The Scourge of Thracia

Chapter 8

The land echoed with a crunch-crunch-crunch of boots as the XI Claudia hastened west. Seventy nine recruits had fallen in the chaos at the Great Northern Camp. Now just two centuries-worth remained, and most of those marched with their heads down, knowing they had survived only because they had fled.

At the back of the marching column, Pavo stared into the broken flagstones and scattered grit of the ever-deteriorating Via Militaris flitting past underfoot. His boots grated on his callused ankles, his pack and shield gnawed at his shoulders, and the linen focale scarf he wore around his neck had slipped, allowing his chain mail to grind against his neck. Yet he felt nothing.

Nothing.

His knuckles were white, clutching the strip of red silk, shaking. He had barely eaten in the two days since the Great Northern Camp had been overrun. The scent of pine in the air stoked a dull, gnawing hunger and the creeping fatigue of the march was quick to ally with it, but he felt no urge to tend to either.

She’s gone?

He mouthed the question again, looking up and around the furrowed clouds in the mackerel sky. Carrion hawks danced on the zephyrs above, cawing and shrieking, ignorant to his question. He glanced at the countryside around them: tracts of rippling grass and rustling groves of dark, Macedonian Pine that offered no answer; sombre grey granite monoliths that gazed back in silence. Then the fresh October wind strengthened and searched around and under his armour as if in reply.

It was like a scourge of sorrow, an unseen shade drawing a rake across his heart, utter solitude despite the hundreds of men who marched just ahead of him.

Just then, a chorus of weak whimpers broke out over the winds. Pavo glanced up, seeing one of the young recruits hobbling, but doing his best to stay in step with his comrades. A clear thought leaked out of his despair: to go and help the lad, or berate him? He chose to do neither, instead returning to his introspection. The clank-clank of his spatha, a lethal weapon that could have been used to defend her, seemed to be mocking him.

She needed me. I wasn’t there.

He felt a wave of sorrow come again, then braced, determined not to succumb to it. He had shed not a single tear since her death. You don’t deserve to grieve, he thought. You deserve only shame.

A series of yelps sounded, wrenching him from his melancholy. He glanced up the column, marching four abreast. Some thirteen ranks ahead, a hobbling recruit had stumbled out of line, red-faced and gasping for breath, wincing when he put weight on his right ankle. Sura, marching just behind Centurion Zosimus mid-column, jogged back to hoist the injured legionary to his feet and marched with him for a few paces to get him back in his stride, before falling back to the rear of the line to march alongside Pavo.

‘Pavo, these lads have been thrown into the flames here. They’ve not even had basic training,’ Sura said, flicking a finger over the rearmost of the two centuries the recruits had been hastily formed into. Pavo’s mind flashed with memories of the gruesome training he and Sura had endured on first enlisting with the XI Claudia. Four months of loaded marches — twenty miles in five hours and forty in twelve, through boggy and hilly ground, and carrying ridiculous iron weights and bags of sand added to their packs to compound their misery. They had endured this and emerged as hardy recruits, callused and expectant of the rigours of a march. These lads, it seemed, had been drawn straight from their homes. Indeed, it was only now that Pavo noticed how many of them had dark bloodstains seeping through the lacing on their boots — their ankles doubtless rubbed free of skin.

‘I heard them talking last night,’ Sura whispered. ‘They don’t believe in themselves. One of them even dismissed himself as a coward for not standing firm at the Great Northern Camp.’

‘In the end, nobody stood firm,’ Pavo muttered. ‘Not I nor you nor anyone else — veterans or recruits. We all fled. That is why the camp now lies as a broken ruin. The only Romans who remain there are corpses,’ he said, almost choking on this last word.

‘I heard them saying they thought they had let us down,’ Sura added, flicking his eyes towards Gallus, Dexion, Quadratus and Zosimus and then to Pavo.

‘They let nobody down,’ Pavo shook his head. ‘Their empire failed them. Put them at the front of a battle line with a spear and expected them to know what to do? It is no wonder they are broken.’

‘They’re not broken,’ Sura cut in swiftly.

Pavo looked up, snapped from his malaise by his friend’s urgent tone.

‘They need you to encourage them and train them,’ Sura continued. ‘They need you to inspire them. . sir.’

Pavo conjured something like a smile to his face. The effort was akin to drawing a stuck wagon from a morass. ‘I know things are getting bad when you start calling me sir,’ he replied.

Heartened by this, Sura clasped a hand to Pavo’s shoulder. ‘We keep going, we do our duty at this pass, then when Gratian’s armies are with us we’ll march against the Goths. We’ll find that bastard Farnobius and we’ll give him what he deserves.’

‘We?’ Pavo said.

‘Me, you, him,’ He flicked a finger forward to the front of the column. There, Dexion marched by Gallus’ side, head hung low. ‘He’s even worse than you: angry like a bear with a thorn in its bollocks.’ From here, Pavo noticed how Dexion wore a dark scowl whenever he switched his head left or right. It had been the same in the past nights, when he and his brother had sat together, both quiet and lost in memory.

‘But you said we. You as well?’

‘She was like a sister to me, Pavo,’ Sura replied. It was one of those rare moments when his friend’s impish veneer faded. ‘You might not have wept for her. . yet. But I have.’

Pavo nodded, straightening his marching stance, tucking his focale in under his mail shirt and taking in a lungful of air. ‘Back to the front of the century, Tesserarius,’ he said stiffly, with a faint smile of acknowledgement.

Sura returned the tepid look with a welcome, relieved smile. ‘Aye. . that’s more like it.’

As Sura jogged forward to the front of the century to march in step with Zosimus, Pavo again eyed the ragged line that the recruits had fallen into: men swaying from side to side, some marching a good few arm-lengths proud of the rest of the column, and one using his spear butt as a cane. He heard in his mind the echoing rebukes of leaders past — many now but shades — then clacked his optio’s staff on the flagstones. ‘Come on you bloody laggards!’ he bellowed. ‘Get in line, stay in step!’

As the recruits winced and drew closer together, he nodded in satisfaction, then felt something hot stinging his cheek. He reached up, touched the lone tear and gazed at the moisture on his finger.

I’ll never forget you, Felicia.

Then he recalled the giant Farnobius, standing over her corpse, the memory of that bestial laugh penetrating to his marrow.

And I will not stop until I have avenged you.

They marched on for the rest of that day, slowing only late in the afternoon when they came within sight of Trimontium on the southern edge of the Via Militaris. The compact Roman city was unmistakeable due to the three rounded granite hills that it was built on and around. And the settlement was wrapped in a double ring of walls with tall, rounded towers jutting from the corners. A perfect fortification, Gallus thought — were it not for the sparse garrison on the battlements. Just twelve men, he counted along the circumference of the lengthy parapet. As they approached, he saw that the two above the northern gatehouse wore the garb not of legionaries or auxiliaries, but of some private retinue: brown leather jerkins and conical helms with cavalry swords on their belts. ‘Who goes there?’ one called out, neglecting to ask for a watchword and confirming their non-legionary status.

Once inside, they saw a picture of normal civilian life. Bakers carried baskets of bread, women carried babies and chatted with friends, children played with balls and threw sticks for barking dogs. It was only the sight of an armoured column of soldiers that disrupted this. It had been some time since this town had known a true garrison, Gallus realised. No doubt the cohort or centuries stationed here had been summoned to the Great Northern Camp earlier in the year — and Mithras only knew where they were, dead or alive, now.

The Governor, a handsome fellow by the name of Urbicus with dark hair streaked gray at the temples, offered the men billet, food and use of the baths. His demeanour was warm and he insisted they enjoy bowls of hot broth and bread before sitting down to discussions. It was the constant wringing of his fingers that told Gallus the demeanour was but a veneer. Shortly after the XI Claudia had eaten, he and Urbicus talked in his offices.

‘The Great Northern Camp has fallen?’ he said, standing to face the fire, his usually busy hands clasped behind his back and at rest for once.

‘The camp and the passes are no more. Saturninus and what forces remain are retreating to the cities of southern and eastern Thracia while the Goths roam across central Thracia at will,’ Gallus replied. He noticed Urbicus’ hands wring together once again as he said this.

‘And your brief?’ the Governor asked.

‘We are headed west, to Trajan’s Gate.’

Urbicus remained silent for a moment, just a few snatched breaths sounding. Then he swung round, his face ashen. ‘Stay, Tribunus. Garrison my city.’

Gallus cocked one eyebrow. Had this fellow mistaken the broken youths of the XI Claudia as veterans who might defend his city walls?

‘Your men can enjoy warm beds, ample food and the safety of our walls here. A savage Thracian winter approaches. At Trajan’s Gate you will find only a windswept valley and bleak defences. That and. . the Coward of Ad Salices,’ he spat this moniker like a mouthful of phlegm.

‘Surely you mean Comes Geridus,’ Gallus frowned, ‘Master of the Passes?’

Urbicus snorted at the moniker. ‘Geridus is a craven old man. He will offer you nothing.’

Gallus was taken aback by the man’s vehemence. ‘You and he have a long history, it seems?’

Urbicus’ obstinance faltered. ‘I. . well, no, but. . ’

‘You have met him, I presume?’ Gallus persisted.

‘I have heard of him all I need to know,’ Urbicus insisted, his lips growing taut.

‘You judge a man by the words of others?’ Gallus said, cocking his head to one side and weighing the man’s suggestion: stay and suffer a stubborn and blinkered governor here, or march on and endure perhaps yet another Barzimeres at Trajan’s Gate? It did not matter, he realised; the Gate was his legion’s destination. His brief from Saturninus commanded so. Destiny demanded it. ‘We will be leaving in the morning, Governor.’

The next day, Gallus rose before dawn. As he dressed, a bracing chill searched around the empty barrack blocks to which they had been assigned. He warmed his hands at a small brazier by the door and saw the light coating of frost on the flagstones outside: winter was imminent, it seemed, just as the odd skies of the last day or so had foretold. The two centuries of the XI Claudia woke, ate a swift breakfast of bread and bacon fat, then formed for roll-call in the dawn light. When they marched for the city gates, they found Urbicus waiting there. Gallus eyed him then raised a hand for the legion to halt. He noted with a keen eye how the twelve men on the battlements had gathered here. More, a group of citizens had gathered to watch — mostly men.

‘I repeat my offer, Tribunus,’ Urbicus spoke in a low voice. ‘Stay, guard these walls and you will not want for anything.’

‘And the empire?’ Gallus replied without hesitation. ‘What of Trajan’s Gate? Who will inform Comes Geridus of the Gothic incursion into Thracia?’ He flicked a hand up. Quadratus lifted the ruby bull standard and the legion crunched forward again.

‘Gates!’ Gallus called up to the gatehouse. The timber gates groaned and began to open with a clanking of chains.

‘Stay!’ Urbicus leapt in front of him, his eyes bulging and his handsome face streaked with sweat despite the chill. ‘Stay!’

Gallus’ nose wrinkled. ‘Why?’

‘These walls are useless without a true garrison. A band of brigands almost stole into the city last month. If what you say about the Goths is true, then we are at their mercy — high walls or not.’

Gallus looked around the gathering crowd, seeing faces of women, children and frail old men amongst them now. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said in a concilliatory tone. ‘I’d advise you to train the men of the city into a militia and-’

‘Close the gates!’ Urbicus snapped, backing away from Gallus, his demeanour changing and a nasty glint appearing in his eyes. The opening gates halted and the men in the crowd now stepped forward, bringing cudgels and knives from behind their backs. ‘By the fury of God, you will stay.’

Gallus glanced around the grubby mob that Urbicus had roused. A few hundred of them. ‘Do you know how easily trained legionaries could slay these men?’ he said coolly, swatting away the fact that the recruits had only experienced a fraught moment of action at the fall of the Great Northern Camp and most of those who had survived had done so only by virtue of their swiftness to flee. He stepped towards Urbicus as he said this. ‘I have witnessed it before. In Constantinople, during the riots, I saw the streets run red as thousands fell to the blades of just a century of the emperor’s guard.’ The mob halted at this. He clasped a hand to his sheathed spatha and now Urbicus too lost his pluck, his bulging eyes flicking from Gallus’ glower to the blade hilt. Urbicus backed up against the inner town wall. Gallus came nose to nose with him.

‘Now do as I say: train these men to fight Goths, not legionaries. And, for your sake and that of everyone in these walls,’ he added, his teeth gritted so his next words were feral, ‘open the bloody gates.’

That afternoon they stopped by the Via Militaris. The great highway was deserted as far as the eye could see in both directions. No sign of the Gothic horde at their rear, Gallus realised, and no sign of Roman forces ahead. . or anywhere. Had the armies at the Great Northern Camp been the very last of Thracia’s regiments?

Western Thracia was a wild country with green hills, granite shards and a tapestry of wild flowers. A birdsong of larks and martins filled the gaps in between legionary banter as they set about kindling cooking fires and sucked from their water skins hungrily.

‘Easy. . easy!’ Quadratus scolded one callow and somewhat rotund youth by the name of Trupo who seemed set to drain his skin in one sitting. ‘You’ll bloody well drown yourself if you’re not careful. Save a little — remember we still have an afternoon of marching to come.’ The chubby recruit — beetroot-red and still panting from the morning’s trek — nodded hurriedly and tried to spit his last mouthful of water back into the skin, much to Quadratus’ disgust and to his fellow recruits’ amusement.

Gallus’ expression eased at the gentle chorus of laughter. A rare speck of light on what had been a dark few days. A degree of fragile spirit amongst these terrified boys had been kindled. And it would be needed if they were to become anything like the many legionaries he had fought alongside in his military years. His gaze flicked between the few veterans that still walked the realm of the living. Zosimus and Quadratus, two who had been with him since his earliest days in the ranks. Pavo and Sura, once mere boys themselves. Now they were on the cusp of becoming true leaders. And there was Dexion, an officer who seemed to be everything Pavo might yet become: wily, astute, wary of bullshit and well-scarred from over twelve years of service. His thoughts drifted momentarily to the memory of Felix, his one-time Primus Pilus. He imagined fondly what the diminutive Felix’s reaction might have been to his replacement. A big, lanky bugger like him? Nah, never good enough to take my place — short and deadly’s what you want — like a spatha blade! The faintest hint of a smile played with Gallus’ lips, only to be scattered when he thought of all the recruits lacked: armour, training and fitness were all absent. . as was true courage. Their road would be long and arduous.

Three cohorts had been promised. A few hundred men had been delivered and just two centuries had survived their first battle. He cursed himself for ever believing in the memorandum that talked of such grand numbers.

‘Sir,’ Dexion said, stalking over to him, his white-plumed helm clasped underarm and his hair matted to his forehead. ‘They’re asking for permission to grind their grain and bake some bread?’

Gallus shot an eye to the sky. A short while could be sacrificed in order to fill their bellies properly. ‘They have an hour,’ he nodded.

Dexion wheeled round to address them. ‘Bake your bread and cook your porridge. We will be marching again in an hour and no later.’

In moments, the men had been separated into groups of eight and the burring of hand mills and crackling of kindling cooking fires filled the air, sending spirals of sweet woodsmoke into the air. Quadratus, Zosimus, Pavo and Sura strolled between them, watching how they went about this vital business.

Dexion came to stand by Gallus again, watching them. ‘Seems they know the basics?’ he mused, chewing on a cake of hard tack he had made a few days previously, watching as they made pots of porridge and kneaded dough, before placing it in small, clay clibani pots to bake. Soon, the aroma of baking bread wafted from each fire. ‘At least, they already work in contubernia of eight men and know how to cook.’

Gallus nodded, then his brow knitted. ‘Aye, except that one.’

They squinted to see one young lad near them — tall and rangy. Instead of milling grain or tending to porridge or baking bread, he was busy chopping an onion and finely slicing a clove of garlic and a sprig of wormwood, while the other seven of his contubernium watched on with wide eyes, licking their lips like hungry pets. Gallus sighed, ready to step forward and scold the lad.

‘I’ll deal with this one,’ Dexion offered, then stepped forward in his place.

Gallus strolled around the edge of the cooking legionaries, eyeing the goings-on, hearing Dexion’s tirade in the background: ‘Pheasant stew? What’s your name? Cornix? Well, Cornix, where in Hades do you think you’ll get a skinned pheasant within the next hour? I couldn’t care less if you’ve brought an onion! Shove the onion up your arse for all I care! Get some bloody bread in the clibanus and do it now!’

Gallus nodded in appreciation at the man’s sudden turn of ire. Dexion had a steeliness about him. The man had been sullen for these past few days since the girl Felicia’s slaying, but when it mattered, there was not a trace of sorrow. The primus pilus had known the girl only for a few months, it seemed, so perhaps their bond was not so strong. Pavo, on the other hand, was struggling. He glanced over to see the optio watching over the men’s cooking absently, his intercisa helm clasped underarm, his short, dark hair tousled, his hawk-like face smoke-stained and his eyes glassy. The young optio was doing his best to hide his grief, but he seemed sapped of his usual pluck. Loss was something the lad was becoming fast-accustomed to. Loss, he thought, seeing a familiar look in Pavo’s dark eyes, memories of Olivia and Marcus coming to his mind’s eye, that endless, dark sea.

He looked to the west and wondered what might be found there. At Trajan’s Gate, might his path and Emperor Gratian’s cross? And the shadowy members of the western court. . would they be with him? They had gone unpunished for their actions for years. Every passing day without justice was an affront to his slain family. Have I not waited long enough?

Destiny, he thought. Justice, he affirmed.