Legionary, p.34
Legionary, page 34
All along Siscia’s battlements, his forces roared with laughter.
Chapter 25
14th August 388 AD
Siscia
Flies droned around the corpses clogged in the shallows and the stiff odour of death hung in the air. The Army of the East – filthy, weary and cramped on their hard-won rampart – waited for their emperor’s orders, the threats of Maximus ringing in their ears, anguished by the sight of his brother, Marcellinus, pouring down the Julian Alpes with a fresh army in tow. Twelve whole banners – meaning at least twelve thousand men. The numerical advantage had not just been erased but turned on its head. As dusk became night, Marcellinus did not slow to make camp. Instead, their torches blinked to life and the great train of soldiery marched on through the hours of darkness. Closer, closer, just like dawn.
With a flurry of shouts and angry voices, Theodosius’ imperial pavilion was raised near the river island’s edges, sheltered from view of Siscia by the captured earth rampart. The river spray soaked the purple, mud-stained fabric, and the whole thing sagged rather ominously thanks to the poor pitching ground.
Pavo wheezed still from the effort of combat, mind whirring with the revelation that the traitor was very much alive and still amongst them.
He saw Commander Stilicho stepping up onto a crate. ‘Protectores, come together,’ he called, waving them towards the pavilion.
One by one, the men in their pieces of white armour emerged from the crowds. Pavo joined them. Only eight of them had survived the day, Pavo realised, including himself, and... ‘Frugilo?’ he said, spotting the corpse-faced fellow, and realising he hadn’t seen him since mid-battle. He felt at once glad that the man had survived, and guarded too – thinking of his ever-stranger behaviour during this campaign.
‘Impressive work today,’ Frugilo said in that low rumble of his. ‘I thought the ford would be a mass grave by now.’ He rocked slightly with a macabre chuckle, and swished into the tent, following Stilicho. The rest of the Protectores did likewise.
Inside, dozens squabbled around Emperor Theodosius, who sat on a simple stool with his head in his hands. Pavo took his place near one of the tent poles, standing tall like the other Protectores.
‘Maximus has furnished Siscia to resist a long siege,’ said Reiks Faustius. ‘One we cannot afford. This campaign had to be sharp and decisive. He can hold out in there for months if needs be.’
Promotus drew his sword from the earth and shook it in the direction of the island city. ‘We need to rush that damned drawbridge next time it’s down.’
‘We would be blown apart before we even set foot upon it,’ said Stilicho. ‘If you think the heap of earth we just captured was laden with artillery and bowmen, that place will make you think again.’
‘Then we need siege engines, war towers,’ Reiks Faustius suggested.
‘It’d take weeks to fell trees and chop wood,’ sighed Commander Stilicho. ‘We have but the handful of hours left of this night before the Dark Eagle’s brother arrives.’
On and on the debate raged.
Pavo heard the words echo and bounce around the tent like arrows, none penetrating his mind. For that was elsewhere – mired in the mystery that none had so far spoken of.
Peregrinus. Alive. Active.
It had not been Vespillo as he had thought. He looked across the emperor’s top men: Bishop Gregory, General Promotus, Arbogastes and Reiks Faustius. Only those four remained of the original suspects. Only they had been in the right places at the right times, at the river during the clash with the Silver Stag massacre and at the council meeting where they had agreed upon the campaign strategy.
Or had there been others? Had he missed the presence of a legionary tribunus or some official? Even someone who might have overheard the things this Peregrinus had known? No, he was sure, it had to have been one of the four. Apart from him and Frugilo, there were no others who had been at both events.
His mind fell silent. For just a flash of a moment, he began to see all that had happened since his return to the empire’s service in a different way. It cannot be… he thought.
His eyes slid to the left. A few paces away, Frugilo stood like him, face plain, eyes burning into some point in the distance.
You?
His mind exploded into life again, racing like an out-of-control chariot team. He remembered the wintry night at the Danubius, and how Frugilo had been lurking amongst the tents, roaming, alone. Doing what? And at the strategy meeting, Frugilo had been there. Silent, watching, listening. Privy to everything that Peregrinus the Stranger apparently knew. He had almost certainly been present in the same capacity when Theodosius had shared the identities of Valentinian’s spies, Quintinus and Nannenius, with his council. He had been unaccounted for that night at the cistern… until he miraculously turned up moments after Pavo had been bowled into the water. More, as a Protector, he had access to the emperor’s campaign tent – might he have overheard the daily talks with Theodosius about Valentinian’s true route of attack? Might he have even found the emperor’s map?
Izodora’s misgivings echoed though his mind: How much do you actually know about him?
Nothing, thought Pavo, other than that he is a westerner… a westerner with a cloudy past…
Once more, thoughts of how strangely Frugilo had been acting in the approach to this battle – the cold things muttered under his breath, the meanness in his eyes.
His heart pounded.
‘Whatever we do, we must first root out this spy Maximus has planted in our midst,’ insisted a cavalry commander. ‘Lest he sabotage us again.’
This hooked Pavo from his well of muddled thoughts, dragging him back to the here and now.
‘There is no time,’ Emperor Theodosius wailed. ‘No time for inquests and trials. We have but hours on this hill of soil before we will be set upon by the Dark Eagle’s twin jaws!’
‘Our only option is to retreat, surely’ suggested the Tribunus of the Nervii legion. ‘We must try to force our way back across the ford and through those banked ships before dawn.’
Promotus snorted in derision. ‘Making all this – the many hundreds who died in that ford today – mean nothing?’
‘And even if we did manage to force our way past the ships,’ argued Arbogastes, ‘how far would we get before Maximus’ brother came speeding down from the mountains to fall upon us anyway?’
‘Retreat does not have to be by the way in which we came,’ mused Tribunus Eriulf. ‘Perhaps we can escape this trap by forcing our way past Siscia and over the bridge to the river’s far banks? Before dawn and the Dark Eagle’s brother arrive?’
Stilicho shook his head slowly. ‘An innovative idea… but the city dominates this small island and guards access to the bridge on the far side. If we were to attempt to skirt around the walls in our multitudes – during the darkness of night – they would simply rain missiles and pour burning oil and hot sand on our heads. It would be catastrophic.’
Eriulf’s shoulders slumped. ‘We can’t get in, can’t go round, can’t retreat…’ he held out his hands then slumped a little further.
Theodosius finally looked up – his face drawn and haggard. ‘Retreat, retreat, retreat! I will not hear of it! We cannot retreat safely. We will not retreat. Our only option is clear. We need to capture Siscia. We need to take Siscia and this island, and before dawn. But how? How?’ He looked to each of his generals, mouth and eyes wide. None had an answer. He looked past them to the legionary commanders. They all remained silent.
Finally, the emperor looked to the outer ring of men in the tent, his gaze dragging across each of the battered, bloodied Protectores. Pavo felt the man’s glare scrape across him like glowing copper rods. For all the world he wanted to have an answer. Yet his mind was a mess, ruined by the dark thoughts about the identity of Peregrinus the Stranger. He parted his lips to speak, to offer the emperor something, then closed them again, his head dipping forward in despair.
Just then, a sound floated down from the mountains: the clarion call of the legions of Hispania and the Frankish regiments led by Marcellinus, the Dark Eagle’s brother. So close that individual shouts could now be heard, echoing down the slopes like the first thrown spears.
Under the moonless night sky, thousands of men sat around the captured earth rampart on the island’s edge. Some tended to wounds and gently dabbed at cuts. The less fortunate cried out as surgeons sawed at their mutilated limbs. A low doggerel song rose and fell sporadically in a vain attempt to drown out the grim sounds.
The Claudians sat up on the crest of the rampart. With a grubby bandage around his head, Darik for once looked less than perfect. All the others were the same – caked in dirt and blood. All heads regularly glanced to the eastern banks, the banked ships, and the Julian Alpes looming above. The many torches of the enemy reinforcements bobbed inexorably lower, closer. Hearing the grumble of cartwheels, they turned their attentions in the opposite direction – Siscia – to watch the latest train of Maximus’ supply wagons rolling in from the west. The convoy crossed the river via a wide timber bridge to arrive on that far side of the island then followed the small track hugging Siscia’s moat, finally arriving at the Eagle Gate on this near side of the city. The drawbridge descended to allow the vehicles entry, then groaned shut again, sealing the place once more. This was the second such convoy to have arrived since dusk.
Libo, sitting on the edge of a broken wagon, picked at his teeth with a splinter of wood. ‘The bastard’s taking no chances. Stocking up in case we hold out for a while.’
Darik lowered his voice lest the younger legionaries hear: ‘A while? If we make it to mid-morning, I’ll buy you a ship-load of wine.’
‘I’ve been in some tight spots before,’ said Sura. ‘Not sure it’s ever been this tight. But don’t lose heart,’ he nodded towards the emperor’s pavilion. ‘Let’s wait and see what the big noises in there come up with.’
‘Hope… is the dream of the waking man,’ Betto said gently.
‘You and your bloody quotes,’ Pulcher growled with a playful smile.
At that moment, the officers and generals emerged from the tent, the conference over. Pavo trudged over towards the Claudians. Many heads rose a little in anticipation, watching as he dumped his leather bag of armour – recovered from the basalt rock mid-ford – down and sat beside it, taking out a piece and doing his best to wipe it clean with a rag.
‘What’s the plan, sir?’ asked Indus.
Pavo took a moment before looking at him, his expression weary and forlorn. ‘We wait here. We face the twin jaws of Maximus and his brother.’
Men whispered in shock. Even the veterans of the Claudia looked ashen.
‘The emperor wants to storm Siscia, but nobody can see a way to do that in just a few hours. Thus, he wants us to bed in here and fight for our lives at dawn.’ A few men began grousing and whispering anxiously. ‘That’s the emperor’s decision,’ Pavo said, raising his voice just a little. ‘So when it once again comes to swords, we must be ready, aye?’
‘Aye,’ Sura answered eventually. A flurry of quiet voices echoed this.
A tense time passed with few men speaking. Pavo returned to cleaning his armour. A clump of dried mud apparently glued to the underside of one of his greaves seemed determined to thwart him. And one thought clung to his mind like a poisoned vine…
Every so often he looked up to locate Frugilo. The man was strolling near the edge of the rampart closest to Siscia, hands clasped behind his back.
His mind sped over it all time and again. Was Frugilo Peregrinus, the man who had wrecked the East and brought them to this, the brink of disaster. How could he prove anything? And to what end – for they were all fated to die on this hill regardless. Worst of all, it hurt him like the loss of a comrade to think that Frugilo had misled him all this time. Those well-chosen words he had offered that night at camp: Some must kill because they are given no choice. Others choose to kill… had they been intended as advice and as a comfort, as Pavo had taken them... or as a confession?
A short while later, Sura approached and handed him a bowl of millet porridge. It was warm, creamy and filling, and he finished it in moments. It reminded him of home. This war was supposed to be the key that would unlock widespread peace and allow him to be released from his duties and return to his loved ones. Right now, it seemed certain that Izodora and Marcus would instead be receiving a visit from the legionary funeral officials. The thought almost crushed him. And Valentinian, the young Caesar for whom he had made this march… was dead. His face scrunched up a little as grief tried to find a way out, but he bit it back, swallowed hard, and took a deep, sorrowful breath.
A squelch of damp boots sounded nearby: Commander Stilicho, coming up to the breast of the earthen mound. He acknowledged Pavo then crouched to one knee nearby to observe Siscia. Every so often he too sighed in anguish at the obstinately perfect defences.
Pavo returned to cleaning his armour. The dried mud was still stubbornly clinging to the underside of the greave. He growled, going at it vigorously. It did not move. ‘Very well,’ he snapped, tossing the greave down. It landed white side up. At least he couldn’t see the cursed mud now.
His eyes rolled back towards Siscia, the drawbridge, and the latest convoy of wagons, as the last of them rolled inside and the chains rattled again to raise the drawbridge once more. Far to the west, he spotted the next convoy rolling towards the river, pale in the starlight. He glanced at the greave again. Still the mud was invisible.
The moment was like the clicking of a long-stuck lock. ‘Sir,’ Pavo said to Stilicho. ‘I have an idea.’
Peregrinus watched as Stilicho and the guardsman, Pavo, remained locked in a hushed conversation. He was up to something, again. More prominent in his thoughts were the tense discussions he had a short time ago witnessed in the imperial tent.
We can’t get in, can’t go round, can’t retreat, Tribunus Eriulf had said. Peregrinus smiled. So ironic, that the Master of the Vesi should seemingly care so passionately about the endeavours of the Romans he was apparently oathbound to destroy.
He looked over the beleaguered Eastern force, and felt a grudging morsel of respect for them. They had fought valiantly to win a foothold on this river island. His thoughts came back to Pavo… now that was some daring he and his old legionary comrades had performed to secure the victory. Some victory, Peregrinus mused with a low chuckle, for it had left them in a truly precarious position. Dawn was but hours away.
Morning would bring the almightiest of battles, he realised. The Easterners would be crushed, surely? Yes, almost certainly. But only almost. To his surprise, he could not confidently predict that they would lose.
It made him think of the delicate balance here. The jaws, closing in. The time, slipping away. The prize – a throne… riding on things all going as they should.
It made him think of the time in his youth in the West, when he had wagered all of his purse of silver rings on a wrestling competition. Vrax, the flat-faced giant had beaten every single man he had faced, reigning as champion for five whole years. Peregrinus had watched the man pummel musclebound youths and shrewder, older fighters alike. When Vrax stepped into the arena, victory was a certainty. So Peregrinus had tipped his hard-earned coins into the bookmaker’s cupped hands… and then he had watched the champion stumble into the ring looking tired and dehydrated, before succumbing to a simple defeat. Vrax ate bad meat yesterday. He’s been on the latrine all night and this morning too, said another spectator standing alongside him. Peregrinus, feeling hollowed out, had turned to look at the fellow – the owner of the inn at which Vrax regularly ate. Just shows you, eh? The innkeeper said, smiling. There’s no such thing as certainty. With that, the innkeeper had swaggered over to collect his winnings from the bookmaker.
‘No such thing as certainty,’ Peregrinus mused, stroking his chin. He looked to the night sky again. ‘Not long till dawn… not long at all.’
The moonless night lingered over Siscia, with little noise apart from the rumble of horses and clatter of wagon wheels rattling across the wooden bridge linking the western banks to that side of the river island.
‘Come on,’ Buca cracked the whip above the wagon horses. ‘It’s been the longest day I can remember. My arse is red raw sitting on this plank.’
Nasica, yawned beside him, waking from a light slumber. ‘Too much buggering, I’d say.’
Buca shot him a dirty look. ‘You’re driving this thing back to Mediolanum tomorrow.’
Nasica chuckled. ‘You think we’re getting back home tomorrow?’ he gestured to the scene ahead: a thousand torches glowed on Siscia’s walls. ‘Nah, we’re here for the long haul,’ he said as they rounded the city’s southern edge and brought the wagon round towards the Eagle Gate. ‘Once he has defeated the Easterners, Emperor Maximus plans to push his army on to take the rest of Pannonia. Dacia and Thracia are next, they say. We’ll be needed to keep them supplied.’
Buca was crestfallen. ‘But… but I was on a promise from Livia.’ He said, absently rubbing his crotch with one hand and jabbing the thumb of the other over his shoulder in the vague direction of distant Mediolanum. ‘She had borrowed the oil and that contraption from her friend and everything.’
Nasica wheezed with mirth. ‘I’m sure she’ll find another man to try the contraption out with. Maybe they’ll watch themselves at it in that blue mirror in your bedroom?’
‘What did you say?’ Buca growled. At the same time, the wagon’s front-right wheel hit a rock. The vehicle bucked and rolled to a halt. ‘Agh… look what you made me do.’
‘Calm down,’ chuckled Nasica. I’m sure she’ll not be up to any of that business while you’re away…’
Buca grumbled and swished a hand, letting the matter go.
