The Scourge of Thracia

Chapter 19

The November chill cast the Succi Valley and the Trajan’s Gate fortifications in a shell of hard frost, but the four centuries of the XI Claudia and Geridus’ century of archers worked like a colony of ants. Zosimus led the Cretan slingers and the sagittarii in felling the skeletal ash trees on the southern valley side, the rattle of axes, rasping of saws and crunch of falling trees never-ending as they finished the timber wall blocking the pass. Quadratus and a handful of his Sardicans mixed and applied mortar to freshly gathered stone, fashioning new battlements for the fort’s walls, while a handful more sawed at some of the freshly felled tree trunks in an effort to construct ballistae. Pavo, meanwhile, strode out before his century and the remainder of the Sardicans, Sura walking by his side.

He came to a halt before them, eyeing their formed ranks, still feeling like an optio awaiting the assertive commands of his centurion. But he noticed how the legionaries all stared dutifully into the distance, risking the occasional furtive glance at him. They’re waiting on my command, he realised. It stoked angst in his belly, and this was something that might have crippled him and quietened his tongue in years past. But during his few years in the legion, he had learned to embrace fear, to taste it, welcome it, understand that it could only harm him if he believed it could. A wry grin lifted one edge of his lips, and the fear was gone.

‘What’s it to be, sir?’ Sura whispered. ‘Hill marching or work on the defences?’

Pavo looked over the garb they wore — harvested from the wagons Patiens had afforded them. It was a fine thing that none of these lads were now without helm or armour. Some of them wore fairly new mail shirts, but some wore ancient, dried-out leather cuirasses, and others’ armour bore tears, edged with the brown stains of long dried blood. The helms too bore dents and scratches. The shields they had been given by Barzimeres back at the Great Northern Camp were particularly weary-looking — old and battered, sporting a hotchpotch of faded colours and designs from various different legions. Not the fine garb of a comitatenses legion, but at least they clearly resembled legionaries now. But something was still missing, he realised, scratching his chin as he tried to pinpoint exactly what. His eyes flicked back to the shields, then he looked to the fort, thinking of the storehouse inside. ‘Bring out the paint.’

An hour later Pavo’s century and the Sardicans sat, cross-legged and brushing paint — Claudian ruby-red — onto their shields. The old, chipped, faded and heterogeneous mix of colours and emblems were slowly and surely becoming recognisable as those of one legion. Trupo was maybe a little too enthusiastic, lashing the paint on in thick slops so it sprayed him and all nearby.

‘Easy, easy!’ Pavo yelped as a thick splash of it landed across his boots.

‘Sorry sir,’ the young soldier said sheepishly as his comrades chuckled.

‘Mithras, lad, just the shields, not the entire pass,’ grinned one of the Sardicans — a man who had until now been guarded and unsure of the recruits.

Sura came over to walk by his side. ‘A bit of paint, a common purpose — who’d have thought it?’

‘Gallus,’ Pavo replied instantly, a smile lifting one edge of his lips. ‘He told me how, before our time, when he was a centurion, he helped bring his men together just like this. He said the century’s banner was tattered and filthy. The signifer who carried it marched with his head down, as if ashamed of his duty, and the rest of the century were quiet and nervous. So he had them clean and repair the standard, then set them to ambulatum training — one half of the century tasked with outmanoeuvring or ambushing the other. At the end of a day of training, he awarded the standard to the victorious half. Within a week, he said they were up before the morning buccina call, climbing over one another to have their kit ready, desperate to be prepared and to win. The quiet ones found their voice, the signifer marched with his head held high, hoisting the banner as if it was the legion’s silver eagle standard itself.’ Pavo paused and cast a hand across the legionaries around them. ‘We’ve had new recruits pulled in from all over — young lads like this who think they’re in it alone, veterans from other legions who believe they’ve been prized from their true unit unfairly. . brigands, even, who would rather eat camel turds than serve the empire. It’s this, the symbol of the legion — the colours and the unity — that draws all those sorts together. It’s not all about the empire or about each man alone, it’s about a sense of belonging, the unit, the brotherhood.’ He felt a slight stinging behind his eyes as he thought of his lot before joining the XI Claudia — a freed slave with nothing, no family, not a true friend to call his own. His gaze darted to Sura, and to Zosimus and Quadratus. Then his thoughts drifted to Gallus and Dexion, somewhere beyond the pass. Mithras protect them.

‘Then we’ll get the others busy with the paint later,’ Sura nodded, looking to those working on the fort and on the timber wall across the pass.

They observed as some of the legionaries proceeded to paint gold and black emblems over the newly ruby-daubed shield fronts. Some created images of the legion’s bull emblem, others edged their shield in a ring of gold and painted a radiant Mithraic sun around the boss. One of the Sardican soldiers carefully outlined a Christian Chi-Rho on his shield and both Sura and Pavo admired his handiwork. Then they noticed Libo adorning the centre of his shield with a rather detailed and angry looking phallus. Pavo and Sura winced in unison. ‘Easy on the detail,’ Pavo whispered to him as they passed. Libo looked up, tongue poking from his lips in concentration, his good eye wide and intent on not blinking. ‘Ah, yes sir,’ he said, his concentration breaking.

Quadratus climbed down from the scaffold on the fort’s southern wall, his blonde moustache plastered in mortar, then stepped back to admire his handiwork. ‘Well, if nothing else, it looks better,’ he said, unconvinced. The flat battlement walkway was in place, but the crenelated parapet had yet to be constructed. ‘Another few days and we’ll have a defensible fort on our hands,’ the big Gaul added.

Centurion Zosimus appeared then, leading his youths up onto the fort spur. They were red-faced and panting, but they each wore broad grins. ‘We have a wall,’ Zosimus declared brightly. All eyes switched to the plateau edge and down into the valley: indeed, the timber stockade across the pinch-point of the pass was complete. Eight feet tall, topped with sharpened stakes and with a basic timber walkway fixed to the western side with ladders leading up to it. ‘The more work we pour into this,’ he added, ‘the more this Farnobius and his Goths will soil their trousers when they see it.’ Zosimus’ expression changed then. ‘Speaking of which, did some filthy bastard do their business upstream of the latrines?’ he nodded down into the pass and the small brook that ran past the mouth of the tunnel that led to and from the plateau — that spot was meant to be for drinking water. A wooden bench with holes cut into it had been set up over this waterway downstream of the drinking point. ‘I thought I’d celebrate finishing the wooden wall with a handful of fresh stream water, only to see a used sponge sitting in the stream bed, grinning up at me.’ The big Thracian cast a reproachful look at Quadratus as he said this.

The big Gaulish centurion threw up his hands in exasperation. ‘Oh I get it: it was my fault, was it? Just because of one trip to the bathhouse in Tomis — years ago — and one small accident, I’m suddenly the source of all water contamination events?’

‘One small accident? You dropped a turd in the baths!’ Zosimus roared in incredulous laughter. The centuries of men around them exploded in a chorus of laughter too, but only until Quadratus’ red and angry glower quietened them.

‘Next one to make a sound is on latrine duty,’ he grumbled before berating Libo for detailing wiry hairs on his shield’s phallus emblem.

‘Thrust, hack, feint, stab!’ Pavo screamed as his century danced around the forest of wooden posts set up by the fort, chopping at them with their swords.

‘I want to see splinters in the air and blunt swords!’ Sura added.

They fought in the full weight of armour plus shield, plumbatae darts, spear and spatha. He noticed how most of these young lads had now developed knotted muscle on their limbs. They moved sharply and with confidence. He saw in some of them a determination, teeth gritted, bent on bettering themselves. Many of them no doubt thought of what was coming for this pass and weighed this against their fraught first battle at the fall of the Great Northern Camp. ‘Excellent work, lads. Keep it up,’ he encouraged them. He noticed in particular the lad Trupo: the young recruit’s eyes were bright and his swordsmanship had improved dramatically. And, Pavo was sure, the lad had shed a libra or two of weight — he was now lean and without the puce-tinge to his cheeks that had been a feature of his first few marches. His comrade Cornix worked equally hard nearby, the pair seemingly intent on outdoing one another.

‘Break!’ he barked, waving the men back from the posts. They formed up as if for inspection.

‘Shield wall!’ A clatter of wood sounded as the matching, bright ruby shields rippled up and into place. Good, he thought, seeing how they now held their shields high, showing only their eyes, helms and the tips of their spears poking like fangs from the top right hand side of each shield. A far cry from the haphazard line they had formed on the Tonsus riverbank at the fall of the Great Northern Camp. But a moment of perfection was not enough, he realised. He waited, stalking before them, letting the silence work its magic. Soon, a few arms began to tremble, the shields slipping down, arms numb and weakening. Pavo stalked past one such legionary then, in a flash, tore out his spatha and stabbed it down as if for the ailing youth’s throat. The fellow yelped as the blade halted just inches from his windpipe, then quickly hefted his shield up, knocking the spatha blade up and away. Pavo grinned fiercely. ‘Better. Remember, you’re stronger than you think. And in battle, you have no second chances.’ All along the line, similarly wayward shields were quickly hoisted to the correct height. ‘You might well think you are tired, but when the body aches, the mind must come to the fore,’ he tapped his temple. ‘In battle, your shield is your brothers’ and his yours.’

‘Aye, now let’s see how strong these runts of yours really are!’ Quadratus interrupted, leading his Sardicans over, Libo and Rectus grinning at the fore. ‘Down spears and swords,’ he demanded. With a clatter of iron, the weapons were cast down by the Sardicans and by Pavo’s men.

The two centuries faced each other, fifteen paces apart. Sura strode around the rear of each group, drawing a line in the dirt behind the heels of the men. ‘And. . advance!’

With a thunder of boots, the two groups stomped forward. ‘Stay in line!’ Pavo barked, seeing Cornix break forward a few paces. With a clatter of shields and a chorus of grunts, they came together. Boots scraped on dirt and frost billowed up as they shoved and shouldered. Libo shot wild grins at Trupo as the two vied for supremacy, and Pavo felt a knowing smile tug at his lips as he heard the men jibe and banter as they pressed to win the contest. Neither side seemed set to give in, until Libo hooked out a leg around Trupo’s shin, yanking it back and pulling the young lad to the ground. At this, Pavo’s group faltered, pushed back first one step, then two and then were driven back by Quadratus’ encouraged lot. The contest was over in moments as Pavo’s men were pushed over the earth line from where they had started. Trupo, lying in the middle ground, semi-trampled, sat up, spitting dirt from his mouth. ‘Libo, you dirty whoreson!’ he spluttered over the exhausted victory cries.

‘A dirty, victorious whoreson,’ Libo corrected him, holding out an arm to help him up.

Pavo chortled at this. ‘Discipline is everything, yes, but do not overlook the swift, simple things that can win a skirmish: a head-butt, a boot in the balls, a. . ’ he decided to leave it there, seeing Libo’s good eye gleam with the possibilities. ‘Now, take up your plumbatae,’ he yelled, nodding to Sura.

As Sura took the century off to drill them in hurling their lead-weighted darts at the near-end of the small practice range, Pavo strolled over to the swarthy-skinned Cretan slingers, occupying the far end of the range and training to a tune of jagged Cretan cries from their leader, Herenus. Herenus loosed his own sling and observed the progress of the others, his leathery skin and fine, aquiline features wrinkling between encouragement and disappointment. His century of men were unburdened with armour — most wearing just woollen tunics, trousers and cloaks, and they carried daggers, slings and leather pouches filled with shot. He watched as the nearest of them drew the looped end of the sling over their forefingers, loaded small stones into the pouch then grasped the other, knotted end between thumb and forefinger.

‘Lift,’ Herenus cried.

All raised their slings. A brief whirring like a cloud of dragonflies sounded before the slings were loosed in unison. A thick crackle of stones punching deep into the timber butts or tearing clean through the straw ones sounded. Thirteen had hit their targets, maybe, but the rest thumped into the earth of the valley side, sending puffs of frost and dirt into the air. Pavo bit down on his bottom lip. Such a fine margin of accuracy could be the difference between holding the pass and losing it: the slingshot, almost invisible in flight, could turn a battle — but only if they were aimed true. He watched the next volley from the slingers. This time only eight hit their intended butts. The next volley was better with nearly half succeeding. He noticed as he watched that the group of eight nearest Herenus continuously struck their targets, and struck them well — deep holes bored in the centre of the trunk sections and torn through the straw dummies.

‘Herenus’ eight, what are they doing differently, sir?’ he asked Zosimus, nearby, without taking his eye off the training.

‘Nothing that I can see,’ Zosimus replied, squinting and watching as they used the same technique: load, loop, spin and loose. ‘Perhaps it’s the luck of their contubernium.’

‘They share a tent?’ Pavo said.

‘Aye, always have, they said.’

Pavo strode over to Herenus and halted him from his next shot with a hand to the shoulder. ‘That’s a fine eye for the target you have.’

Herenus grinned at this. ‘My father once told me I’d never be a slinger.’

‘What’s your secret?’ Pavo said, eyeing the sling but seeing that it was just an ordinary weapon with a leather pouch and cord hanging from either side.

Herenus flicked up the next piece of shot — an acorn-shaped piece of lead — and caught it in his hand. ‘My father was right. . until I tried slinging these.’ He nodded to the slingers nearby, taking smooth but more spherical pebbles of different types of rock from their pouches and loading them. ‘These men are doubtless better marksmen than I or my tent mates,’ he said as the slingers loosed the rough pebbles only for most to go astray again, ‘but slinging different shapes and weights changes every shot. The only way to guarantee hitting a target time after time is to ensure that nothing varies between shots: same slinger, same sling, same technique, same shot.’ He rolled the acorn-shaped lead piece in his hand. ‘And this shot, the contours. . makes it fly true every time.’

‘Where did you get this shot?’ Pavo asked.

‘It is what I have remaining from the time before my men were disbanded.’

Pavo’s eyes hung on the lead piece. ‘You have much left?’

‘Not really. My contubernium and I have been using this lot all day,’ he replied sheepishly.

‘Can you make more?’

Herenus frowned. ‘Well, I can try. I’d need a smelting furnace, some lead and a cast — I can make a cast, I suppose, and-’

‘Do it,’ Pavo said. ‘Take whoever else you need to help you. You can use the oven in the fort — I’ll arrange it with Comes Geridus. If you need any materials, come to me. Make as much as you can, plenty for all the slingers here.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Herenus said.

‘Good thinking. But will he have the time?’ Zosimus asked as Herenus beckoned a handful of his tent-mates and headed for the fort.

‘Maybe, maybe not. It’ll lift their spirits, if nothing else,’ Pavo replied. He gazed on down the valley to the eastern end, seeing the tiny dots of the advance lookout posts, one on each valley side. The men stationed there were under no illusions as to their responsibilities: the first sight of an approaching enemy and the buccina was to be blown hard.

Still nothing.

He gazed down at the timber wall blocking the pass and noticed the sagittarii stockpiling arrows and javelins there. Then he saw that Quadratus had now put his Sardicans to work in assembling the newly-fashioned ballistae along the edge of the fort plateau, pointing down into the mouth of the choke-point. Meanwhile Zosimus’ century was at work atop the fort walls, hefting slabs and stones into place as the crenels were gradually reconstructed, and fitting the new, iron-strapped timber gates onto the fort’s double entrance. The pass was unrecognisable from the near-deserted, crumbling ruin they had come to nearly a month ago. Five centuries of men would man this redoubt and man it well, he insisted.

‘Strong enough?’ Zosimus said, reading his thoughts.

Pavo almost imperceptibly shook his head. ‘Something tells me it’ll take more than a firm defence to hold this place.’ His gaze and Zosimus’ had turned to the fort. Through the open double-gateway, they saw the principia. ‘I can’t help but feel that the old man in there — Master of the Passes — might be the difference. If he can believe in himself once again.’

That night, whipping winter winds drove along the valley from the east. Wrapped in their thickest oiled woollen cloaks, the sagittarii stood watch on the timber stockade down in the pass, and at the advance lookout posts further down the pass, while the four centuries of the XI Claudia sat around a fire sheltered outside the fort’s western wall. They ate a meal of steaming spiced wheat porridge — a recipe of Cornix’ invention — and hard tack biscuit.

All eyes were on Trupo as he held both palms out, a small purple gemstone in one. He clapped his palms together three times, then held them out again. The gemstone was gone. Trupo beamed as if awaiting a chorus of applause. All he received was the odd sniff and shuffle.

Zosimus blew into his hands then shook his head. ‘That was rotten. Probably the worst trick of the night,’ he said, stooping to pick up the gemstone where Trupo had so obviously cast it down. ‘What about a story? Come on, you Sardicans must have some tales to tell,’ he said with a wicked grin, one eye slightly bulging.

Perhaps feeling under pressure, Rectus piped up: ‘Well, there was this one time when Libo and I were on patrol. We marched to Trimontium and were given the evening off.’ He grinned as he lost himself in the memory. ‘We met a couple of women that night. Shapely women,’ the grin intensified as he outlined such a figure with his hands. A gruff chorus of chuckling rang out across the gathered men.

Libo sat a little taller, casting haughty looks around with his good eye, proud to be mentioned in this tale of sexual prowess.

Rectus continued; ‘Then they invited us back to a room they shared. . ’

Suddenly, Libo’s face fell. He shook his head urgently, trying to catch Rectus’ attention.

But Rectus was in full flow. ‘We were drunk, you see, and it was dark. I tumbled into the room and felt around for my woman. I finally grabbed her and she grabbed me. It was all groping and kissing, you know?’ Another rumble of throaty laughter. ‘She’s a fiery one, I thought as we tumbled around. . until the two women lit a lamp on the other side of the room,’ Rectus shot an awkward look at Libo.

Libo’s head fell into his hands.

Rectus shrugged and flicked his head to one side. ‘Aye, that was a quiet march back to Sardica the next day, I can tell you. . ’

A stunned silence and a few stifled shudders greeted the climax of the tale.

Ever the entertainer, Quadratus stepped into the breach. ‘Here, I’ve got a trick,’ he said, lifting a piece of kindling from the fire, burning at one end, then bent over, holding the flame near his buttocks.

Having seen this trick before, Pavo decided to act on his instinct. He got up, swept his cloak around his body and paced from the shelter of the fort’s western wall. As he went, he heard a noise that sounded like a duck being strangled followed by a whoosh of flames, and the night sky behind him glowed orange for just an instant. ‘Mithras, what evil is this?’ one rasping voice called out in terror over the chorus of gagging and retching that followed along with Zosimus’ howls of protest.

Pavo edged around the fort’s south-western corner and glanced out into the bracing tempest, looking east, down the pass. He saw only blackness. He shielded his eyes with a hand and scoured the night. Only when he caught sight of the orange glows of the two braziers atop the valley sides at the eastern end of the pass did the tension in his stomach ease. Yet the driving wind took to keening, as if mocking the buccina call of alarm they all feared — nobody knew how close Farnobius’ horde was, only that he was coming, and surely at haste. He slipped back from the storm, into the lee of the fort’s western wall and the warmth of the fire. As he strolled, listening to the banter, he looked through the open double-gateway and into the fort, seeing the dull glow of the fire within the principia’s doorway, and wondered if Geridus even shared these fears. He thought again what the old Comes might bring to them should he shake off his malaise. To have a legend like him stand with them in the defence of the pass would surely steel the men’s hearts. More, if they could tap into but a fraction of the man’s fabled guile. .

Just then, he heard a scraping noise, high above. He looked up and saw a shadow atop the southern gate tower, hobbling around the hide-covered object, supported by a cane.

Geridus! Pavo realised. What are you up to, you old cur?

‘I’ve seen that before,’ a voice spoke next to him. It was Rectus. The lantern-jawed legionary was looking up at the tower-top with Pavo.

‘Aye, spends his days inactive in his principia, guzzling on wine, and then hobbles up there to spend his nights talking to the blackness,’ Pavo mused.

‘No, I mean that gait. I’ve seen soldiers suffer from it in the past. I used to be a medicus, remember?’

Pavo’s eyes narrowed.

Pavo entered the principia. Inside, the hearth blazed as usual and an intense heat swirled. Geridus sat by the fire, having returned from his sojourn to the top of the southern gate tower, his skin lashed with sweat from the effort and a wine cup in his hand as always. On the table by his side lay a plate of rabbit meat.

‘Sir?’ Pavo said.

Nothing. Just the crackling of logs on the fire. And. . that infernal tink-tink noise. It came and went, as if emanating from somewhere inside the principia building. Pavo shook the distraction from his mind and repeated; ‘Sir?’

‘What now?’ Geridus said in a low drawl, his head lolling. The exertion of the climb up the stairway in the southern gate tower had clearly taken its toll. ‘I would rise to show you out, but I fear I cannot take another step today.’

‘Sir, Farnobius’ Goths will be upon us within days. The men have worked the skin from their hands to put in place a stockade down in the pass, battlements on this fort’s walls and ballistae along the edge of this spur.’ He held out his scraped and callused palms as if to prove these claims. ‘The fragments of broken or lost legions we have gathered now call themselves the XI Claudia and they will stand against the Goths. But they will stand stronger for the sight of you. Do you know that they whisper your moniker?’

Geridus’ chest jostled in a chuckle. ‘The Coward of Ad Sal-’

‘Master of the Passes,’ Pavo cut him off sharply with a steely tone that reminded him of Gallus.

Geridus’ head rose, shakily, his eyes bloodshot and his bald pate gleaming. ‘What use is a name, lad, when I can barely walk for more than a few moments?’

‘The ailment that prevented you from riding to Ad Salices? The sickness that has been misconstrued as cowardice? Show me it,’ Pavo said.

Geridus was taken aback by his bluntness. But a moment later he lifted the hem of his robe to reveal bare, swollen feet and horribly bloated and rubicund ankles. It was as if he had been striding barefoot through nettles.

Pavo sat near Geridus, realising that military decorum would not be required for this conversation. He eyed the swollen joints and the purple, angry toes and knew it was as Rectus had suspected. ‘Have you ever had a physician look at this?’

Geridus beheld him for a moment, then his chest bucked with a mirthless laugh. ‘Of course I have, lad. It was one of the first things I did when it blighted me. Indeed, as the Battle at Ad Salices raged on many miles to the east, I was in these lands being examined. The fellow poked and prodded at me then told me of my curse. No hope, he said, none at all. Worn joints and advancing years, he said.’

‘You have gout,’ Pavo said flatly.

‘What? No,’ Geridus waved a hand and swigged more of his wine.

Pavo stood and waved a hand to the doorway. Rectus entered.

‘I had a comrade who suffered from this, sir,’ the lantern-jawed legionary insisted. ‘It rendered him immobile for days.’

‘This is not a matter of days. I have shuffled and hobbled on these ruined ankles since Ad Salices. Eight months have passed and on not one of those days have I been able to place my feet in sandals or boots, let alone lace them up.’

Pavo sighed, realisation sinking into place like a heavy stone in his stomach. ‘And since the day you were forced to miss the Battle at Ad Salices, have you taken comfort in wine and meat?’

Geridus’ nostrils flared in indignation. Such a flash of vigour was an oddly welcome sight. ‘I have remained here and done as I wished, and who would not, when all outside these walls seem to be whispering of my cowardice?’

‘Wine and meat aggravate your condition,’ Rectus said. ‘The legionary who had this was restricted to water and wheat porridge. He was well within a week.’

Geridus’ eyes darted. ‘And I drank the grape-must the physician prescribed for me. For weeks! Yet this blight only intensified.’

Pavo felt a needling sense of something darker coming from this chat as he saw Rectus’ eyes widen in horror. ‘He prescribed you grape-must? Sir, that serves only to aggravate gout.’

Geridus fell silent, his eyes darting and his jaw dropping. Then he roared aloud with a laughter bitter enough to curdle milk. ‘Damn you, Maurus. . damn you!’ he growled, smashing a ham-like fist into the table that almost crushed the timbers.

Pavo frowned.

‘The jackal who is to replace me. He was there that day. It was he who summoned the physician.’ He sat there, chest rising and falling, eyes burning into the table’s surface.

The veil of malaise had fallen at last, Pavo realised. But when the giant warrior made to rise, he crumpled back into his chair, wincing. ‘Drink nothing but water, and plenty of it,’ Rectus said, bringing over a water jug from a shelf by the hearth, pouring a cup and putting it before Geridus. ‘And keep your feet raised,’ he said, drawing another chair over before Geridus and lifting the man’s legs onto it. ‘You should eat nothing but wheat porridge and bread. No meat, no alcohol.’

‘By Mithras, legionary, are you trying to kill me?’ he said in a dry burr, scowling at Rectus.

Pavo grinned at this. ‘No, he’s trying to save us all.’

Rectus’ thumbed at his lantern-jaw, then clicked his fingers. ‘Ah, and one last thing,’ he said, then plucked a hemp sack from the shelf and hurried from the hall, barging from the principia. A moment later he returned, the sack full of broken up ice from some frozen water pool, and pressed the sack onto Geridus’ raised feet.

‘Mercy!’ Geridus cried, his head shooting back.

‘Keep the affected joints cool, and you should be walking without pain within days.’

‘And why, why, would I want to walk: to stand against the Goths? My reputation is already tarnished beyond repair, lad. No battle will restore my name.’

Pavo sighed and shook his head, stepping forward to hold Geridus’ gaze. ‘I marched to Sardica a few days ago to levy more troops to defend this pass.’

Geridus rolled his eyes. ‘Patiens try to touch your arse, did he?’

A thin smile grew on Pavo’s lips. ‘No. . but I watched as he and his acolytes told stories of you. Of no interest to you though, I’m sure.’ He said this and then swung on his heel as if to leave.

Geridus’ scowl faded and his eyes grew keen, his neck lengthening. ‘What’s that?’

Pavo turned back and didn’t bother repeating himself, well-aware that the Comes had heard him clearly. ‘He savoured the telling of your part in, or rather your absence from, the Battle of Ad Salices.’

Geridus’ eyes blazed.

‘They were in fits of laughter,’ Pavo twisted the knife. ‘Those fat, useless officials in expensive robes, bellies stuffed with goose and wine.’

A low growl like that of an angered hound grew in Geridus’ chest. It rose and rose and his lips curled back until his teeth were bared. With one arm, he swept the table clear of his cup, wine jug and meat.

Pavo did not flinch as the contents of the table clattered past him and across the fort hall. ‘Patiens’ wiped tears of laughter from his eyes as he ridiculed you.’ He took a deep breath as he prepared for a somewhat risky final line. ‘I must say, it was very entertaining. . ’

Then, as if launched from a catapult, the giant warrior shot to standing, his immense frame covering the fire and his vast shadow bathing Pavo. ‘How dare you?’

Pavo held his gaze. ‘You seem to be on your feet again?’

Geridus started in shock, glancing down at his ankles, automatically moving to grab his chair for support. But he slowed, realising he did not need to — the ice-sack had already taken much of the swelling away. He looked up and glared at Pavo, a glare that was finally tempered with a dry smirk. ‘You wily whoreson,’ he chuckled. ‘I’ll abide your cure, but I will be sure to lament it at every turn.’

Pavo nodded at this.

‘Yet your faith in me is ill-placed. I am but one man, and even if I can shed my affliction, you cannot expect one more Roman blade to alter the fate of this pass?’ Geridus said.

‘Perhaps not, but you are no mere warrior. Just the sight of you on the defences would stir our men’s hearts and weaken those of Farnobius’ horde. And,’ he mused, ‘I feel that with your mind clear of the wine and your ailment, you could help bolster this pass without even moving from that chair.’

Geridus’ eyes narrowed. ‘Ah, yes, the art of deception upon which my erstwhile reputation was founded?’

‘Exactly that. I have been thinking over it myself. The terrain, the materials, the expectations Farnobius might have as he approaches us.’

Geridus sat back down and gestured for Pavo to sit opposite. ‘Then we should have much to discuss,’ he said with a renewed brightness in his eyes.

The following day, Pavo crouched behind a knoll as an ever-angrier noon sky of roiling grey clouds gathered. The wind screeched and howled around the rugged terrain near the eastern end of the Succi Valley. Trupo, Cornix and the rest of his century were crouched behind him, panting, desperate not to let their fatigue tell. They had been well-disciplined so far in this bout of ambulatum training — manoeuvres like these might not help them in a defensive battle at the Trajan’s Gate defences, but it would bond and strengthen them further and keep their minds sharp.

‘Not a sound,’ he whispered to them, cupping a hand to his ear. A faint scratching, scrabbling sound danced on the gale. Coming from over the knoll? Somewhere over there, Quadratus’ century of Sardicans and Zosimus’ century of young recruits moved — and it was a certainty that the youths in that unit would betray their position again with some tell-tale noise. He heard the noise again, closer — massively closer. Behind him? His heart thundered and he swung round to see Sura, crouched behind him, helm removed and held between his knees and his fingers fiddling to reattach a bunch of white feathers to the sides of his intercisa helm.

‘Sura for fu-’

‘How will they know I’m an optio otherwise?’ he shrugged.

‘By not acting like an arsehole?’ Pavo suggested. ‘Remember the last cur we met with wings on his helm?’ he said, thinking of the loathsome Barzimeres.

‘Aye, true,’ Sura said, his face falling. He tossed the feathers to one side and put his unadorned helmet on again. ‘Hold on, listen!’

All listened in now. It was clear this time: the dull thud-thud of boots, approaching from the other side of the knoll.

‘We can get to the top of the hill before them, throw up a spear line!’ Cornix suggested.

‘No, that will just drive Quadratus’ men back, it won’t give us victory — and that’s what this exercise is about,’ Pavo whispered tersely.

‘What then?’ he replied.

Pavo’s eyes darted, then met with Sura’s. He looked to Cornix: ‘Okay, take forty and do as you suggest,’ he motioned to the crest of the knoll. ‘But hold them up there.’

‘Sir?’ Cornix frowned.

‘Do it!’ Pavo hissed, then waved the rest of the century with him.

Pavo and his men flitted round to the edge of the hillock. There he saw the two sides: Quadratus, Rectus, Libo and the Sardicans, crouched and scuttling up one side and Cornix and his forty racing up the other — destined to clash on the brow. ‘Hold!’ Pavo whispered, lifting one hand to halt his forty as the two forces met up there, yelping in fright more than anything before clashing together. Poles and wooden training swords clacked against shields. Quadratus’ eighty men pushed against Cornix’ forty. In moments, the weight of numbers started to tell, with the big Gaul’s century driving Cornix’ forty back downhill.

Pavo saw Quadratus hold back, confusion pinching his face. ‘Hold on — this is only half of-’

‘And. . forward!’ Pavo roared, drowning out Quadratus’ words as he led his forty round and up the far side of the ridge, racing for Quadratus’ rear.

‘You wiry bastard!’ Quadratus howled as Pavo rushed up behind him, tapping him with his wooden pole. ‘Kill,’ he said as the rest of his men swept in on the rear of the Sardicans.

‘Enough!’ Quadratus bellowed as they clashed and tumbled onto the grass, but still a few playful jabs of wooden weapons were exchanged. ‘I said enough!’

The play-fighting ended abruptly. Even Pavo was taken aback by Quadratus’ tone. Then he followed the big Gaul’s wide-eyed stare. There, less than a quarter mile away, a small cluster of riders watched on from a promontory nearby, east of the valley mouth. Just twenty or so of them.

Pavo staggered forward a few steps, the vicious wind ruffling his hair.

Huns.

They watched like sentinels, their long, fine dark hair and the manes of their ponies whipping in the wind, their bows nocked but resting across their saddles. For a moment, Pavo was sure they would loose and pepper him and Quadratus with arrows. Then one of the Huns waved the rest away with him, racing back down towards the Thracian plains.

‘Farnobius’ scouts?’ Sura uttered.

‘Aye,’ Pavo replied. ‘And how far behind is their master?’

Quadratus’ eyes combed the horizon. ‘We have days. If we’re lucky.’