Legionary: The Scourge of Thracia (Legionary 4) by Gordon Doherty

faint shapes along the walls, vaguely silhouetted by the watery orange torchlight. Legionaries.
    Well that’s a good start, he mused wryly. After less than a day in the quagmire camp by the River Tonsus, this keep was a fine sight. It was tiny – wedged onto the high-point of the ridge and designed to hold no more than a cohort.
    ‘Who goes there?’ a voice cried out from the southern gateway.
    Gallus answered the challenge of the gate sentries. The timber gates creaked open and he led his five inside. Within, he saw tidy if cramped rows of legionary tents and banners. They filed along the main south-north path that split the camp in two, passing the rows of contubernium tents. Up ahead, he sighted the principia tent, and instantly spotted the eagle standard erected beside it: the white banner draped from the crossbar depicted a red bloom riven with crossed spears. The V Macedonica , he realised, seeing similar designs on the legionaries’ shields. This legion –limitanei like the Claudia – had guarded the Danubian frontier as something of a brother-legion to his own. He had heard that many of the Macedonica had fallen at Ad Salices, but the regiment lived on, it seemed.
    They halted at the principia. A man emerged from this command tent. Gallus did not recognise him. Certainly, he was much unlike the giant of a man who had led the Macedonica the last time they had marched with the Claudia. This one was of Gallus’ age, medium height and whip-thin, with lank, dark hair hanging to his collar. He had wan and delicate – almost feminine – features that looked as if they had been shaped by the most delicate of hands. He wore a brown cloak and bronze scale armour that failed to disguise his narrow, rounded shoulders. ‘Saturninus, Magister Equitum of the Great Northern Camp and the Five Passes,’ he said in a timid, hoarse voice, his breath clouding in the lofty chill.
    ‘Tribunus Manius Atius Gallus of the XI Claudia Pia Fidelis,’ Gallus replied, throwing an arm up in salute. He did not let it show, but he could not dispel a sense of disappointment that this man – subordinate only to Magister Militum Traianus – seemed so meek. He had heard so much about these mountain passes that he had built up an image of some ironclad colossus, fighting back the marauding Goths. Was Saturninus craven and unsuited to military life as Barzimeres had suggested? He pushed his doubts to one side. ‘We come at the behest of Emperor Valens, Magister Militum Traianus . . . and Tribunus Barzimeres.’
    ‘And not a moment too soon,’ Saturninus mused as if thinking aloud. ‘Have your men prepare camp in the north-eastern quarter.’ He pointed to a small tentless patch of ground there. ‘They can eat their fill too,’ he added, nodding to a sheltered table with a steaming urn of broth and a basket of well-fired loaves.
    Gallus swung round, nodded to his four wordlessly, and in moments they were at work. As Gallus turned back to Saturninus, he spotted a few Macedonica legionaries coming to and from their tents. He recognised none of them.
    ‘You expected to find familiar faces of the Macedonica here?’ Saturninus said, having stepped over next to him.
    Gallus shrugged. ‘I am just pleased to find good soldiers here.’
    Saturninus laughed. ‘Gracious words, but your eyes betray your true feelings. The Macedonica were utterly crippled in the wake of Ad Salices. Less than thirty men survived and none of them officers . . . and their eagle was lost in the clash. I thought that by resurrecting the legion, by commissioning a new eagle, I might also revive the spirit of their fine past.’ He swept a hand to the silver eagle standard near the principia; it was gleaming and clearly a recent commission. Opulence, but with a purpose, Gallus thought, recalling Barzimeres’ pointless bronze vest. ‘So I drew in veterans from the south – men who know little of these lands. We have just six hundred men here. Many fell after the last