Legionary, page 33
Pavo winced as Verax moved over to bandage his torn calf. An onager rock burst against the tip of the basalt fin, showering them all with grit and dust. His eyes drifted along the earthwork in despair. How were Maximus’ men bringing the artillery to bear so swiftly, one salvo rapidly following another?
‘We’re going to die on this bloody ford!’ Libo howled.
Now Pavo noticed the number of bodies, ripped open and floating downstream, staining the river dark red. Suddenly, an idea was born. ‘Yes, yes we are.’
‘Pavo?’ Sura said, aghast.
Pavo met the eyes of the five most senior of his old comrades: Sura, Libo; Pulcher; Darik, and Betto. ‘You five. You are here because of my actions. You followed me when I asked you to help topple Gratian and put that bastard, Maximus, in his place.’ He stabbed a finger in the direction of Siscia’s walls as he said this. ‘And now I must ask you to trust me to put right that mistake.’
The group beheld one another. Pulcher was the first to respond with a nonchalant shrug. ‘No need for a speech. All you have to do is ask.’
‘What’s the plan?’ Sura asked.
‘Like I said: I want you to die,’ Pavo answered.
The Claudians stared at him blankly, horrified.
‘Or at least pretend that you are dead,’ Pavo explained. He nodded downriver, to the churn of floating bodies. ‘Armour off. You’ll need only your swords and these,’ he patted his shield.
‘Ha!’ Sura chuckled gruffly, his eyes glinting with understanding. ‘Do as he says.’
Pavo unclipped his white greaves and wedged them and his helm in a crack on the basalt fin. Sura patted the shoulder of Durio – the next most senior after the group Pavo had chosen. ‘You have command of the men. Keep them here, keep your heads down and your shields up.’
Betto gave the Claudia standard to Indus, Durio’s tentmate. ‘Guard this with your life. It is not mere wood, metal and cloth. It is the spirit of our legion.’
Pavo crouched near the edge of the basalt rock, watching the skies again. Arrows, bolts, more arrows, then… a moment of respite. ‘Now!’
The band of six broke towards the ford’s edge, where the tumbling white waters settled into the deeper, calmer downstream current. Bolts, stones and arrows whirred past them from both ford ends. One dart shaft skated across the back of Pavo’s helm. He exaggerated a trip and a stumble, clutching his neck and crying out as if injured, then pitched out over the ford’s edge into the deeper waters, landing prone on his shield with an almighty splash. He held his breath as the shield cut under water for a time, then – buoyant as the timbers were – it rose back to the surface, carrying him downstream. He let his body slacken, his limbs trailing in the water as if he were a corpse.
He kept one eye closed and cracked the other open ever so slightly – seeing his comrades floating like him, amongst others truly dead. The assault on the trapped Eastern army continued unabated as he and his five slipped on downstream, ignored as slain men.
When the current carried them around a dog leg in the river, the wild din of battle dropped to a muffled echo. Once they were a good few hundred paces further downstream, Pavo dared lift his head. The island’s banks here were clear. He paddled towards the water’s edge, then clawed at the reeds there and hauled himself onto land, spitting and gasping, quickly turning to grab Darik’s hand and pull him to the banks, then helping Pulcher, who rose and shook water from himself like a dog. They in turn helped the others.
‘Come with me,’ Pavo circled a hand, then moved off along the banks, leading them back upstream through reeds and brush, towards the knee of the dog leg in the river. Here, he halted. This area was thick with gorse and hazel trees. Peering through the foliage, he could see the ford and the army trapped at its mid-point. Even better, he could see the earthen rampart: from here it was visible in profile.
He turned to the others and hunkered down. They crouched likewise. ‘Maximus has done everything to block a frontal attack on the ford, but has neglected to guard against an attack along these island banks,’ he explained. ‘You see that near end of the rampart?’
Libo’s good eye narrowed. ‘No pickets.’
‘Exactly. Undefended. Vulnerable to a strike from our position.’
Betto blew air through his lips as he regarded the gleaming ranks of enemy legionaries lining the earthwork. ‘I have read of some heroic warriors in my time, sir. The legendary feats of Ajax and Hektor at Troy, the valour of Coriolanus. But we are six barely-armoured men. Even if we can steal up onto that parapet, Maximus has at least a thousand soldiers there, and plenty more in Siscia ready to rapidly reinforce them.’
‘We don’t need to fight and defeat them all,’ Pavo explained. ‘All we need do is disrupt them – stop the continuous hail of missiles raining down on our army. All our legions need is a window of respite, and they can break forward and storm that earthwork.’ He pointed at the two ballistae on the near end of the rampart. ‘See how those bolt throwers and catapults are mounted on wagons? That is how the enemy are managing to bring their artillery to bear so rapidly and keep up the constant barrage.’
‘While the ballistae shoot, the onagers are withdrawn and reloaded, and vice versa,’ Sura rumbled.
‘A strength,’ Pavo continued, ‘but also a weakness. The wagons mean those weapons can be turned in any direction. If we can take those nearest few…’
His comrades’ faces bent in devious grins. ‘I’m liking the sound of this,’ Pulcher said with a wicked glint in his eye.
Then, voices.
Alarmed, Pavo held his breath.
‘A patrol,’ Darik hissed, spotting the group of ten golden-armoured Victores legionaries ambling from the direction of the rampart. ‘They’re coming this way. Seems Maximus didn’t entirely neglect to watch this approach.’
All hands went for their swords. Pavo felt a swell of panic, seeing that the ten were coming right for the gorse – the hiding spot. Even if his small group could match and beat these ten – a questionable outcome in itself – the sounds of combat here would draw many reinforcements to the spot, and the opportunity would be lost. The ten crunched closer, closer, one swigging from a water skin as he went, eyes watchful.
‘Stay down, stay quiet, I have a plan to distract them,’ Sura whispered, then took up his shield by its rim. ‘Back in my younger days in Adrianople,’ he explained, ‘they had a discus-throwing contest. It wasn’t really a contest – because I was famed for being able to toss a plate to the horizon. Hercules of Adrianople, they called me,’ He measured up, readying to toss his shield like a giant discus. ‘Of course, that particular day I was a bit hungover, and I mis-threw… bloody thing went askew and whacked straight into the city prefect’s bollocks. I asked for a retake but-’
‘Sura,’ Pavo growled. ‘Just bloody throw the thing!’
Sura blinked, remembering the urgency of the situation. With a sharp twist of his upper body, he swivelled on one heel and hurled his shield into the river, as far downstream as he could manage. It landed with an almighty splash, then bobbed and spun, speeding along on the currents.
With some shocked utterance and the splat of a dropped drinking skin, the ten Victores sentries bundled straight past the gorse hiding spot and on down the riverbanks, spears levelled, head swishing as they scrutinised the river, trying to pinpoint the cause of the splash. At the same time, Pavo and Sura silently guided their small band around the rear of the gorse thicket, slipping out of view from the ten and edging on upstream.
‘It’s just a shield,’ the leader of the ten laughed as he hooked it from the water with his spear. ‘A Claudian shield. Eastern border legion scum.’
‘Dead scum now,’ another said with a smirk, appraising the river’s currents and the bodies floating out there. ‘Must have been an injured one going under that made the noise.’
‘Outsmarted by corpses,’ Darik whispered, grinning.
‘We don’t have long before they patrol back this way. Come, stay low, be swift,’ Pavo said to the band as he broke into a low run. ‘With me.’
As they scuttled towards the earth rampart’s unguarded end, the crash and clamour from the ford rose into sharp clarity once more. The scene out there at midriver was horrid – with the cluster of palace legions around the emperor weathering the endless missile offensive heavily, able to bear the arrows, but powerless to resist the neverending onslaught of ballista bolts and onager stones. Bodies slid away from the protective cluster, broken, ripped, more bobbing away downstream in their scores.
Pavo set his sights on the earth rampart’s near end. Two wagon-mounted artillery devices – a ballista and an onager – were closest. The three-man crews of each were oblivious to the Claudian approach – too busy launching bolt after rock in a bloody frenzy, each shooting then wheeling their wagon backwards to let the other take the fore and launch.
‘Burst some more heads,’ bellowed the red-bearded artillery commander. ‘Emperor Maximus has promised a pouch of silver for every man who destroys at least ten of those Eastern dogs!’
Pavo drew his sword, gripped his shield and glanced at his group. All knew what had to be done. ‘Go!’ They flooded up the end of the rampart like wolves.
The men on the withdrawn ballista wagon, backs turned as they loaded and wound up the device, had no chance. Libo whacked one across the back of the head with the flat of his sword, knocking him out cold. When the second turned in shock, Pulcher landed a bull-like headbutt on the bridge of the man’s nose, putting him on his back, snoring noisily, blood bubbling from his flattened face. Sura used his shield to bowl the third over the wagon’s edge, the man pitching over the wooden parapet then tumbling head over heels down the earth slope, where he was pierced through by one of the many caltrops before he could scream in alarm.
Darik then took command of the loaded ballista, while Betto, Pulcher and Libo hauled the wagon, striving to point it not at the ford but along the earth battlement. It was painfully slow, and before they were finished, the team manning the onager right next to it swung round, realising what was happening.
Pavo leapt for the first of them, blocking a sword strike with his porpax shield then sweeping his own blade round to lop off the man’s arm. Sura ran the second through the belly. The red-bearded commander, shocked, opened his mouth to raise the alarm… just as Darik pulled the ballista holding peg free. The giant bolt surged from its flight groove, pierced through the man’s sternum, and sent him – with a crestfallen expression – hurtling backwards along the length of the battlements, ripping through and bowling over scores of legionaries.
‘Again!’ Pavo roared as Sura and he got to grips with the captured onager on the second wagon, turning the handle to dramatically lower its trajectory. Sura pulled the giant catapult’s peg free and, with a buck and a whine, the rock flew from the cup, pounding down upon the next nearest pair of enemy artillery wagons, shredding them, then blasting apart the next few too. Again and once more, the two captured wagons loosed, and the lateral and unexpected strike made utter ruin of the defenders on the battlements, casting earth and men into the air. Western legionaries and archers spun and spasmed, ripped apart and flailing. Many threw themselves down the rampart’s landward slope and fled for Siscia. At last, the arrows, bolts and stones raining from the earthwork and down onto the ford stuttered to a halt.
A chance. A precious chance!
Suddenly, a rumble of boots on timber sounded, from the direction of Siscia. Pavo swung to see the fresh, full legion bowling out from Siscia’s Eagle Gate and across the wooden moat bridge, racing to reinforce the compromised earthworks. ‘Signal the army, we have but moments!’
Libo plucked a horn from his belt and blew three hard notes followed by a rapid series of short blasts – the rally cry of the Eastern legions. A few men in the beset regiments out in the rapids dared lower their shield to see where the noise had come from. One spotted Betto, without his legionary banner, raising and shaking his Claudian shield. ‘The rampart has been taken – look!’
The cry was repeated as more and more realised. A huge swell of voices rose, hoarse, enraged. The legions of the East swarmed across the ford and stormed up the earthen slopes, blades bared, eyes red with fury. The Roman and Hun cavalry led the charge. They vaulted over the pickets and onto the rampart all along its length, the Roman riders spearing away the last of the defenders there, the Huns expertly shooting or hurling lassos over the fleeing. Then the Alani came and swept away a wave of resistance. The palace and field legions and the Goths of Reiks Faustius swarmed over next, hurling a dense shower of plumbatae darts that pierced dozens of the most resilient enemy soldiers.
When the rest of the Claudians scrambled up from the ford and vaulted over the timber picket, Indus brained one enemy soldier with a swipe of the eagle standard then swung to and fro, shaking with battle fever, searching for his next opponent. There was none.
‘Look, they’re beaten and they know it!’ cried Durio, at his side.
Indeed, Maximus’ reinforcement legion – seeing the huge number of Eastern troops now dominating the earthwork – had turned tail and were retreating with the last of the parapet defenders, pouring back towards Siscia, funnelling across the wooden moat bridge and into the Eagle Gate.
General Promotus flailed in pursuit, sword raised to make sure everyone saw his heroics. ‘After them – take the cit-’
The sound of a giant chain rumbled and clanked, cutting off the wild rally cry, and the wooden moat bridge began to rise. A drawbridge, Pavo realised. It rose and clunked into place against the gatehouse, sealing the city, the sound final, like a lid being set in place upon a sarcophagus.
Men looked around, seeking direction. Pavo stood with Sura, staring at the moat and the city defences.
The many Western legionaries who had escaped the fall of the earth rampart appeared up on the city’s battlements, jeering down at the halted, exhausted Eastern force.
Pavo once again picked out the black shape that was Maximus, up there. He seemed unmoved by what had gone on, and still radiated confidence. Surely misplaced, given the reverse he had just suffered, and now that he was effectively besieged on this island?
‘You cannot take or pass Siscia,’ the Dark Eagle called down to them. ‘Equally, you cannot withdraw, for my boats still command the far bank.’ With a dramatic flourish, he cast one hand over the heads of the Eastern ranks and behind them. ‘And… look!’ he gaily cried.
Pavo felt a crawling sensation on his neck, as if a swarm of ants were upon him. Slowly, he twisted to look behind him. The setting sun had thrown a purple haze across the bloody river, the light sparkling on the churning currents and the corpses clogged in the reeds. His gaze drifted past the galleys blocking the far end of the ford, and on, up the rocky slopes of the Julian Alpes.
The brim of one height was crawling – like his neck. Thousands more soldiers, their armour glittering in the dying light, pouring over a high pass, streaming downhill. They were several miles distant, but there was no doubt: they were coming this way.
‘As you can see, my brother and his legions are not far away on the Via Flavia,’ Maximus bellowed. ‘I called for him many days ago, you see – as soon as I found out that there was no point in blocking that coastal road.’
Pavo felt a coldness shoot through him.
‘That’s right. I know all about Valentinian’s foolish attempt to sail upon Rome. And now he is dead, you fools – I sent Dragathius and my best ships to intercept him.’
Theodosius, mud and blood-spattered, squelched up to the crest of the earth bank and shook his fists in the direction of Siscia. ‘Maximus, you godless cur!’
Stilicho hauled him back, just in case there was a keen enough marksman on Siscia’s walls.
‘How?’ Theodosius croaked. ‘How could he have known…’
Now Maximus stepped up onto the parapet’s edge and bawled triumphantly towards the Eastern army. ‘Thank you, Peregrinus! For handing me the boy Caesar’s head on a plate, and for diverting the Goths of the Haims.’
The words hit Theodosius like stones, sending him staggering backwards. ‘What?’
‘The traitor lives?’ Stilicho croaked. ‘He was behind the non-arrival of the Goths?’
General Arbogastes’ eyes darted. ‘Peregrinus?’ he snarled, whirling to scream across his own ranks. ‘Peregrinus!’
The Eastern ranks stared at their emperor and his generals, shaken, confused. The only reply was the boundless song of the wind and the river.
Pavo felt hollow to his core. Peregrinus was alive? Memories of the cistern came flooding back. How could it be? He had followed the green-cloaked Vespillo into the cistern. The eunuch had irrefutably breathed his last down there, and the Arcanus had fled.
He felt his mind coming loose, sanity slipping away.
Then the thing Verax had said about the odd markings on the eunuch’s wrists rose like spikes in his thoughts.
And finally, the truth hit him like a bolt of lightning.
There was another.
A third person down there that night in the blackness. Someone wearing the eunuch’s cloak.
The real Peregrinus.
Vespillo had been missing for days before the cistern incident. Not because he had been plotting… because he had been taken captive. And the wrist markings – might they have been rope-burns? Had the eunuch been kept down there in the damp cistern vaults, wrists tied, by the true traitor?
The true traitor, who had been marching with them all this time. Undermining this campaign at every opportunity. Who?
The river song rose around him like an army of hissing snakes.
Nothing felt real anymore.
‘Forget Peregrinus,’ Maximus preached on. ‘I’d concentrate more on my brother’s approach if I were you. I’d say he and his legions will reach the riverside by dawn. You thought you were going to snare me in your pincers? Well now it is you who will soon find yourself in a very uncomfortable position – like a rotten olive in a press.’ He extended both arms high. ‘For now… congratulations! Enjoy the spoils of your efforts today. You have won… a mighty bank of dirt!’
