Legionary

Chapter 8

Night cloaked the forest and only the hooting of an owl pierced the silence around the crumbling fort. The crisp air tingled on Gallus’ skin as he lay prone in the bracken. Risking another glance over the foliage, he scrutinised the inside of the fort through the jagged crevice that had rent the south wall.

A fire in the centre of the flagstone courtyard danced, silhouetting the Gothic warband gathering around its heat — every one of them towering like giants, their topknotted blonde locks adding to their other-worldly appearance. But they wore no armour or weapons, he noticed keenly. He flicked his gaze up to the dark shapes strolling the battlements; these men were clad in red leather cuirasses and longswords and bows hung on their backs. Fifteen of them in total, a large watch for such a small fort. Did they know something was coming for them?

He had sent a small party back to the site of the ambush at dawn, to give their comrades a proper burial. Mithras bless you, Felix. Yet he suspected the spectre of the Goths would rise again when they reached this first fort. Then, a gentle scuffle behind him signalled the return of Avitus from his scouting mission.

‘I’ve circled the fort, sir,’ he panted, wiping the sweat from his bald pate and slipping his helmet back on. ‘There is no larger force in the vicinity, and I count ninety inside the fort, all fighting men. They are definitely the ambush party we came across yesterday.’

Gallus clenched his fist against the hilt of his sword.

‘Prisoners?’

Avitus nodded firmly, his lips pursed. ‘Just the one, sir. Young lad called Proteus. A farmer boy, only signed up with us weeks ago.’

Gallus ground his teeth. A farmer boy; words that could describe most of the legion these days. The men he had sent back for the burials had returned, reporting that only forty-seven bodies lay in the forest — yet forty-eight were missing. He and Felix had debated earlier that day on whether to engage the Goths. Now the decision was made.

‘The quicker we move the less pain our man in there will suffer. Take up your position, Avitus.’

As Avitus slid down next to the other legionaries on the ground, Gallus took one final scan of the area. He waited, eyes trained on the Gothic watchmen on the walls. The silence grew agonizing until at last, the pair on the front wall turned in towards the gatehouse. Gallus cupped his hands over his mouth and whistled a trilling note twice.

Splitting into two groups, the legionaries scuttled for the two corner towers of the front wall of the fort, stilling themselves against the chill of the stonework. Gallus, leading the right-hand group, screwed up his eyes at the towers; the timber tower houses on top of the stone walls had long since decayed and this would be their way in — giving them a semi-fortified high ground to hold at the same time. But one slip, one yelp, any mistake and they’d have nearly twice their number to deal with in a straight fight. Gallus looked to the far end of the wall and prayed that Felix and his men were ready in the blackness.

Felix counted behind tightly closed eyes. Four, five, six…

‘Go!’ He hissed to a startled Zosimus. The big Thracian then swung a length of looped hemp rope up to a timber stump on the outside edge of the tower, where it caught silently. He yanked it twice and then grunted. ‘It’s all yours, sir,’ he whispered.

Felix flashed a wry smile; being the shortest legionary in the century meant he was always the first name on the sheet where stealth was required, as with poor Avitus on the other side of the fort. ‘Smallest buggers in the century versus the tallest warriors in the world,’ he cursed bitterly. He filled his lungs as he looped and knotted the rope around his torso, kicked off his boots and passed his helmet to Zosimus before hoisting himself to walk up the wall, wincing at the scuffling and scraping of his bare feet on the masonry. His arms stiffened as he started pacing upwards, his eyes fixed on the lip of the tower. Flakes of dry and rotten wood sprinkled in his eyes as his weight on the rope ground at the stump up above. Gently placing one foot after the other Felix settled into a rhythm, and his heart steadied a little. Then there was a terrible groan of bending wood. He froze, praying for the beam to settle. Then there was a sharp crack.

His world whooshed upside down, a blinding white light filled his vision as his head cracked off of the stonework and his sword slipped from its sheath, clattering against the wall. Gruff yells broke out from the battlements above. As Felix’s head stopped spinning, he quickly realised he was dangling like a fish on a line, but then he was jolted upwards. Panicked, he grappled at the rope, kicking out to get a foothold on the wall again.

Lurching all too rapidly towards the top of the wall, he stiffened in horror; a snarling blonde-locked and bearded Gothic guardsman glared down at him with icy-blue eyes and a snarl. The blood pounded in his ears and he started kicking out from the wall to increase his weight. Still he rose until he could smell the ale from the Goth’s breath. He closed his eyes as he felt himself being scraped over the parapet and onto the battlements, clenching his fists in grim expectation.

‘Whoa!’ Hissed Gallus. ‘Easy, friend — you’re safe!’

Felix opened his eyes to his centurion and Avitus, huddled on the battlement behind their shields under a bombardment of missiles from the insides of the fort. The Goth remained hanging over the wall, now with a spatha lodged in his back and his blonde hair dripping red. Felix ripped the weapon from the corpse.

‘Get down,’ Avitus growled, yanking the optio under cover just as a volley of arrows sclaffed off their shields. Pinned down, they glanced in hope at the edge of both towers — no reinforcements yet. But now the wall-guard had raced to the scene of the incident. Seven of them.

‘Push up or we’re dead!’ Gallus barked pointing to the narrow section of battlement still with covering parapet on both the inside and outside.

Avitus locked shields with his centurion and they raced forward, butting into the midriffs of the Goths, who stumbled backwards. Felix crouched between them; the narrow battlement meant their flank would be safe, but the weight of Gothic numbers would quickly tell, pushing them back out into the hail of arrows.

‘Be ready, Felix,’ Gallus panted.

Felix braced as two huge axe-bearers charged at them. Two crashing blows rained on the mini shield wall, sending the Romans staggering backwards. Then, as the giants swung their weapons again, Avitus and Gallus lifted their shields apart for Felix to lurch out, a spatha in each hand, thrusting them into the ribcages of their attackers. The Goths staggered backwards, gurgling and then toppling onto the courtyard of the fort. A thud sounded from the other end of the battlements and the remaining five Goths on the wall spun to the source; Roman reinforcements. The wall guards wavered, every moment seeing more Romans pour onto the walls behind the shielded trio. One barked an order and they turned and fled down the ladders to their mustering kinsmen in the courtyard below.

Felix grinned at his centurion — the wall was theirs! But Gallus nodded briskly to the rope.

‘Ready?’ The centurion hissed.

Felix risked a glance at the end, dangling in the courtyard below; surrounded by the swell of Goths. ‘Oh right, forgot about this bit. Great,’ he spat, taking up the rope.

Gallus cupped his hands to his mouth and let out another double whistle. A rumbling grew from the rocks where they had hidden moments before.

A wrap of plumbatae came crashing over the wall on either side and the legionaries distributed the lead weighted darts among their number. Each legionary took his plumbata at the ready.

‘Let ‘em have it!’ Gallus roared.

Felix watched the volley of darts rain down, sinking into the Gothic front line and driving back their swell from the end of the rope. He mouthed a silent prayer to Mithras and leapt from the battlement, his palms searing as he descended the rope. The Goths watched in an impotent fury, their eyes sparkling with rage behind their shield wall as the optio slipped down onto the courtyard. Felix felt his limbs turn to jelly as he slapped onto the flagstones just as the rattle of plumbatae stopped like a spent hailstorm. He glanced up to see Gallus, wide eyed, holding his plumbata-free arms out in apology.

The Gothic commander stood tall and pointed his sword tip down at Felix, face torn in rage. ‘Charge!’

Felix, wide-eyed, scrambled for the main gate, scraping in the darkness for the bolt.

‘Gut him like a pig!’ The Gothic commander screamed as his men poured forward.

Felix winced as he tore open his hand pulling at the wrong end of the bolt. He felt the earth rumble as the roaring Goths raced at his unprotected back, hearing even the intake of breath as they drew back their swords to strike. Then the bolt chunked free.

He rolled out into the night and the Gothic warriors tumbled out behind him. Utterly disoriented, he scrambled up to his feet.

‘Duck!’ Growled a familiar voice, cut off by the twang of a scorpion bolt.

Collapsing instinctively, Felix felt his hair parting under the slipstream of the iron bolt as it whipped over his head and sunk into the Gothic pack just emerging from the fort gates. Felix blinked up at Quadratus, his blonde moustache raised as he grinned from behind the makeshift scorpion.

‘Thanks for the warning!’ Felix croaked, stumbling forward.

‘Like to keep you on your toes, sir,’ Quadratus grunted as he set off another bolt.

Gallus clenched his fists as the scorpion pinned the Goths back into the fort and against the back wall. ‘We’ve got ‘em — take the flanks!’ He cried, waving his men towards the ladders.

‘Avitus, keep four men and hold the walls — watch for reinforcements. Zosimus, you’re with me.’

His men were off before the order was even finished, pouring down the ladders to flank the mass of Goths, now in disarray. Pinned between the twin rapiers of spatha and scorpion, the Gothic battle cry waned. A flurry of stabbing, gurgling and iron smashing followed. Gallus butted up and forward with his shield, crunching into the face of the Gothic commander. Seizing the moment, he pulled his shield to one side and thrust his spatha at the throat of the man. The blade stopped just as it nicked the Goth’s skin. All around them, a clatter of swords hitting flagstones rang out.

‘Mercy,’ the Gothic commander growled, bitterness lacing his words.

Gallus glanced around; his men jostled, their spathas hovering, ready to finish the job. The remaining Goths, barely in double figures, stared groundward, awaiting their fate.

‘Collect their weapons,’ Gallus conceded, gasping. A bitter sigh rose from the legionaries. ‘Collect their weapons and bind their hands,’ he barked, ‘and find where they are holding our man prisoner.’

‘That was a hard thing to do, sir,’ Felix offered quietly beside him, ‘but the right thing.’

‘I’m not even sure of that, Felix. Remember yesterday?’

‘The men have had revenge, sir. They’ll always grumble when the red mist is down.’

Gallus eyed his optio. ‘Indeed. It’s not blood I want now, Felix. I want answers.’