Gordon Doherty - Legionary

Purposeful footsteps hammered towards the door behind him. Pavo jolted as the doors shot apart, crashing against the walls. The footsteps rapped up behind him and then stopped dead. Silence curled its fingers around his neck, but he resisted the urge to turn around.

‘Pavo! You treacherous little runt! I keep you, feed you…have you any idea what you’ve done? Have you?’

The broad, toga-clad figure of Tarquitius strode into view to seethe in front of him. Thirteen years had done little to improve the senator’s sickly appearance. More than matched for height these days, he struggled to avoid Tarquitius’ bloodshot, bulging eyes.

‘A senator’s name is not to be sullied!’ Tarquitius barked in a tone so high pitched that his voice crackled off towards the end of the sentence. ‘A slave will not shame his master! A thief is disgrace enough — but to insult my name by stealing from the bishop?’

Pavo tried to suppress the small itch in his throat, but it grew into words that tumbled from his lips. ‘I stole nothing. A man was murdered…’

‘Silence!’ Tarquitius’ cry reverberated around the room and his hand whipped up — the stumpy knuckles hovered in a fist, inches from Pavo’s face. The two stared at each other.

‘What are you waiting for?’ Pavo spoke, his voice trembling. Every other slave had suffered terrible wounds from the same hand. Some had been battered into total paralysis and some to death. Fronto the slave master had broken nearly every bone in Pavo’s body over the years, but Tarquitius had never hit him. Not once. He thought of that day in the slave market and the crone. See that the boy comes to no harm from your hand.

Tarquitius’ eyes narrowed and he lowered his hand. ‘You play a dangerous game, boy. The bishop expects your throat to be cut. No, he demands your blood!’ He hissed, his breath reeking of garlic. ‘I cannot let this go unpunished. The bishop wants you gone from this world, and that is what must happen.’

Pavo’s skin crawled.

‘Fronto!’ He snarled, the name bouncing around the villa, searching the corridors for the slave master.

So there would be one last bout of pain. Just like the beatings. The physical agony was nothing to him now — just a routine, really. Yet the darkness of death crept on his skin as it hared in on him.

‘My name will be sullied if the senate house finds out about this,’ Tarquitius grumbled.

Pavo blinked, eyeing the senator, something was different about his tone.

‘But…you are to be…freed,’ Tarquitius spat the words like a sinew of troublesome meat. ‘Freed and exiled.’

Pavo’s stomach fell away. Freedom? That distant memory.

‘Don’t get too excited, boy,’ Tarquitius’ mouth curled up into a grin. ‘Exiled to the edge of the empire. Invasion territory. Your days will be spent with the limitanei.’

‘The border legions?’

A posting to the border legions was thought little more than a delayed death sentence, with the limits of the empire awash with rampant barbarian hordes. However, his heart tasted only sweet liberation, spiced with fear of the unknown. He lifted his hand to touch the bronze disc through his tunic.

‘When you fall at the end of a sword, then my hands are clean,’ Tarquitius warbled, his chin quivering in stubborn belief.

The crone, Pavo realised. His life was being spared — no, probably just prolonged for a short period. All because of the crone. His head echoed with a thousand questions, but one roared the loudest.

‘What did she say to you?’ He probed. ‘That day — what did she say to you?’

Tarquitius’ face whitened and his eyes bulged. His tongue jabbed out to moisten his trembling lips. But before anything could come out, Fronto bowled into the room behind him, a stench of sweat announcing his arrival.

‘Master?’

Tarquitius continued to stare wide-eyed at Pavo, but addressed his slave master. ‘Get this boy out of my villa and down to the docks. Wear hoods and be sure you go unrecognised. Purchase a berth for him to travel on the next ferry to Tomis. The border garrison at Durostorum will be glad of another piece of barbarian spear-fodder.’ He turned to Pavo. ‘I have sent a messenger to tell them to expect you, so turn up, or there’ll be a slave-hunt on top of you within days, and they will show you no mercy, boy.’

He turned away, but then spun back, drawing eye to eye with Pavo, grinning terribly. ‘You will be dead within the year, boy, I can assure you. But should you show your face in this city again…’ he began, wide-eyed.

Then his face dropped.

‘…and you will die horribly.’

The first century crunched rhythmically over the bracken forest path. They had woken that morning under sodden tents. At least the rain had eased from the driving sleet showers of the previous day to a tame vertical drizzle. Now, late afternoon, the light was beginning to fade as they moved under a canopy of leaves, and a musty whiff of damp vegetation hung in the air. At the head of the column, Gallus systematically scoured the way ahead; the men had marched without rest since dawn and now time was the enemy. Without a safe campsite, they would have to employ a double watch tonight.

‘Can’t see a bloody thing, sir,’ Felix rasped, batting another branch from his face.

Gallus kept his eyes forward, trudging on. ‘The map definitely puts the first fort here, maybe just a bit farther ahead…I don’t know, the forest has swallowed up every other bloody landmark we were supposed to have passed,’ he pinged a finger off the parchment map, ‘this map must date from the Trojan War!’

‘Standard fare for a recon mission, eh?’ Felix sighed, craning over to examine the sodden parchment. ‘Open plains and valleys to the south and we’re instructed to go crashing through the forests!’

Gallus traced a finger over their route again in hope of a revelation. Three Roman forts lay across the neck of the diamond-shaped peninsula, but the etching also indicated watchtowers, trading posts, roads and settlements. He had chosen not to veer from this one ‘highway’ in search of these — not so wise in hindsight. He cursed to himself silently.

‘We’re headed almost due east and this path is, or used to be, Roman. Unless some bugger has dug the thing up for fun, we’ll reach the fort before nightfall,’ Gallus asserted despite his own doubts. Yet he could sense his optio’s unease. ‘We’re not here to engage the Goths, Felix, simply to ascertain their positions along this frontier.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Felix replied, ‘just wish we could see something — not much of a reconnaissance if all there is to report is bloody trees,’ he spluttered and then moaned as yet another branch whipped into his face, leaving a sprig of leaves in his forked beard.

Gallus’ eyes were trained on the map and the large red dot on the southwest edge of the diamond; the fortified citadel of Chersonesos, the old Roman capital. Now it was rumoured to be the Goths’ main trading centre. Tribunus Nerva had explained that the mission sponsors had favoured this complex countryside reconnaissance over the alternative; sending a single spy into the city disguised as a merchant to measure the Gothic strength. Gallus sighed; Emperor Valens and the shadowy figures that surrounded him saw the first century as little more than pawns, happy to face the implications of orders thrown down from above like scraps of meat. He bit back the urge to moan.

‘If leaves and branches are all we have to face here, Felix, I’ll be a contented man.’

He had to stay positive. Gallus knew there was still work to do with his new century to form them into a cohesive unit of men — men who could trust each other in battle. Nerva had set this only as a secondary objective for Gallus during the mission brief. However, to Gallus it was key to their survival in this foreign land and to the future of the limitanei, the border legions, as a whole. A hotchpotch of recruits, veterans and comitatenses dropouts, the XI Claudia were withering. As small an operation as this was, a successful reconnaissance could sow the seeds that might see the XI Claudia return for a full conquest of this old province. It could inspire the thousands of men in the other border legions, spread along the frontiers in draughty forts with nothing to aspire to but staying off the end of a Gothic spear.