Gordon Doherty - The Scourge of Thracia

Sura shook his head. ‘Well, yes, something and nothing. I tried asking around in here,’ he nodded towards one gnarled drunk and then swept his head across the others nearby. ‘Nothing. Then there was one whose eyes lit up.’

Pavo’s breath stilled.

‘A veteran from the Thracian legions, discharged just a month ago — lost an arm in a clash with the Goths.’

‘He knows of Dexion?’ Pavo said.

‘Well, he looked as if the name meant something. Then he threw up all over himself and was carried out and dumped on the street side. I tried to find him but he must have staggered away.’ Sura offered an apologetic smile. ‘I’m sorry, Pavo. I knew it was not enough. I didn’t want to torment you with such flimsy findings.’

Pavo took a moment to compose himself. ‘Ha, don’t be silly. The sot probably didn’t even understand the question. It was probably some mistake, maybe he thought you were offering him a drink?’ he laughed and tried to sound unflustered, but Sura saw right through it.

‘Look, you should go, find the others, enjoy yourself,’ Sura said earnestly nodding into the throng of bodies. ‘I’ll be over shortly.’

As Sura turned back to the pair of ladies, Pavo edged through the crowds in search of his other comrades. He thought over his friend’s news, shrugged, took a mouthful of the wine, then nearly gagged. Neat , he cursed as the potent and tart liquid rolled across his tongue. He turned round to berate Sura, but saw that his friend was already in enough bother, with the women now mocking him and his tale. ‘Ah well, neat wine it is,’ he shrugged, taking another swig.

The crowd before him parted to reveal Zosimus and Quadratus, senior centurions of the XI Claudia, at a nearby table. The pair were locked in an arm wrestle, growling, straining, sweating, veins bulging from foreheads like worms, nose to nose and glaring into one another’s eyes. He considered making a remark that perhaps they should just give in to their true desires and kiss passionately. . then quickly decided against it. The pair matched each other in formidable height and build but nobody could mistake one for the other: Zosimus the Thracian was a haggard sort with a squashed nose, stubbled scalp and anvil jaw, while Quadratus the Gaul wore a flowing blonde mane of hair and matching moustache. Twelve empty ale cups sat on the table beside the pair — six each, it seemed. . so far.

With a thwack , Quadratus smashed his comrade’s arm to the table, and a chorus of cheering rang out from the onlookers. The big Gaul grinned and nodded as he collected in a handful of bets from the bookmaker.

‘Big, cheating, farting. . bastard ,’ Zosimus grumbled, then shook the table, causing it to wobble a little. ‘Look, a dodgy leg,’ he yelled, hands outstretched and eyes wide in appeal to the crowd, ‘I was at a disadvantage!’

‘You’re always at a disadvantage against me,’ Quadratus mused with a glint of mischief in his eye, settling back into his seat and accepting a fresh cup of ale from a spectator, then draining it in one go.

Pavo sat with them, then sighed and supped on his wine. Sometimes the only way to silence a chattering and troubled mind was to get roaring drunk. At least this argument seemed more plausible now that the first few swigs had warmed his blood.

Zosimus, still seething, slumped to sit on the bench beside him. He turned to see Pavo and his expression lightened fractionally. ‘Ah, Optio , fancy an arm wres-’

‘No,’ Pavo replied sharply and swiftly. He had served as Centurion Zosimus’ second-in-command since the Battle at Ad Salices and had learned some harsh lessons in that time — most on the battlefield, some in the tavern. He automatically rubbed at the shoulder that Zosimus had nearly ripped out of its socket last spring in a previous bout of arm-wrestling.

Zosimus’ scowl returned and he tore a piece of bread from a basket of fresh loaves on the table and chewed on it as though it was a shard of pewter. ‘Fine. Where’s the tribunus?’

Pavo shook his head. ‘He’ll not be joining us.’

‘Aye, well. . nothing new there, eh?’

Pavo swirled his wine and gazed into the surface. Gallus, leader of the XI Claudia, was unlike any other soldier he had ever known. Tall, lean and utterly merciless. The sharp, gaunt look of a wolf and the roar of a bear. Pure ice, inside and out, he had once thought in his early days with the legion. But it hadn’t taken Pavo long to realise that there was a gravely wounded man inside that steely carapace. A man not unlike himself. Yet something had changed in Gallus after their escape from Persia. The iron tribunus had been freed of his Persian chains, but remained shackled by some new, fiercer inner turmoil, it seemed. He had been irritable and distracted, always muttering, always gazing into the distance. Always west, Pavo mused.

Before Pavo left to come to the tavern, Gallus had been sitting, silent and alone atop the compound wall, his eyes fixed on the western skyline, lost in thought. They had shared no words — just a single glance had served as a conversation. As he had stepped out of the barrack block, Gallus had stopped him with a shout, throwing a purse of coins down to him. ‘Come back in one piece,’ he said gazing beyond Pavo’s shoulder with that faraway look. ‘Remember: tomorrow afternoon, we are to be briefed by the magister militum.’

Pavo realised he had absently lifted the purse from his belt whilst tangled in these thoughts, and noticed Zosimus’ eyes gleaming at the sight.

‘Quadratus, look at this,’ he bellowed, clutching Pavo’s wrist — drinks are on Pavo!’

A roar of drunken approval rang out from all nearby as Quadratus snatched the purse from Pavo’s hand and headed to the serving area.

Feeling his sobriety slipping away, Pavo tried to order his thoughts. ‘I think we need to keep an eye on him, sir.’

Zosimus frowned. ‘On Quadratus? Has he started farting already?’

‘Does he ever stop?’ Pavo chuckled and drank some more. ‘No, I mean the tribunus. He’s not himself.’

Zosimus sighed. ‘Aye, in all the time I’ve known him, he’s been a hard bastard. Hard, but true. His focus has always been on his legion — seeing his men right. It was his way of dealing with things, I reckon — things that happened in his past. But since we left Persia, his mind has been elsewhere. He still does his bit, I mean — has us in good order and doesn’t take any nonsense. He gave Sura a severe bollocking yesterday for leaving the latrines in a disgraceful state. And I mean severe ,’ he whistled at the memory. ‘But it feels like. . like. . ’

‘Like part of him is missing?’ Pavo suggested, then thought of that wistful westwards gaze again. ‘Or elsewhere?’

Zosimus took a swig of ale and nodded, wagging a finger at Pavo in agreement then wiping the ale froth from his lips with the back of his hand. ‘Maybe he’s got too much time to think about things. These last few weeks since Persia have been strange for all of us,’ he gestured around the tavern, then to his absent swordbelt. ‘When we meet with Magister Militum Traianus and find out where in Thracia we’re to be posted to next, we can get on with it, get back to normal. Active duty keeps the mind clear, I usually find.’

Sura slumped down next to them, casting one last forlorn look at the departing women and gingerly touching an angry red hand-mark on his cheek, before latching onto the conversation. ‘What’s that? Have you heard where Traianus is posting us to?’

‘Not yet,’ Zosimus chuckled, ‘but I’ll tell you, Thracia has no shortage of trouble-spots.’

Pavo curled his bottom lip and tilted his head, seeing no flaw in Zosimus’ logic. ‘Yet we are just five men strong. What can Traianus expect of us?’