under his v-shaped brow, and he grinned through yellowed teeth, stretched out under a broad and battered nose. He beckoned Pavo to his feet. Behind, Sura wriggled in the grasp of the elephantine and oak-limbed recruit named Festus.
Spurius examined his blood spattered knuckles. ‘Numerius Vitellius Pavo. The slave scumbag.’
Pavo winced, shooting a glance at Sura. Sura’s face flashed with shock but then quickly morphed into fury again as he kicked out uselessly at Festus’ grip.
‘I’ve got contacts that’d pay a fortune for more of this,’ Spurius growled.
Pavo touched a finger to his lips — fattened and stinging. He had made a lot of enemies during his misadventures in the city; some of his missions had been for the thrill alone, but then there were those darker briefs he had been given in the shadowy alleys — big money had been lost and gained through him. ‘You’re from the street gangs?’
‘Constantinople born and bred. You’re wanted, and I’m going to collect the bounty.’
‘We’re here to fight in the legions, same as you, we’re all equal here,’ Sura barked, his legs kicking out in vain as Festus roared with laughter.
‘I don’t give a flying turd what you’re here for. Remember the Blues? Well they want to make an example of the smart-arse who nicked their standard for the Greens.’
Pavo’s mind reeled back through the troublemaking in the capital. It was last winter and he had been sitting at a filthy, rickety table outside
The Eagle
— a filth hole of an inn near the Hippodrome — picking at some fetid mess they had served as food. A gravel voice had startled him — it always happened this way. ‘I hear you’re the man for a bit of a sortie. Fancy earning a purse of bronze?’ The thug had asked. Pavo recognised him from the racing — always at the head of riots, leading the Greens into the fray. He had eyed the bulging purse of folles the man held. The job entailed sneaking into the Blues’ headquarters, in an attic above a butcher’s shop on the north edge of the Augusteum, where he drugged their two apelike guards and made off with the antique bronze eagle standard they prided above all else.
‘He remembers,’ Festus spat back. ‘Now sort him out, Spurius.’
Pavo blinked back to reality and cowered at the sight of Spurius pulling his fist back to strike. But, in a breath, the man’s expression changed to a gaping smile accompanied by a mock-friendly slap on the jaw. Pavo looked over his shoulder and saw the reason; Centurion Brutus sidled past on his mount, eyeing the confrontation.
‘Keep it moving,’ the centurion grumbled.
Spurius and Festus strolled for the barracks. Spurius casting a malignant glance back over his shoulder.
‘Still think you’re ready for this, lad?’ Brutus grunted.
Chapter 10
In a final echo of winter, a heavy snow had settled over the land of Bosporus. The thirty eight men of the XI Claudia and the handful of Gothic prisoners plugged on through the pillowy drifts, zigzagging around swamp and marshland on one side and hills on the other to inch further east across the peninsula neck. The rescued prisoner Proteus lay limp on a stretcher, his legs crippled and his skin pale through loss of blood — the boy had only muttered in a fever since they rescued him from the fort.
They rounded the base of a hill and a pure white plain yawned out before them. Gallus marched up front alongside Felix; the pair gritted their teeth to prevent chattering in the icy headwind that met them from the plain, the full wrath of the cold raking through armour and clothing.
‘What d’you think Proteus meant by it…
run?
’ Felix mused.
‘Something has gotten into these Goths — that’s for sure. These men fought like cornered wolves,’ Gallus nodded back to the train of prisoners, then shook his head and lowered his voice. ‘The lad’s not likely to make it, you know,’ he whispered.
Felix nodded in resignation. ‘If we can get to
Spurius examined his blood spattered knuckles. ‘Numerius Vitellius Pavo. The slave scumbag.’
Pavo winced, shooting a glance at Sura. Sura’s face flashed with shock but then quickly morphed into fury again as he kicked out uselessly at Festus’ grip.
‘I’ve got contacts that’d pay a fortune for more of this,’ Spurius growled.
Pavo touched a finger to his lips — fattened and stinging. He had made a lot of enemies during his misadventures in the city; some of his missions had been for the thrill alone, but then there were those darker briefs he had been given in the shadowy alleys — big money had been lost and gained through him. ‘You’re from the street gangs?’
‘Constantinople born and bred. You’re wanted, and I’m going to collect the bounty.’
‘We’re here to fight in the legions, same as you, we’re all equal here,’ Sura barked, his legs kicking out in vain as Festus roared with laughter.
‘I don’t give a flying turd what you’re here for. Remember the Blues? Well they want to make an example of the smart-arse who nicked their standard for the Greens.’
Pavo’s mind reeled back through the troublemaking in the capital. It was last winter and he had been sitting at a filthy, rickety table outside
The Eagle
— a filth hole of an inn near the Hippodrome — picking at some fetid mess they had served as food. A gravel voice had startled him — it always happened this way. ‘I hear you’re the man for a bit of a sortie. Fancy earning a purse of bronze?’ The thug had asked. Pavo recognised him from the racing — always at the head of riots, leading the Greens into the fray. He had eyed the bulging purse of folles the man held. The job entailed sneaking into the Blues’ headquarters, in an attic above a butcher’s shop on the north edge of the Augusteum, where he drugged their two apelike guards and made off with the antique bronze eagle standard they prided above all else.
‘He remembers,’ Festus spat back. ‘Now sort him out, Spurius.’
Pavo blinked back to reality and cowered at the sight of Spurius pulling his fist back to strike. But, in a breath, the man’s expression changed to a gaping smile accompanied by a mock-friendly slap on the jaw. Pavo looked over his shoulder and saw the reason; Centurion Brutus sidled past on his mount, eyeing the confrontation.
‘Keep it moving,’ the centurion grumbled.
Spurius and Festus strolled for the barracks. Spurius casting a malignant glance back over his shoulder.
‘Still think you’re ready for this, lad?’ Brutus grunted.
Chapter 10
In a final echo of winter, a heavy snow had settled over the land of Bosporus. The thirty eight men of the XI Claudia and the handful of Gothic prisoners plugged on through the pillowy drifts, zigzagging around swamp and marshland on one side and hills on the other to inch further east across the peninsula neck. The rescued prisoner Proteus lay limp on a stretcher, his legs crippled and his skin pale through loss of blood — the boy had only muttered in a fever since they rescued him from the fort.
They rounded the base of a hill and a pure white plain yawned out before them. Gallus marched up front alongside Felix; the pair gritted their teeth to prevent chattering in the icy headwind that met them from the plain, the full wrath of the cold raking through armour and clothing.
‘What d’you think Proteus meant by it…
run?
’ Felix mused.
‘Something has gotten into these Goths — that’s for sure. These men fought like cornered wolves,’ Gallus nodded back to the train of prisoners, then shook his head and lowered his voice. ‘The lad’s not likely to make it, you know,’ he whispered.
Felix nodded in resignation. ‘If we can get to
Similar Books
