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
‘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
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