‘Push up or we’re dead!’ Gallus barked pointing to the narrow section of battlement still with covering parapet on both the inside and outside.
Avitus locked shields with his centurion and they raced forward, butting into the midriffs of the Goths, who stumbled backwards. Felix crouched between them; the narrow battlement meant their flank would be safe, but the weight of Gothic numbers would quickly tell, pushing them back out into the hail of arrows.
‘Be ready, Felix,’ Gallus panted.
Felix braced as two huge axe-bearers charged at them. Two crashing blows rained on the mini shield wall, sending the Romans staggering backwards. Then, as the giants swung their weapons again, Avitus and Gallus lifted their shields apart for Felix to lurch out, a spatha in each hand, thrusting them into the ribcages of their attackers. The Goths staggered backwards, gurgling and then toppling onto the courtyard of the fort. A thud sounded from the other end of the battlements and the remaining five Goths on the wall spun to the source; Roman reinforcements. The wall guards wavered, every moment seeing more Romans pour onto the walls behind the shielded trio. One barked an order and they turned and fled down the ladders to their mustering kinsmen in the courtyard below.
Felix grinned at his centurion — the wall was theirs! But Gallus nodded briskly to the rope.
‘Ready?’ The centurion hissed.
Felix risked a glance at the end, dangling in the courtyard below; surrounded by the swell of Goths. ‘Oh right, forgot about this bit. Great,’ he spat, taking up the rope.
Gallus cupped his hands to his mouth and let out another double whistle. A rumbling grew from the rocks where they had hidden moments before.
A wrap of
plumbatae
came crashing over the wall on either side and the legionaries distributed the lead weighted darts among their number. Each legionary took his plumbata at the ready.
‘Let ‘em have it!’ Gallus roared.
Felix watched the volley of darts rain down, sinking into the Gothic front line and driving back their swell from the end of the rope. He mouthed a silent prayer to Mithras and leapt from the battlement, his palms searing as he descended the rope. The Goths watched in an impotent fury, their eyes sparkling with rage behind their shield wall as the optio slipped down onto the courtyard. Felix felt his limbs turn to jelly as he slapped onto the flagstones just as the rattle of plumbatae stopped like a spent hailstorm. He glanced up to see Gallus, wide eyed, holding his plumbata-free arms out in apology.
The Gothic commander stood tall and pointed his sword tip down at Felix, face torn in rage. ‘Charge!’
Felix, wide-eyed, scrambled for the main gate, scraping in the darkness for the bolt.
‘Gut him like a pig!’ The Gothic commander screamed as his men poured forward.
Felix winced as he tore open his hand pulling at the wrong end of the bolt. He felt the earth rumble as the roaring Goths raced at his unprotected back, hearing even the intake of breath as they drew back their swords to strike. Then the bolt chunked free.
He rolled out into the night and the Gothic warriors tumbled out behind him. Utterly disoriented, he scrambled up to his feet.
‘Duck!’ Growled a familiar voice, cut off by the twang of a scorpion bolt.
Collapsing instinctively, Felix felt his hair parting under the slipstream of the iron bolt as it whipped over his head and sunk into the Gothic pack just emerging from the fort gates. Felix blinked up at Quadratus, his blonde moustache raised as he grinned from behind the makeshift scorpion.
‘Thanks for the warning!’ Felix croaked, stumbling forward.
‘Like to keep you on your toes, sir,’ Quadratus grunted as he set off another bolt.
Gallus clenched his fists as the scorpion pinned the Goths back into the fort and against the back wall. ‘We’ve got ‘em — take the flanks!’ He cried, waving his men towards the ladders.
‘Avitus, keep four men and hold the walls — watch for reinforcements. Zosimus, you’re with me.’
His men were off before the order was even finished, pouring down the ladders to flank the mass of Goths, now in disarray. Pinned between the twin rapiers of spatha and scorpion, the Gothic battle cry waned. A flurry of stabbing, gurgling and iron smashing followed. Gallus butted up and forward with his shield, crunching into the face of the Gothic commander. Seizing the moment, he pulled his shield to one side and thrust his spatha at the throat of the man. The blade stopped just as it nicked the Goth’s skin. All around them, a clatter of swords hitting flagstones rang out.
‘Mercy,’ the Gothic commander growled, bitterness lacing his words.
Gallus glanced around; his men jostled, their spathas hovering, ready to finish the job. The remaining Goths, barely in double figures, stared groundward, awaiting their fate.
‘Collect their weapons,’ Gallus conceded, gasping. A bitter sigh rose from the legionaries. ‘Collect their weapons and bind their hands,’ he barked, ‘and find where they are holding our man prisoner.’
‘That was a hard thing to do, sir,’ Felix offered quietly beside him, ‘but the right thing.’
‘I’m not even sure of that, Felix. Remember yesterday?’
‘The men have had revenge, sir. They’ll always grumble when the red mist is down.’
Gallus eyed his optio. ‘Indeed. It’s not blood I want now, Felix. I want answers.’
Chapter 9
Pavo spat the metallic bloody gloop into the sand of the training field and ran his tongue over the shard of remaining tooth. His fingers brushed his left side and he winced at the flaring agony from his ribs.
‘Get up, stinkin’ whoreson!’ Brutus roared. The centurion booted a cloud of dust into Pavo’s face. ‘Seems we have a kitten here, wants to go away to lick his wounds?’ He paced steadily, addressing the square of legionary recruits fixated on the brutality. Even now after a week of pain, they were still in shock at this sadist; short, but built like a tree trunk, his cropped scalp glistened with sweat and his broad face was a ball of indulgent fury. He really seemed to revel in their misery. Indeed, glowing red under the sun, he resembled some kind of demon.
It had been a whirlwind seven days since they had first walked through the fort gates. Pavo had glanced up at the flapping ruby bull banners billowing from the gate towers and felt momentarily majestic — then bumped straight into a legionary hauling two heavy buckets of steaming faeces. He and Sura had queued up with a rabble of similarly wide-eyed and fresh faced unknowns clad in filthy tunics and little else, all waiting to put their mark on the slip of parchment that would sign away their lives for the next twenty-five years.
Twenty-five years indeed
, a common joke amongst the veterans given life expectancy was two to three years. Two dark-red itchy hemp tunics, one comparatively luxurious purple edged white tunic — for parades and official sorties only, a pair of used leather boots and a frayed leather belt they received in return. The dangerous bits, the spear, the spatha sword and the plumbatae darts, weren’t dished out until later, apparently until the idiots had been weeded from the ranks. The first few days had been gentle — drill practice and bunk assignments followed by functional but welcome grub in the mess hall. Then training had started, and Pavo’s world had tumbled into a living Hades.
He ran a finger over his bleeding gums and squinted at Brutus, whose face curled into a grin; no way out this time, he thought; the four walls of the fort seemed so close, so high. No disappearing back into the grim anonymity of slavery. He noticed Sura peering over with an apologetic resignation.
Brutus casually raised his foot to Pavo’s face and pushed him backward onto the ground. ‘Get this runt out of here,’ he called to two of the recruits. They scurried over and pulled at Pavo’s arms. Pain rifled through his bones. The fight in his heart gnawed at him.
‘I’m not finished!’ he croaked, wriggling free.
‘Hello?’ Brutus chirped, cocking his head to one side. His eyes ran over the terrified recruits, every one of them dropping their gaze. Then his eyes fell on Sura, who was desperately shaking his head at his friend. Brutus whipped back round to Pavo.
‘See, your Thracian bum boy here thinks you should bugger off, too. Get out of here before I come over there and knock the rest of your teeth in!’
Pavo’s tongue felt like a leaf of parchment as he stumbled to his feet; the training field spun around him in the growing midday heat. His legs wobbled and almost buckled and his vision tunnelled, but he gritted his teeth. Dazed yet determined, he let out a roar, and threw himself forward. He saw Brutus’ pupils narrow and, like a cobra, the centurion slid clear and was gone. From nowhere a crunching blow to the back of his head brought him slamming into the dust, where he hacked up a mixture of blood, saliva and bile. A mixture of groaning and laughter erupted around the recruits.
‘And this, you
maggots
, is how you pacify a barbarian.’
Pavo squinted up, panting; Brutus strutted Caesar-like in front of his recruits. Frustration boiled in his blood at the arrogance of the man. But then he saw the thinnest sliver of opportunity; his eyes settled on Brutus’ scabbard. He pushed to his feet and stalked towards him.
Still time to even the scores!
‘And if the barbarian refuses to lie down and accept the rule of the empire,’ Brutus regaled, eyes closed and one arm extended, clearly envisioning himself in the role of Cicero, reaching down to draw his wooden training sword, ‘then we serve them a portion of sweet, sharp sword.’ It was a priceless instant; Brutus’ face dropped in horror, as his hand patted an empty scabbard.
Pavo hatched a toothy grin. ‘Looking for this?’ He sighed, twirling the hefty wooden sword from hand to hand. Silence blanketed the training field and only the distant clanking from the canteen could be heard. Brutus’ blank expression held momentarily and then began to redden. Sensing the scarlet fury he knew would come next, Pavo laughed, and threw the sword over to the centurion handle first. Like a splash of cool water, the crowd broke into a rabble of cheering and laughter. Slowly Brutus, too, melted into a smile. An evil smile, but a smile all the same.
‘Okay dirtbags, training’s over for today. Off to the canteen for dinner — I hear it’s horse-turd pie today!’ He roared at his own joke, before tucking his sword in and marching off, in a vain attempt to recapture his dignity of moments before.
Pavo began the trudge back to the barracks. A few congratulatory pats landed on his back from sniggering recruits. His head ached, his mouth tasted foul and his body felt like a pile of shattered pewter, but he had dug some pride from the training session.
‘You’ve got a bloody death wish!’ Sura spluttered, sidling up next to him, ‘Brutus’ll have you out on the sand every day now — he’ll be after a bit of revenge for that little stunt!’
He looked up at the pure blue of the sky, and chuckled. ‘Haven’t done myself any favours have I?’
He turned to Sura, but a blinding white light filled his head as a hammer blow landed on his jaw. He was in the sand again before he realised what had happened; a bull-like recruit stood, fists clenched, in front of him. It was the broad shouldered Spurius; his short crop shimmered with sweat, his eyes were hooded under his v-shaped brow, and he grinned through yellowed teeth, stretched out under a broad and battered nose. He beckoned Pavo to his feet. Behind, Sura wriggled in the grasp of the elephantine and oak-limbed recruit named Festus.
Spurius examined his blood spattered knuckles. ‘Numerius Vitellius Pavo. The slave scumbag.’
Pavo winced, shooting a glance at Sura. Sura’s face flashed with shock but then quickly morphed into fury again as he kicked out uselessly at Festus’ grip.
‘I’ve got contacts that’d pay a fortune for more of this,’ Spurius growled.
Pavo touched a finger to his lips — fattened and stinging. He had made a lot of enemies during his misadventures in the city; some of his missions had been for the thrill alone, but then there were those darker briefs he had been given in the shadowy alleys — big money had been lost and gained through him. ‘You’re from the street gangs?’
‘Constantinople born and bred. You’re wanted, and I’m going to collect the bounty.’
‘We’re here to fight in the legions, same as you, we’re all equal here,’ Sura barked, his legs kicking out in vain as Festus roared with laughter.
‘I don’t give a flying turd what you’re here for. Remember the Blues? Well they want to make an example of the smart-arse who nicked their standard for the Greens.’
Pavo’s mind reeled back through the troublemaking in the capital. It was last winter and he had been sitting at a filthy, rickety table outside
The Eagle
— a filth hole of an inn near the Hippodrome — picking at some fetid mess they had served as food. A gravel voice had startled him — it always happened this way. ‘I hear you’re the man for a bit of a sortie. Fancy earning a purse of bronze?’ The thug had asked. Pavo recognised him from the racing — always at the head of riots, leading the Greens into the fray. He had eyed the bulging purse of folles the man held. The job entailed sneaking into the Blues’ headquarters, in an attic above a butcher’s shop on the north edge of the Augusteum, where he drugged their two apelike guards and made off with the antique bronze eagle standard they prided above all else.
‘He remembers,’ Festus spat back. ‘Now sort him out, Spurius.’
Pavo blinked back to reality and cowered at the sight of Spurius pulling his fist back to strike. But, in a breath, the man’s expression changed to a gaping smile accompanied by a mock-friendly slap on the jaw. Pavo looked over his shoulder and saw the reason; Centurion Brutus sidled past on his mount, eyeing the confrontation.
‘Keep it moving,’ the centurion grumbled.
Spurius and Festus strolled for the barracks. Spurius casting a malignant glance back over his shoulder.