain, this was the perfect tonic. The fleet had cruised smoothly, with a gentle wind providing the perfect pace to stay level with their land escort. Now, like a train of ants, the crew from the fleet filed up from the beach towards the camp to eat and to gather salted beef, pulses and fresh water for the following day. Only the skeleton crew of the giant pirate quinquereme remained at sea, as a contingency measure against a naval attack. So far, so good, Aquinius thought as he tore a piece of bread from his ration.

The sentries at the gate of the camp shuffled in agitation as the aroma of cooking meat wafted past them. They examined the inland horizons, keen to find any distraction until their shift finished. A small cloud of dust puffed up from the eastern plain. Both men jumped to attention in alarm.

‘What is it?’ The first sentry hissed, bringing his spear forward.

‘Will you take it easy? Wait a moment and let’s see what it is before you declare war…’ his companion spat. Then he, too, screwed his eyes up. After a moment his shoulders dropped, and he relaxed his grip on his shield. ‘Look, red leather armour — it’s the foederati messenger,’ he chuckled, ‘what are you like?’

A lone foederatus was tasked with keeping the shore century in communication with the main body of the legion. A heartbeat between the two parties, and it had worked well. The billowing blonde hair of the rider settled as he slowed on approaching the camp entrance. Then he saluted the sentries dutifully.

The sentries looked at each other in mischief. ‘What’s the password?’ The first sentry called.

‘You’ve let me in twice already, don’t be ridiculous!’ He moaned in a Gothic twang.

The sentries simply grinned and stood firm.

‘Teutoberg!’ The foederatus sighed.

Aquinius wandered among the legionaries, offering conversation and encouragement to the fresh and unfamiliar faces of the recruits who had flooded his century only days ago. He supped at his second course; an urn of broad bean broth, allowing the salty aroma to curl into his nostrils as his eyes passed over the fleet crew trudging back to the beach to board their vessels again. He felt his eyelids leaden at the final traces of sunlight slipping from the horizon above the cliffs. He sipped and then stopped, his brow furrowed — a rather frantic figure was waving from the deck of the quinquereme. Then he noticed the train of crew. Suddenly they broke into a run, dropping their supplies. Every hair on the back of Aquinius’ neck rippled as he heard the dark rumble of hooves from behind him. Surely not…from the cliffs?

He turned numbly to see a dark wash of riders pour over the cliff edge. He rubbed his eyes in disbelief as the Hun riders strafed their animals down the treacherous and impossible terrain unharmed. Like a dark avalanche, thousands of them hurtled towards the western stake palisade — sparse and poorly fixed as it was, the riders would be upon them in an instant. Aquinius dropped his urn of broth, the scalding liquid leapt up in protest, coating his bare shins, yet he felt nothing. The legionaries, too, were completely stunned, only being able to stand in disbelief and watch the wave of destruction as it roared over them.

‘To arms!’ Aquinius roared. Those who managed to grab some form of weapon or protection managed at best a few parries before being swept to their death by the merciless torrent, the Huns cutting down the century like tall grass. Aquinius stumbled backwards, flailing, before he fell to his knees. A lasso wrenched around his neck and with a dull crack, he was lifted from the spot and trailed like a broken doll behind the rider who had snared him.

Within a handful of heartbeats it was over, the camp was carpeted in black-blooded remains. The Huns circled the centre of the camp, whooping a piercing high-pitched victory cry, while their majority thundered down to the shore to butcher the crew.

The celebrations settled, and the Huns milled towards the front gate of the camp. As they approached, two petrified sentries stared back at their certain death. The first sentry glanced briefly over his shoulder to see the shocked figure of the still-mounted foederatus, barely through the gates — frozen like an ice-statue.

‘Ride! Get out of here and get word to the legion!’ The sentry screamed. The foederatus quickly snapped out of his trance and spurred his horse round into a full gallop. Almost instinctively, the Horde of Huns swarmed towards the gate to pursue the Goth. The sentry stood with his hands wrapped around an unused palisade stake, and waited until the thundering horde were almost upon him before he dropped the post across the gate just as the first handful of riders made to pass through. With a crack of horse limbs, the riders were thrown from their mounts.

A precious few moments had been bought for the foederatus to make it back to the legion, the sentry gulped. Then he felt his bowels loosen at the scream of his fellow sentry being butchered. Glancing skywards, he searched for Mithras, then a thundercloud of arrows tore through his torso, and a glistening blade scythed through his neck.

The foederatus horseman dug his heels into the sides of his mount without mercy, and felt the beast straining at the breakneck pace they gathered. He did not allow any let up until he was almost into the forest to the northeast. He began to slow as his beast tired, turning eventually at the terrible victory whoop from the shore.

In the distance, the Classis Moesica fleet was ablaze, fire arrows raining down on the inferno. Without those ships, the legion was in dire trouble. Without news of this, the legion was truly doomed.

He jumped as something caught his eye from the trees.

‘Time to die, Roman lover!’ A Hun horseman trotted towards him, an arrow nocked in his bow. Two others appeared silently to encircle him.

Fear hammered at his heart as he raised his hands, shaking his head. ‘No,’ he stammered, dropping his sword and reaching into his purse.

‘So the Roman lover thinks he can buy his life?’ The three Huns sneered.

The foederatus very slowly raised a small gold Christian Chi-Rho cross hanging from a chain, then slipped it on over his head and held it to show them.

‘I’m no Roman lover,’ he grinned. ‘I’m with you!’