Legionary, page 1
LEGIONARY
THE EMPEROR’S SHIELD
by Gordon Doherty
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2023 Gordon Doherty
All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced in any form, in whole or in part, without written permission from the author.
www.gordondoherty.co.uk
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Also by Gordon Doherty:
THE LEGIONARY SERIES
1. LEGIONARY (2011)
2. VIPER OF THE NORTH (2012)
3. LAND OF THE SACRED FIRE (2013)
4. THE SCOURGE OF THRACIA (2015)
5. GODS & EMPERORS (2015)
6. EMPIRE OF SHADES (2017)
7. THE BLOOD ROAD (2018)
8. DARK EAGLE (2020)
9. THE EMPEROR’S SHIELD (2023)
THE STRATEGOS TRILOGY
1. BORN IN THE BORDERLANDS (2011)
2. RISE OF THE GOLDEN HEART (2013)
3. ISLAND IN THE STORM (2014)
THE EMPIRES OF BRONZE SERIES
1. SON OF ISHTAR (2019)
2. DAWN OF WAR (2020)
3. THUNDER AT KADESH (2020)
4. THE CRIMSON THRONE (2021)
5. THE SHADOW OF TROY (2021)
6. THE DARK EARTH (2022)
THE RISE OF EMPERORS TRILOGY
1. SONS OF ROME (2020)
2. MASTERS OF ROME (2021)
3. GODS OF ROME (2021)
This book goes to all those heroes out there who have supported and contributed to my ongoing fundraiser for Myeloma UK, the blood cancer charity.
Together, we will ‘Make Myeloma History’.
https://www.justgiving.com/fundraising/MyelomaHistory
On that note, here’s a special mention to the following people who – following my shout out – have kindly and generously donated once again to the pot, in return for a little piece of immortality here on this page.
I give you…
THE CLAUDIAN
ROLL OF HONOUR
Gabrielus Dacicus Maximus
Marty Oliver
Taff James
Durio Mico Hostilianus
Danielus Wardicus
John Verniers
William Havelock
Lucia Drusilla
Jaynus Marcus Lampinius
Pete McG
John Baird
Anthony Bird
Kevin Cunningham
Babrius Colias
Andrew McIntyre
M. Vinicius Clotharius
Gaius Ingenius Baro
Marco Corongiu
Gaius Californicus
R.B. Clark
LEGIO XI CLAUDIA SEMPER VICTRIX!
Maps & Military Charts
The Roman Empire, circa 386 AD
Note that full and interactive versions of this and all the diagrams & maps can be found on the ‘Legionary’ section of my website, http://www.gordondoherty.co.uk/Legionary
The Diocese of Thracia, circa 386 AD
The Western Imperial Army, circa 386 AD
See glossary (at rear of book) for a description of terms
The Eastern Imperial Army, circa 386 AD
Structure of Legio XI Claudia Pia Fidelis
Prologue
February 386 AD
Northern Thracia
Death crawled across the land.
The wind roared, blasting snow across the sickle moon. Two Roman cavalry scouts shivered and clutched their woollen cloaks tight around their necks as they urged their weary mounts to plod on through the white drifts.
‘Gods below, I can’t feel my f-fingers,’ said one scout through chattering teeth, his beard stiff with ice.
The second, the tip of his nose blue, nodded briskly. ‘We’re surely finished with this patrol anyway – everything’s quiet out here.’
Both shot darting looks around the land. There were few signs of life, let alone trouble. In the distance hung a dull orange glow – torchlight from the nearest of the six Gothic settlements that studded this imperial territory.
‘Imagine what it’s like there,’ said the first scout. ‘Dry beds, roaring fires, meat roasting on spits, beer…’
‘And Goths,’ the second snorted. ‘No thanks. They don’t take kindly to the likes of us wandering into their villages. Our job is to patrol the lands around these six Haims and watch for bother.’
‘True,’ muttered the first. ‘Maybe we’re not going in there, but we do need to get out of this blizzard.’ He twisted in his saddle. ‘Commander Peregrinus,’ he called back to the officer riding in their wake, ‘permission to turn around. If we set south now, we might make it back to the imperial waystation before the worst of the night sets in.’
The officer, wreathed in cloak and hood, swaying in the saddle, did not respond. For a moment, the scout wondered if the man had died of the cold during the trek and they had failed to notice. He screwed up his eyes to try to see if the fellow was even breathing.
Suddenly, the officer’s fingers flexed on his reins, and two gentle coils of white vapour emerged from the shadows of the hood. The scout shivered, and this time it had nothing to do with the cold. ‘Commander Peregrinus?’ he called again, more timidly this time.
The officer’s attentions remained elsewhere, the hooded head sweeping slowly across the wintry wastes.
‘Pah, he’s not even listening,’ the second rider muttered under his breath: ‘What’s someone of his station doing out on a shit scouting mission with runts like us anyway?’
‘He arrived from the capital, and flashed a few impressive-looking seals. Not our scout squadron’s place to question him, apparently,’ shrugged the first, before blowing into his hands. ‘I’ll try again.’ He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted this time: ‘Commander Peregrinus, permission to turn ba-’
Peregrinus held up a hand to cut him off. ‘Just a little further,’ the officer replied in a low burr, gesturing towards a stand of snow-heavy larches.
Peregrinus walked his grey mare towards the treeline, clumps of snow flicking up under the beast’s hooves. The woods mercifully shielded the small party from the wrath of the storm. He eyed the nearest larch trunks furtively, noticing a runic marking on the bark of one. The two scouts had wandered right past it. ‘Halt here, I need a moment,’ he said. Sliding from the saddle and plunging into the shin-deep snow, he stalked into the trees.
The two scout riders automatically dismounted too, each going for their sword hilts, eyes watchful as they made to follow him, suspecting that the officer had spotted signs of trouble.
Peregrinus’ faceless hood tilted a little and he spread his palms. ‘I need a moment… alone.’
The two riders looked vacant for an instant, then relaxed. ‘Ah, very good, sir,’ said one. The pair turned their backs to give him privacy.
Peregrinus paced on into the larch woods, where the roar of the winds grew muffled. The forest floor here was dry and snow-free, the bracken and twigs snapping under his boots. He passed another rune marking. Then a third.
The sound of a straining bowstring, behind, told him he need look no further. ‘That sounds like an almighty draw,’ he said, halting. ‘Are you expecting trouble?’
‘Turn around, Roman,’ a jagged voice hissed, ‘slowly.’
Peregrinus did as asked, turning as the young hunter stepped from the undergrowth, bow taut and trained on him. Warlike and cold, this is what the Goths of the Haims had once been like: wolves, not sheep, Peregrinus thought. The young man was bare-chested, legs clad in dark green lozenge-patterned trousers. He wore his hair in a spouting topknot, and his moustache hung in two braids either side of his grim line of a mouth. His bare torso was riddled with tribal tattoos, and one striking marking, near the heart, of a prancing stag.
The hunter eyed the shadows of Peregrinus’ hood, ill at ease. ‘You… you are him, yes? You are Peregrinus?’
One edge of Peregrinus’ mouth bent upwards slightly. ‘Yes, I am he.’
‘Why did you bring armed guards?’ the hunter snarled, glancing through the trees at the pair of Roman riders near the stand’s edge.
‘They are scouts. They think I came into the trees to empty my bladder. They don’t even know you are here,’ said Peregrinus, waving gently downwards with a pacifying hand. ‘You are safe.’
The hunter sneered, and relaxed his bow, but only a fraction. ‘I risked my life to cross over the river and come here. Tell me it was not for nothing.’
‘Oh, I can do better than that,’ said Peregrinus, reaching inside his cloak and producing a small wooden case, proffering it.
The young Goth opened the case and stared at the markings upon the wax slab within. ‘By Wodin…’
‘Aye,’ said Peregrinus, ‘now take that back across the river and to your lord in the north. Tell him that it is time to bring his multitudes south, to the empire’s edge.’
The hunter tucked the tablet case into the waist of his trousers and backed away, strapping his bow across his back. ‘May Wodin shine upon you, friend. The Silver Stag will be coming, soon.’
As Peregrinus watched him go, he toyed with the s
The faintest beam of starlight betrayed the edge of his lips within the hood, curving into a faint smile like a hunter’s bow.
‘Let it begin,’ he said in a gentle whisper.
Part I
Chapter 1
June 386 AD
Southern Thracia
Pavo closed his eyes as he walked. It was hypnotic: the gentle stroke of golden grass stalks brushing on his scarred shins; the rumble of hobnailed boots marching in lockstep behind him; the smell of oiled armour and leather; the heat of the summer sun on his neck, tempered by a welcome lick of breeze. This was the soldier’s life. This was living in the truest sense.
So why did it feel all wrong?
‘There it is, Tribunus Pavo,’ a martial voice barked.
He peeled his eyes open. One of the soldiers was using an eagle standard to indicate ahead, to the point where the plain of golden grass met the blue dome of sky. There on the horizon rose a wonder: a two storey manse of veined and spotted marble, the roofs fluttering with purple imperial flags. A tower rose from the heart of the building, stretching another two storeys again. Apart from a pretty garden and a stable compound, there was nothing else around it or nearby. No sign of life either. It was as if a god had planted the manor and the estate there in this vast open plain. ‘Who built this thing?’ he muttered to himself.
‘Why… you did, sir,’ replied the standard-bearer. ‘You created this.’
‘What?’ Pavo muttered quietly. He did not even notice if the soldier replied, because a slight movement atop that distant tower caught his eye. It wasn’t just the fluttering flags… there was someone up there. A lone figure on that high roof. Watching.
He took a few steps ahead of the others, squinting in an attempt to identify the figure. ‘Who is that?’ he said, the question directed over his shoulder, towards the standard-bearer.
Silence.
He sensed without even turning that the standard-bearer was not there anymore. And that the entire legion was gone. The air turned cold now, a grey pall of cloud crawling across the sky, blotting out the sun. More, he sensed a new presence behind him where the legion had been.
Pavo turned to the withered old crone standing there. Her milky eyes appraised him as if she were not blind. She smiled sadly, extending a bony finger towards his sword belt. ‘Easier to split the sky, than part a soldier from his blade.’
He glanced down at the sheathed weapon, and at his armoured body. Now he understood why this all felt so wrong. ‘I’m not a soldier… not anymore,’ he whispered to himself.
‘Yet here you are,’ said the crone, her haggard old face rising, looking past Pavo’s shoulder and to the high tower of the manor. ‘And well you know who that is up there.’
Pavo shook his head. ‘I will never forget the times in which you guided me. But those days are past. I do not care who is on that tower. And I tell you,’ he said with a firm edge to his voice, ‘I am not a soldier anymore.’ He drew his spatha, holding it loosely by the pommel, blade dangling towards the soil, ready to let it drop – in the way a man might discard a crust of bread. A strange moment passed.
The crone tilted her head a little. ‘What are you waiting for?’
Determined to show her, Pavo slackened his grip to let go of his sword. At the very same moment, a crackle of movement sounded behind him… from the direction of the manor, coming rapidly for his back.
Struck with fright, he swivelled that way, catching and flicking his sword up to brandish it in defence.
With a gasp, the running legionary halted, staring at Pavo, a hand’s width between their faces.
Feeling warmth spreading over his hand, Pavo looked slowly down to see that the legionary had run onto his sword – the blade embedded in his guts to the hilt, blood soaking Pavo to the wrist. A legionary? No, a child in armour – a Roman child, his chin hairless, his face soft and the weak noises coming from his lips boyish.
‘No!’ Pavo uttered in shock, his eyes darting over the boy’s face.
He wrapped his free arm around the lad’s back, lowering him, trying to hold the blade steady so it would do no further damage. But it was lodged deep, the blood pumping from the wound now black rather than red.
‘Medicus?’ Pavo cried as if the absent legion were still here. ‘Someone, help!’
‘My mother…’ the lad spluttered red, ‘my mother is waiting for me. Can… can I go home?’
Pavo shook with horror as he watched the light leave the boy’s eyes.
With an almighty intake of breath, he escaped from the dream, lunged from his bed… then instantly crumpled, his right leg buckling under him and an animal cry of pain spilling from his lungs as he slammed onto a cold stone floor.
‘Pavo?’ someone cried from somewhere in the darkness. ‘Pavo!’
He gasped to regain control of his speeding heart. Every second breath was stolen away by the fires burning in his old battle wounds.
‘Pavo!’ With the sound of flints and a few sparks, an oil lamp blossomed into life, a pale bubble of light revealing the dusky face of his wife, Izodora – her beauty marred by fright – and the bedroom of their farmhouse. Her shock faded and she sighed.
‘Oh, Pavo…’ She came round the bed and sank to one knee beside him, wrapping one arm around his shoulders and planting the other hand on his chest. ‘Breathe,’ she said, then began to help him to his feet.
‘I can do it myself,’ he snapped.
She drew back, hurt.
Without her support, the fires raged in the old thigh wound, and he had to bite his lip to keep back a moan of pain as he rose, before he finally flopped back onto the bed. ‘I’m sorry, I… It was just a dream. Just a dream.’
She hushed him, drawing the blanket over him, then smoothed a hand through his cheek-length dark locks, the lamp light betraying the flashes of silver near the hairline. As his breathing began to settle, he heard the sounds of night outside – crickets and a lone owl. Utter serenity. The horrors of the dream seemed safely distant now.
Suddenly, a shrill cry erupted from the corner of the room. Pavo and Izodora jolted with fright… then groaned in unison when the woken toddler there shrieked again and again in his cot.
‘My fault,’ Pavo muttered sheepishly.
When he made to rise to go to their son, she gently pushed him onto his back again, then approached the cot herself, lifting the child. The lad, nearly three, had Izodora’s piercing blue eyes and darker eastern skin, and just hints of Pavo’s aquiline features. As a bar of pale, pinkish light shone weakly through the gap in the shutters, she began bouncing the boy in her arms and his tears became giggles.
Pavo watched them for an eternity, drinking in the sight like a desert traveller might behold his last skin of water. They were everything to him.
A cockerel crowed, breaking the spell. He slid his legs awkwardly to sit on the edge of the bed. When Izodora shot him a reproachful look, he held out open palms of innocence. ‘I’m just going to graze the goats and tend to the wheat. I’m capable of that, at least.’
‘Take the mule – I don’t want you bearing any weight.’
‘Of course.’
He rose, and shuffled rather than walked – barely able to lift his right leg – over to a cupboard. He ran the pads of his fingers over the piled garments inside, selecting a rough tunic for his day’s farming work. As for footwear? He glanced over at the tattered old farm boots near the main door. They had begun to fall apart months ago and he had yet to buy or make a new pair. So, he plucked a pair of sandals from the bottom of the cupboard – not ideal for farming, but they would have to do for now.
