Gordon Doherty - Legionary

He looked over to his optio, Felix. The swarthy, diminutive, fork-bearded Greek was holding the silver eagle standard with a damp ruby-red bull banner rippling from the crossbar, readying to give it to the aquilifer , whose job it would be to carry the standard on the march. ‘Felix,’ he beckoned, ‘give me that, I have a job for it!’ He grappled the staff and strode over to the gangplank, surveying his men as they busied themselves assembling the supply cart.

‘And let’s get this eagle planted in the sand,’ he cried, leaping over onto the shingle with a thud. ‘It is time for the XI Claudia to make her mark on this land!’

The century turned to him as one — a sea of stunned faces. Gallus felt the cold fingers of doubt race up his spine as he tried to hold his posture, until, after an agony of only a few moments, a chorus of cheers erupted. The cheering died into a rabble of banter as they jostled and bumped past each other as they worked.

A thump landed behind Gallus. ‘Nice touch, sir,’ Felix whispered with a grin.

Gallus barely flicked up the sides of his papyrus-thin lips in return, but he knew his trusted optio valued that like a thousand bear hugs from any other. The Greek had shed blood with him along the length of the Danubius for so long that they understood each other like brothers. He turned to eye the precious few select men of the century that he could count on in the same fashion; Zosimus the hulking Thracian with a nose like a squashed pear and permanent stubble; Avitus the bald, catlike little Roman and Quadratus the towering Gaul — his thick blonde moustache a throwback to his long-lost ancestors. All had their own stories, but each of them had shared his pain in the ranks since the day he had flung himself into his military career.

Life for Gallus before the legions was like a fading dream, the days before the gods had seen fit to take her from him. Olivia. The morning before they had set off in the Aquila, he had crouched before the temple of Mithras, eyes gazing through the idol in front of him. Eternal life and honour, the deity promised to loyal soldiers. Screw your honour, give me back Olivia! Then he grimaced, emptying his mind of those thoughts, wiping the rainwater from his chin until his knuckles whitened.

‘Oh for…’ Zosimus growled, vexed at the ill-fitting cart wheels. ‘Quadratus, get your back under this side so I can get the wheel on the bloody axle!’

Quadratus, reddened and fumbling at the opposite wheel, scuttled round to Zosimus’ side of the cart, only to drop his side of the vehicle on the legs of another young legionary who yelped out a rather ladylike scream. A roar of nervous laughter halted work momentarily.

Gallus welcomed the distraction. ‘Zosimus! Try not to decimate my century before this mission has begun.’

‘Sir!’ Zosimus’ grimace flushed slightly as he strained to slot the wheel into place.

The rest of the century was forming up into ranks, slotting armour in place, buckling belts and harnessing weapons. Gallus paced the ground in front of his men, screwing his eyes up at the murky grey sky. He looked to his ranks; capped with their intercisa helmets, dressed in mail vests over white tunics, woollen trousers and leather boots. They carried the deadly combination of a spatha sword, a spear and a collection of plumbata darts, slipped in behind their ruby painted oval shields. His mind flitted to the paintings and frescoes of the legions of old. Gone were the lorica segmentata , the square shields and the gladius . Also gone, some would say, was the invincibility of that lost age. He took a deep breath and unravelled a parchment map as the last of the century shuffled into place.

‘We have three more hours of daylight, by my reckoning. That gives us two hours marching time, which should see us to a small clearing in the forest to the north.’ He paused, glancing up at his rain-sodden ranks. The men’s faces said it all. Eyes darted back and forth along the tree line and fingers edged along shields restlessly. Alone on the vast beach, their number looked pitiful. Hastily, Gallus crumpled the map into his pack, biting back his frustration.

He paced before them, silent but glaring, as he thought back to the inspirational words of his predecessors. Then he boomed, ‘Hold your chins high and fill your lungs with air. For we are part of the greatest military machine this world has ever known. Every forest we have entered, every sea we have crossed, every desert we have endured and every mountain we have scaled — we have been victorious. Not without setback, that is for certain, but the fact that we are here at the borders of the world today shows that we have prevailed. It is those barbarians who cower in the undergrowth who should feel fear right now, should they even be so brave to look down on us.’ He saw pride flicker from the uncertainty on their faces, then puffed out his chest and seized the moment.

‘Remember…we are the pride of the XI Claudia!’

He turned to face the forest and pumped the eagle standard into the air, as if mocking the unknown shadows ahead. This ignited a roar of approval from the ranks, and inside his chest, his heart thundered. He spun to his optio and clicked his fingers. ‘Felix, organise fifty men to stay with the ship, then line up the rest — they’re coming with us inland.’ Then he turned to the beneficiarius. ‘Take her round the peninsula, we meet on the eastern coast, as planned, three days from now.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Felix nodded.

‘Yes, sir,’ the beneficiarius agreed.

He frowned as all the mutterings of discontent, skulduggery and what-ifs during the briefing from Tribunus Nerva scampered across his mind. Despite the bullish bravado, which Gallus loved him for, the commanding officer of the XI Claudia could turn even the most trivial of events into a drama. However, this time there were genuine layers of agenda and politics involved. Dux Vergilius had meddled from above and Mithras only knew who was pulling his strings.

‘And Felix,’ he waited for the optio to draw closer before adding quietly. ‘Be on your guard,’ he locked eyes with the Greek, ‘we’re walking into the lion’s jaws.’

While Constantinople bustled with activity on a very ordinary late winter morning, a lean, tired faced man with receding, close-cropped chestnut hair ambled up to the Palace of the Holy See. He stopped at the side gate and eyed the urban guard furtively.

‘I’m here to see the bishop. He is expecting me,’ he muttered, pulling his rough hemp robe a little tighter.

The guard looked apprehensive. ‘Oh. And you are…?’

The robed man shuffled in discomfort. ‘You don’t need to know.’

The urban guard tilted his helmet back, scratching his forehead with a grin. ‘Thing is, I’m afraid I do. I’m under orders not to let anyone in, unless they have an appointment. And any troublemakers…’ the guard drummed his fingers on his scabbard.

‘ Bosporus, ’ the man hissed, eyes darting around the passing citizens.

The guard looked puzzled for a moment, and then his face dropped as he recognised the password. ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ he said, pushing the gate open.

Senator Peleus suppressed the urge to glare at the guard — lest he might be recognised. Instead, he kept his head down, made his way across the courtyard and over a bed of gravel directly to a rusting cellar door. The latch clicked as he heaved it open — unlocked as arranged — then he descended the steps into the gloom. He carefully paced along the candlelit corridor at the bottom, passing storeroom after storeroom, stacked with crates and bundles. Then he saw the ostentatious bulwark that was so clearly the treasure vault door. Going by its thickness, the Holy See was more than financially sound, he noted. Towards the end of the corridor, Peleus veered into the unused section of the vault network, distinguished by its darkness. He walked blind, feeling for each pillar, counting. Two, three, turn left, one, two, three, four. Claustrophobia clawed at his throat as all around him was silent and pitch-black. Only the chill air and cool damp of the floor tickled his senses. Only one more pillar , he repeated in his head, reaching out. At the same time as his fingers touched the cool pillar, a welcome halo of orange candlelight was revealed from the vault to his left. He shuffled into its paltry warmth and waited.