The Scourge of Thracia

Chapter 6

‘We could’ve swum that,’ Zosimus remarked as they hopped off the ferry and onto the River Tonsus’ southern banks, glancing back at the much diminished river.

‘Give it another few days of this weather and you could wade across it,’ Gallus added stonily, casting his eye around the great camp. The absence of drizzle had done much to improve affairs underfoot, and some works were underway, he could see. Still, the place was a pale shadow of a military camp. ‘Now where is he?’ he grumbled, shading his eyes from the noon sun.

‘Do you smell the horseshit?’ Dexion muttered, his tawny-gold eyes narrowing, his nose wrinkling and the white-plume on his new helm flitting in the breeze. ‘That’s usually a good indicator that he is nearby.’

Gallus had to work not to chuckle at his new primus pilus’ words. He followed Dexion’s staid gaze and saw the wing-helmed Tribunus Barzimeres, sitting bolt upright on the saddle, guiding his mount around the dry dirt tracks and eyeing the idle soldiers and handfuls who were working or training like a lord inspecting his slaves. A pair of Cornutii walked either side of his mount. ‘We’re here only to pick up our new cohorts,’ he muttered so only his men could hear, then looked over his shoulder and met the eyes of Pavo, Sura, Zosimus, Quadratus and Dexion. ‘We can set off back for the Shipka Pass at noon, or we can stay here for a few extra hours to take on more food and water and then-’

‘Noon’ll do nicely,’ Quadratus cut in matter-of-factly, and not one of them disagreed.

The corners of Gallus’ lips almost toyed with a smile. Almost. He turned back round to be greeted by the grinning features of Barzimeres, who beheld him like a wizened father.

‘Ah, Tribunus, you received my message then, eh?’

‘I did, sir,’ Gallus replied. ‘The readiness of the new cohorts is most timely, for the northern passes are in great danger. The sooner we can return there, the soo-’

‘Your stint at the northern stockades is over, Tribunus,’ Barzimeres cut in, his gaze fixed in the distance like some far-seeing general.

Gallus tensed at the rebuttal. ‘Sir, have you heard what is coming for those passes? Goths, Huns, Taifali. The Shipka Pass is at half-strength. Saturninus can call on just six hundred men as it stan-’

‘Then he’d better have them well-drilled,’ Barzimeres cut him off again. ‘For you are staying here until I say you can go. I let this one go to the passes for a two day mission and he returns to me weeks later,’ he flicked a derisory finger at Dexion. ‘Weeks!’ He shook his head. ‘Oh no, you will be remaining here under my command, I can assure you.’

‘Sir,’ Gallus insisted, a tremor of ire in his tone, ‘The passes are in grave danger.’

Barzimeres demeanour changed, growing dark as he leaned forward on his saddle. ‘Do you mean to question me in my own camp, Tribunus?’ As he said this, a group of Cornutii stretched out like wings either side of him, spears just an order from being levelled at the Claudia legionaries.

‘No. . sir,’ Gallus hissed.

Barzimeres’ stance returned to normal, like a passing cloud revealing the sun once more. ‘Then come, come,’ he waved the XI Claudia men with him and walked his horse along the riverbank until they came to the western end of the great camp and the grassy plain beyond, ‘for I have mustered your precious new cohorts.’

Pavo marched up to walk with him. ‘Sir, we can’t afford to pander to him. The Shipka Pass will not stand against the Gothic army we saw readying to move out.’

‘We have to break away from this place,’ Sura added.

‘For once, this lunatic is right, sir,’ Quadratus agreed.

When Gallus spoke, his lips barely moved. ‘We will receive our new cohorts. At dawn tomorrow, we’ll take them out on a marching exercise.’

Pavo searched Gallus’ stony features for some tell-tale glint of the eye. Nothing. An air of uncertainty hung over the group, then Dexion hinted at the tribunus’ true meaning. ‘And perhaps we’ll take a wrong turn?’

‘I’m with you,’ Zosimus chuckled. ‘A very big detour?’

Quadratus chuckled too, then slowed a little. ‘Hold on, what’s that?’

Gallus and the others followed his gaze. He saw Barzimeres slow at a meadow and ride up to a group of slight-shouldered lads in ragged tunics and trousers: a few hundred, no doubt awaiting recruitment on the first rung of the legionary ladder.

‘Your cohorts, Tribunus,’ Barzimeres beamed as he walked his horse around the young men. ‘This will be a plum task for you, will it not? Training boys to hold a spear. Perfect for you limitanei!’ he finished, roaring at his own gossamer-veiled insult.

Gallus bit back on the acerbic phrase that came to his tongue. A phrase that involved Barzimeres forcing the cohorts — a highly euphemistic term — into a place they could never hope to fit, nor want to be. Not seventeen hundred men as he had been told to expect, with four hundred and eighty men to populate the second and third cohorts and nearly eight hundred to populate the prestigious first cohort.

No, some two hundred and forty boys. Some as young as fifteen, the eldest twenty at most. They wore no armour or weapons and most were twig-limbed, looking like they would struggle to lift a shield, let alone use one. They carried just basic marching packs, with tools and bedding — the heavy goatskin tents having been set down.

Barzimeres walked his mount forward a few paces, then leaned down. ‘What’s wrong, Tribunus — were you expecting more? Men are in short supply — remember, many have fallen at the passes.’ The glee in his voice was galling, and the tone was one of victory.

‘I’ll have wooden swords brought out at once, so you can get to work on their training immediately?’ Barzimeres finished, heeling his mount round and ambling back off into the Great Camp.

Gallus watched him go, his breath coming and going through gritted teeth, then turned to the squinting, nervous recruits. There was no point in taking out his anger on these lads, for it would simply break what spirit they had and no doubt humour Barzimeres into the bargain. No, he had to make the most of what he’d been given, and throw the odious Barzimeres off the scent of his plans for their marching exercise tomorrow. He took the silver XI Claudia eagle from Quadratus’ grip, turned to his mass of recruits, pitied them for the anger they were about to endure and planted the standard in the earth like a spear.

‘I am Tribunus Gallus of the XI Claudia Pia Fidelis,’ he snarled. ‘From today, I am your master. From today, you obey every word from me or Primus Pilus Dexion. From today, this eagle is your god.’ He let a long silence follow this, his eyes raking across the sea of faces, almost daring one to counter him, all the while seeing Barzimeres cantering easily back into his disgrace of a camp. ‘Do you understand?’

Another moment of silence ensued, then the few amongst the recruits who read the cue threw up their arms in salute. ‘Yes, sir!’ came a patchy chorus of barely-broken voices.

Gallus swung away from them, then met the eyes of those by his side. ‘Split them into three centuries.’

Zosimus, Pavo and Sura beckoned two-thirds of the group over to join them, while Quadratus marshalled the rest together.

‘Right,’ Zosimus grunted first. ‘Here are the basics: I’m Centurion Zosimus, your centurion, and I bloody well own you. This here is Optio Pavo, I own him and he owns you. Finally, we have Tesserarius Sura. Pavo and I own him and he owns you. Understand?’

‘Yes, sir,’ came another chorus of replies.

‘Understand?’

‘Yes, sir!’ came a high-pitched attempt at a bolder reply.

‘Now I’ll teach you how to march, how to fight and how not to die in good time. Right now, it’d be wise to get your cooking fires kindled and get some food in your bellies, for once we start training, you’ll bloody well need it.’

As the tirade was echoed by Quadratus to his century and the third century, Gallus cast his eye over the Great Northern Camp, up to the noon sun, then off to the mountains in the north. Dawn felt like a long, long way away.

Stand firm, Saturninus, he mouthed, thinking of the hardy few atop the Shipka Pass. We will come to you soon.

With a few hours of light left, Pavo jogged back from the meadow and into the Great Northern Camp. After four gruelling hours, Zosimus, Pavo and Sura had taught their century little more than how to stand in formation. Still, they clutched their shields and spears clumsily, standing too far apart or too close together, presenting Gallus with a thousand different faults to berate them for. But at least they now had some kit, he thought, remembering Gallus haranguing the man at the stores until he got what he wished, the fellow had grudgingly handing over a dusty, battered collection of spears, swords and shields bearing a hotchpotch of colours and emblems. Helms and armour would have to wait, he thought, for the return to the Shipka Pass was only a few hours of sleep away.

But there was something else that could not wait. Someone else.

Pavo burst into the valetudinarium, then cursed as he saw nobody there but a cross-eyed fellow sitting, clutching his groin and scratching violently at it. ‘I’m first, I’ve been waiting here for bloody ages,’ he gasped, wincing scratching roughly again. ‘But there’s been nobody here all bloody day!’

He left and jogged on through the camp towards Felicia’s tent, past milling soldiers eating stew or cleaning their long-neglected armour. He had so much to tell her. Dexion was here and he was now part of the XI Claudia. Then he wondered sourly how she might react to this, how pleased she might be to see Dexion again. At that moment, he caught sight of another figure heading towards Felicia’s tent: Dexion! Instinctively, he broke into a run, determined to reach her first.

At last, he came to her tent. ‘Felicia?’ he called out, unsure if the dangerous, scalpel-wielding Lucilla might be inside. ‘Felicia?’

Nothing. Then. . sobbing. A faint, weak sobbing.

‘Felicia, what’s. . ’ he started, sweeping the tent flap back then falling silent as he saw Lucilla.

Lucilla looked up, her face stained with tears and her shoulders shuddering as she wept.

Pavo felt an icy stone settle in his belly.

The lamplight guttered, illuminating Felicia’s face and the angry purple bruise that had blossomed on her temple. She muttered feverishly, her skin bathed in a slick of sweat, while Lucilla dabbed at her brow with a wet rag.

‘There must be something that can ease her pain?’ Pavo insisted.

‘She’s had as much henbane as I can give her,’ Lucilla shook her head, moving the jug of crushed seeds in water from Pavo as if to stop him from trying.

‘Pavo,’ Dexion said softly, placing a hand across his chest, ‘she is as well as can be hoped. The camp physician will be by her side all night,’ he nodded to Lucilla.

‘As will I,’ Pavo insisted.

‘You know that cannot be,’ Dexion replied. ‘You are exhausted. When did you last sleep properly? You had days of marching before you even rescued me, did you not? Tomorrow, you will need to be swift, as will we all.’ He tried to force the barely touched bowl of vegetable stew and a hunk of bread into Pavo’s hands again, but Pavo pushed it away.

‘Dexion, whoever attacked her might return,’ Pavo countered, his eyes tracing the gash on her neck — a failed arterial cut, he was sure. Someone had tried to kill her. The guards who had heard a scuffle in the principia had only just missed the offender, it seemed. And what in Mithras’ realm did you think you were doing in there? he screamed inside. You promised you would wait for my return before acting on your suspicions!

Dexion took him by the shoulders and held his gaze. ‘Whoever attacked her will be long gone from this camp, I am sure of it. Regardless, I will organise a party of four to watch this tent tonight. There are some good men in this camp, believe it or not. They will see that no further harm comes to her.’

Pavo made to argue, then his shoulders slumped and he nodded. He kissed Felicia’s cheek, then rose with his brother. The pair left, walking through the camp at last light, heads bowed.

Saturninus heard the buccina blare once more outside his tent, heard the stampede of boots, the cries of his centurions and the thunder of his heart. He had been taught many years ago to hide his fear, and today, that lesson came to good use. He slid on his bronze scale vest, swept on his swordbelt and cloak, then placed his helmet on and sucked in a deep breath. The ground trembled underfoot, and the buccina cries were drowned out by the growing wail of Gothic War Horns. He drew his spatha and gazed at his wan reflection in the blade — not at all rugged or bellicose like the fearless generals he wished he could match.

‘Yet the day I stop trying is the day I fail,’ he muttered under his breath, fending off the gnashing terror in his belly once more, sheathing the blade and striding from the tent.

Outside in a haze of gold-threaded late-afternoon sunlight, chaos reigned.

Stray arrows pattered down all around the fortlet floor and a growing guttural roar sounded from outside the northerly wall. Sharp screams and strangled cries pierced the air along the battlements where the bunched line of legionaries weathered the arrow storm of the approaching Gothic assault. Some slumped, heads lolling with arrows jutting from eye sockets, while others staggered back, fell from the walkway and crunched onto the fort floor. And only a few centuries waited in reserve, standing with shaking legs, ready to rush onto the northerly battlement as needed. Saturninus hurried past them and up the steps. He pushed between a centurion and the legionary next to him to look down along the ridge. His belly clenched in terror at the sight before him. The ridge was awash with warriors. Not just a warband, many thousands of them this time, stretching off as far as he could see. The Gothic infantry front was but a hundred paces from the wall. Their helms glittered in the sunlight, flowing locks whipping up, spears, swords and bows readied. And those to the front carried with them ladders and climbing hooks.

A shield swept up before him, just catching the next volley of Gothic arrows. ‘There are too many of them, sir,’ the V Macedonica centurion cried to him. ‘We’ll be overrun.’

‘Nonsense. We have faced them like this many times before. Their numbers count for little,’ he insisted, wishing he could believe his own words.

‘Ready!’ another officer called out and buccinas sounded to reaffirm the order. At once, the line of legionaries stiffened, spears levelled as the Goths reached the wall. The ladders swung up and rattled into place with a rhythmic certainty and in moments they were thick with climbing warriors.

‘All I ask is that you hold this wall until dark,’ Saturninus cried to the centurion. ‘For then, our reinforcements will be here. A whole new legion.’ He said this as loud as he could, eager for the legionaries to hear. He stepped back as the din of battle erupted. Iron singing in discord. Snarling, screaming men. Bodies being ruined on sharpened steel. Flitting back down the steps, blood puffing overhead, he readied the reserves. ‘Watch for gaps in our lines then hasten to fill them,’ he implored them.

Then he turned away from the battle and to the fort’s southern wall and thought of the dauntless Gallus. Come on man, come on! He mouthed. The tribunus and his new cohorts should have been back by now, but there had been neither sight nor sound of them. He clapped his hands and waved one of his few scout riders over. ‘Ride south until you cross paths with the Claudia,’ he said, then lowered his voice, ‘they cannot be far from here but you must urge them to make haste.’ But the rider was distracted, looking to the southern wall.

Saturninus frowned and looked up with the scout. The thin scattering of sentries on the walls by the fortlet’s southern gate were standing a little taller, shielding their eyes, calling out some form of challenge. His heart lifted. They have come? At once, he envisioned how the Claudia would be deployed, imagining rank after rank of reinforcement, sure that victory could again be had.

His hopes were dashed like a skull by a cudgel. First, one of the sentries by the south gate was punched back, his chest riven with short, thick arrows. Then a looped length of rope swung up from beyond the southerly wall, fell over the head of another sentry and swiftly yanked tight. The crack of the soldier’s breaking neck cut off his terse scream and his body was hauled from the southern wall and out of the fort.

‘What the?’ Saturninus gasped.

Then, like a plague of ants, short, stocky warriors in hides and leathers poured over the southern wall, climbing on ropes. They fell upon the thin smattering of sentries there with the ferocity of wolves, tearing at them with daggers and long blades.

Huns? They have found the hidden path? Saturninus drew his spatha and waved to his reserve centuries. ‘To the southern wa-’ he started, but his cry was cut short when a pair of the Huns dropped to the fort floor and hoisted the locking bar from the southern gate. The gate swung open to reveal a cluster of forty or more Huns, mounted, bows nocked, faces bent in animal grimaces.

‘No, no!’ Saturninus gasped.

A cloud of arrows shot forth, punching some of his reserves to the ground, while more dismounted Huns sped along the east and west walls then clambered up the northern timber corner towers and launched a frenzied attack on the archers up there, bloodied bodies being tossed down.

The reserve centuries hurried to engage the mounted Huns who had broken inside the fort, pulling some from their mounts. One legionary’s head was cleaved by a Hun blade, brains spraying Saturninus. The stocky warrior then came for him. Saturninus saw his blade flash up to block the Hun’s, then felt the dull judder of his spatha sinking deep into the steppe warrior’s chest. He backed away from the crumpling foe and hurried up the steps to the northern wall again. Already, gaps had formed in the legionary line there. Goths were swarming onto the battlements. The centurion who had shielded him fought on manfully, then caught sight of Saturninus. ‘Sir, we have to retre-’ his cry was cut off as an arrow took him in the throat. As he fell, Saturninus saw the swarm of armour and blades coming up the ladders. With them came a giant. Not Fritigern or any of the snake-like reiks. This man was like a titan, driving the Gothic horde on. Farnobius, Saturninus realised, the champion Gallus had spoken of.

‘Take the fort!’ the giant roared. Then his eyes met with Saturninus and he grinned a foul grin unbecoming of a noble soldier. Lifting his great axe like an accusing finger to point at the magister equitum, he bellowed; ‘Bring me that one’s head!’

From the corners of his eyes, Saturninus saw the legionaries falling in swathes. One severed head rolled before him, a length of spine trailing behind the crimson stump of a neck. The wall was all but taken. He glanced over his shoulder: the skirmish with the Huns had been won, the last few of them fleeing through the southern gate. But the horsemen had served their purpose, engaging the reserve centuries long enough for the north wall to be overwhelmed. ‘Back. . ’ he quavered, his meek voice betraying him again, his retreating step quickening towards the steps as the giant now surged up the ladders too. ‘Back!’ he tried again, hoarsely this time. ‘Back!’ he roared now, like a lion. ‘Retreat!’ he cried. ‘The pass has fallen. Retreat to the south!’

He stumbled down the steps and into the fort, leapt upon the grey mare one soldier brought him and waved his remaining men together, riding at their rear to shepherd them to safety, through the fort’s southern gates and off down the ridge towards central Thracia. They fled at great haste, and as he looked back over his shoulder, he saw the giant Goth and his masses pour over the broken stockade. They spilled into the fort, cheering at their conquest.

The Romans sped downhill and soon the Goths who pursued gave up the chase, content in their victory and eager to pillage the fort. An hour later, when Saturninus and his ragged band of just a few hundred survivors reached the flatland south of the Haemus Mountains, they slowed, panting, shaking. Cold sweat trickled down his back as he realised that the blockade was over — with one pass taken, the other four were at the mercy of the Goths and the Huns.

‘Riders!’ he called to the handful of mail-vested equites riding with him, ‘split your forces, take word to the other four passes. Tell them to fall back to the south and take shelter in the walled cities of Thracia.’

As the riders wheeled off to the east and west, Saturninus gazed around the quiet, peaceful sunset-bathed Thracian countryside into which they fled, then touched a hand to the Chi-Rho amulet on his neck chain.

‘God forgive me for me lack of valour and protect the souls of these lands.’