Gordon Doherty - The Scourge of Thracia

Gallus’ chest and thighs were burning from the march. It was a welcome agony in many ways, for it meant he could not dwell on his troubles, for the unremitting crunch-splash-crunch of boots and the drumming of rain on his helm helped scatter any nascent thoughts that tried to gather. The scale-vested Cornutii marched on ahead of them as if unfeeling of fatigue — though they marched burdened only with light ration packs, while his five carried a tent and full marching supplies.

‘Concentrate only on the next mile,’ he called over his shoulder to the four with him, rainwater lashing from his brow, ‘and soon we will be at our journey’s end. A fire, a bellyful of stew and a dry bed awaits us at the Shipka Pass.’

‘Come on, come on!’ Barzimeres bellowed in an entirely different tone from the front of the march as he twisted in his saddle and looked back down the line to the XI Claudia five. He swept his spatha out and pointed it up the rain-soaked northern slopes like some sort of conquering hero. ‘Where’s the famous discipline and steel of the XI Claudia, eh?’ He slowed his stallion, falling back past his century of Cornutii, then the barely noticeable gap of a few paces, then coming to Gallus at the head of the XI Claudia. ‘ Eh? ’ he reiterated with an edge of venom. He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted ahead. ‘Military step!’ in moments, the rhythmic footsteps of the Cornutii grew faster, and the small gap stretched to a handful of strides. ‘Look: my Cornutii are pulling ahead.’

Gallus opted not to reply.

‘So come on,’ he roared, ‘up the pace. Faster, faster! ’ Then he leaned down again to whisper: ‘That’s an order, Tribunus.’

Gallus’ teeth gnashed behind his lips. Then he bellowed: ‘Military step, up the pace!’ The rhythm of footsteps increased, and the balls of Gallus’ feet scraped and slid on the ever steepening path. But within moments, the gap had closed again.

Barzimeres’ features grew pinched as he watched this. ‘Faster still, order them to full step,’ he hissed.

Gallus felt the words sting on his lips as he prepared to shout the order, but he could not. This dog would not stop until one of his men stumbled or fell. His banished thoughts flooded to the fore, and his eyes blazed with ire. ‘What do you seek to prove, Tribunus?’ he snapped at Barzimeres. ‘That a group of legionaries encumbered with kit and supplies cannot march uphill as fast as lightly-burdened soldiers? Save your misguided vendettas for a time when we are not at war. Perhaps then you and I can march in contest — if you can prise your wart-ridden arse off the saddle, that is.’

Barzimeres’ features reflected Gallus’ wrath. ‘How dare you. I outrank you. I could have you flogged. . ’ He raised his hand, bringing it back as if to rake the knuckles across Gallus’ face. Gallus willed him to strike and heard the desperate intakes of breath from those watching on from behind.

But the tension was broken when a Cornutii voice called out from the front of the column. ‘The pass!’ All eyes swung up the track. Just ahead, it bent even more sharply uphill on the back of a great ridge that wound towards the heart of the range. Up there, shrouded in raincloud, lay the lofty choke-point they sought.

The Shipka Pass.

Barzimeres growled and lowered his hand, then clicked his tongue and set his mount in motion up the path.

The rising ridge path was narrow and treacherous. Ancient flagstones poked through the shale and scree as evidence that the empire had once, long ago, tried to master this terrain. As they ascended, the raincloud began to envelop them. Shadows seemed to move before them. Rain-soaked bushes flitted in and out of view either side of the steeply rising track, the wet leaves glinting in the fading light like the armour of waiting Goths or brigands. Eventually, the air grew thin and cold. Then, some way above and ahead, tiny pockets of orange torchlight glimmered through the haze like a cloud of fireflies. The marching men of the column slowed, all eyes fixed on this ethereal sight. The Shipka defences , Gallus realised. A chill wind swept around them, moaning and driving the mizzle stubbornly into their faces.

Gallus noticed that Barzimeres was frozen by the spectacle too. His skin had taken on an unhealthy pallor and his Adam’s apple bulged as he gulped dryly and his tongue darted out to dampen his lips. Lost your pluck? Gallus wondered. He had seen the signs a thousand times before.

‘Halt!’ Barzimeres cried out, raising his hand. ‘Cornutii, about turn!’ he continued as he heeled his stallion round to face south. At once the feather-helmed legionaries swung on the spot and came back down the track. Their faces betrayed no hint of exhaustion or dismay at Barzimeres’ behaviour.

Good men, Gallus thought, plagued with a petty fool as their leader.

Barzimeres shuffled on the saddle as if to shake off Gallus accusing stare. ‘Now that I have brought you to within sight of the pass defences, I will lead my escort back to the great camp. I trust you can make the rest of the journey on your own?’

Gallus barely resisted the urge to laugh dryly. It seemed that Barzimeres was a paragon of military valour and discipline only until he came within a half-mile of danger. ‘I trust we can,’ Gallus replied flatly. ‘Now, you had best make haste, else the Great Camp will be going to ruin,’ he said, deadpan.

They climbed higher and higher up the ridge path, the mountain chill searching under their tunics and cloaks and the dull orange glow of the defences growing slowly closer. Slivers of moonlight pierced the fog here and there to illuminate the steep, unforgiving drops either side of the path, and every now and then scree loosened by their boots plummeted over the edges. Gallus heard his men talk, at first mainly of Barzimeres’ detestability. But then he heard Pavo’s words to Sura.

‘He’s up there, my brother is up there!’ Pavo insisted.

‘And Felicia was at it with him?’ was the best Sura could muster in reply.

Gallus had seen how Pavo coveted the bracelet his father had given him in Persia. Not for a moment did he believe that the message on it would lead to anything. Now, it seemed, the young optio was but moments from being united with his lost half-brother. If he has even half of your heart, lad, then this will be a fine day indeed.

He glanced up seeing that at last they were nearly at the defence works: a dark shape was emerging from the fog — a thick, squat bulwark, sitting astride and blocking the ridge like a worn tooth, the walls shining with damp and with a jagged timber palisade jutting from its edges to make a parapet of sorts. This small, square enclosure was all that stood between the Gothic hordes and Thracia? He saw faint shapes along the walls, vaguely silhouetted by the watery orange torchlight. Legionaries.

Well that’s a good start, he mused wryly. After less than a day in the quagmire camp by the River Tonsus, this keep was a fine sight. It was tiny — wedged onto the high-point of the ridge and designed to hold no more than a cohort.

‘Who goes there?’ a voice cried out from the southern gateway.

Gallus answered the challenge of the gate sentries. The timber gates creaked open and he led his five inside. Within, he saw tidy if cramped rows of legionary tents and banners. They filed along the main south-north path that split the camp in two, passing the rows of contubernium tents. Up ahead, he sighted the principia tent, and instantly spotted the eagle standard erected beside it: the white banner draped from the crossbar depicted a red bloom riven with crossed spears. The V Macedonica , he realised, seeing similar designs on the legionaries’ shields. This legion — limitanei like the Claudia — had guarded the Danubian frontier as something of a brother-legion to his own. He had heard that many of the Macedonica had fallen at Ad Salices, but the regiment lived on, it seemed.