camel’s arse!’ Pavo roared, bounding for his attacker.
Pavo launched himself forward as Sura stumbled down the rough banking at the side of the road. They crunched together, head over heels down into the parched roadside ditch. Pavo swung for Sura’s gut, only brushing knuckles against tunic, and falling face-first in the dust. Sura roared with laughter. Enraged, Pavo shot out an arm, grasping Sura’s ankle, wrenching him from his feet and onto his back. Triumphantly, he scooped up a handful of dust, cramming it into Sura’s mouth.
‘Breakfast on me, and there’s a nice portion of donkey turd in there for you,’ he yelped. Suddenly, the neighing of a horse and a gruff voice boomed over the pair of them.
‘Names and ranks?’
Both of them sprang up to face the voice. Squinting through the sunlight, Pavo made out the bull-like form of a mounted officer in full dress centurion armour; a bronzed cuirass over a dark-red tunic and a horsehair crest billowing across his helmet.
‘Names and ranks? Don’t make me ask again!’ The centurion barked through his tombstone teeth. Pavo noted his heavy brow seemed set in a permanent frown.
Sura spluttered the clods of dirt from his mouth, to which the centurion cocked an eyebrow.
‘We’re on our way to enlist in the XI Claudia legion, sir!’ Pavo jumped in. ‘I’m Numerius Vitellius Pavo.’
‘Decimus Lunius Sura,’ Sura croaked.
‘Couple of skinny runts coming to enlist, eh? Dunno what the army is coming to,’ he muttered. ‘Centurion Brutus, chief centurion of the second cohort,’ the officer grunted, rubbing his stubbled anvil of a chin, ‘and I can only beg Mithras that you don’t end up in my ranks. Out of the ditch and follow me in.’ He nodded to the gatehouse of the fort, the ruby-red bull banners flapping in the breeze from the flanking watchtowers, where a set of six grim-faced legionaries glared down on them. ‘Or would you rather stay out here to roll about in the donkey shit by the roadside?’
Pavo and Sura swapped a nervous glance and then scrambled up the banking. Sura followed Pavo’s lead, standing straight as a flagpole, chin up and chest out.
‘Ready, sir!’ Pavo chirped, but his grin dropped as the centurion’s steely glare remained.
‘We’ll see about that,’ he said, calmly turning his mount towards the legionary fort at a gentle trot.
Chapter 8
Night cloaked the forest and only the hooting of an owl pierced the silence around the crumbling fort. The crisp air tingled on Gallus’ skin as he lay prone in the bracken. Risking another glance over the foliage, he scrutinised the inside of the fort through the jagged crevice that had rent the south wall.
A fire in the centre of the flagstone courtyard danced, silhouetting the Gothic warband gathering around its heat — every one of them towering like giants, their topknotted blonde locks adding to their other-worldly appearance. But they wore no armour or weapons, he noticed keenly. He flicked his gaze up to the dark shapes strolling the battlements; these men were clad in red leather cuirasses and longswords and bows hung on their backs. Fifteen of them in total, a large watch for such a small fort. Did they know something was coming for them?
He had sent a small party back to the site of the ambush at dawn, to give their comrades a proper burial.
Mithras bless you, Felix
. Yet he suspected the spectre of the Goths would rise again when they reached this first fort. Then, a gentle scuffle behind him signalled the return of Avitus from his scouting mission.
‘I’ve circled the fort, sir,’ he panted, wiping the sweat from his bald pate and slipping his helmet back on. ‘There is no larger force in the vicinity, and I count ninety inside the fort, all fighting men. They are definitely the ambush party we came across yesterday.’
Gallus clenched his fist against the hilt of his sword.
‘Prisoners?’
Avitus nodded firmly, his lips pursed. ‘Just the one, sir.
Pavo launched himself forward as Sura stumbled down the rough banking at the side of the road. They crunched together, head over heels down into the parched roadside ditch. Pavo swung for Sura’s gut, only brushing knuckles against tunic, and falling face-first in the dust. Sura roared with laughter. Enraged, Pavo shot out an arm, grasping Sura’s ankle, wrenching him from his feet and onto his back. Triumphantly, he scooped up a handful of dust, cramming it into Sura’s mouth.
‘Breakfast on me, and there’s a nice portion of donkey turd in there for you,’ he yelped. Suddenly, the neighing of a horse and a gruff voice boomed over the pair of them.
‘Names and ranks?’
Both of them sprang up to face the voice. Squinting through the sunlight, Pavo made out the bull-like form of a mounted officer in full dress centurion armour; a bronzed cuirass over a dark-red tunic and a horsehair crest billowing across his helmet.
‘Names and ranks? Don’t make me ask again!’ The centurion barked through his tombstone teeth. Pavo noted his heavy brow seemed set in a permanent frown.
Sura spluttered the clods of dirt from his mouth, to which the centurion cocked an eyebrow.
‘We’re on our way to enlist in the XI Claudia legion, sir!’ Pavo jumped in. ‘I’m Numerius Vitellius Pavo.’
‘Decimus Lunius Sura,’ Sura croaked.
‘Couple of skinny runts coming to enlist, eh? Dunno what the army is coming to,’ he muttered. ‘Centurion Brutus, chief centurion of the second cohort,’ the officer grunted, rubbing his stubbled anvil of a chin, ‘and I can only beg Mithras that you don’t end up in my ranks. Out of the ditch and follow me in.’ He nodded to the gatehouse of the fort, the ruby-red bull banners flapping in the breeze from the flanking watchtowers, where a set of six grim-faced legionaries glared down on them. ‘Or would you rather stay out here to roll about in the donkey shit by the roadside?’
Pavo and Sura swapped a nervous glance and then scrambled up the banking. Sura followed Pavo’s lead, standing straight as a flagpole, chin up and chest out.
‘Ready, sir!’ Pavo chirped, but his grin dropped as the centurion’s steely glare remained.
‘We’ll see about that,’ he said, calmly turning his mount towards the legionary fort at a gentle trot.
Chapter 8
Night cloaked the forest and only the hooting of an owl pierced the silence around the crumbling fort. The crisp air tingled on Gallus’ skin as he lay prone in the bracken. Risking another glance over the foliage, he scrutinised the inside of the fort through the jagged crevice that had rent the south wall.
A fire in the centre of the flagstone courtyard danced, silhouetting the Gothic warband gathering around its heat — every one of them towering like giants, their topknotted blonde locks adding to their other-worldly appearance. But they wore no armour or weapons, he noticed keenly. He flicked his gaze up to the dark shapes strolling the battlements; these men were clad in red leather cuirasses and longswords and bows hung on their backs. Fifteen of them in total, a large watch for such a small fort. Did they know something was coming for them?
He had sent a small party back to the site of the ambush at dawn, to give their comrades a proper burial.
Mithras bless you, Felix
. Yet he suspected the spectre of the Goths would rise again when they reached this first fort. Then, a gentle scuffle behind him signalled the return of Avitus from his scouting mission.
‘I’ve circled the fort, sir,’ he panted, wiping the sweat from his bald pate and slipping his helmet back on. ‘There is no larger force in the vicinity, and I count ninety inside the fort, all fighting men. They are definitely the ambush party we came across yesterday.’
Gallus clenched his fist against the hilt of his sword.
‘Prisoners?’
Avitus nodded firmly, his lips pursed. ‘Just the one, sir.
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