Dark Eagle (Legionary 8): Legionary no. 8 Read online

  LEGIONARY

  DARK EAGLE

  by Gordon Doherty

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright 2020 Gordon Doherty

  All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced in any form, in whole or in part, without written permission from the author.

  www.gordondoherty.co.uk

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Also by Gordon Doherty:

  THE LEGIONARY SERIES

  The Roman Empire is crumbling, and a shadow looms in the east . . .

  In the 4th Century AD, countless barbarian tribes surge against the Eastern Roman Empire's borders, driven by a dark horde that has arrived from the great steppe. On the Danubian frontier, the situation is critical: the crumbling, neglected forts and watchtowers along the riverbank are thinly garrisoned by 'mere' limitanei – the impoverished border legions. Pavo, a slave freed and sent to serve with the XI Claudia in this precarious land, finds himself thrust into a tumultuous sequence of events that will shape his destiny and the fate of the Empire.

  1. LEGIONARY (2011)

  2. VIPER OF THE NORTH (2012)

  3. LAND OF THE SACRED FIRE (2013)

  4. THE SCOURGE OF THRACIA (2015)

  5. GODS & EMPERORS (2015)

  6. EMPIRE OF SHADES (2017)

  7. THE BLOOD ROAD (2018)

  8. DARK EAGLE (2020)

  THE STRATEGOS TRILOGY

  When the falcon has flown, the mountain lion will charge from the east, and all Byzantium will quake. Only one man can save the empire . . . the Haga!

  In the 11th century AD, the ailing Byzantine Empire teeters on the brink of full-blown war with the Seljuk Sultanate. In the borderlands of Eastern Anatolia, a land riven with bloodshed and doubt, a dark hero rises from the ashes of the conflict. His journey will be a savage one, taking him from the snakepit of Constantinople to the blistering heart of the Seljuk realm . . . all the time leading him towards the fabled plains of Manzikert.

  1. BORN IN THE BORDERLANDS (2011)

  2. RISE OF THE GOLDEN HEART (2013)

  3. ISLAND IN THE STORM (2014)

  THE EMPIRES OF BRONZE SERIES

  War is coming to the Bronze Age. It will be the cruellest war ever waged, and the Gods will gather to watch...

  1315 B.C. the world is forged in bronze, and ruled by four mighty empires. Tensions soar between Egypt, Assyria, the Mycenaeans and the Hittites, and war seems inevitable. When Prince Hattu is born, it should be a rare joyous moment for all the Hittite people. But the Goddess Ishtar comes to King Mursili in a dream, warning that the boy is no blessing, telling of a bleak future where he will stain Mursili’s throne with blood and bring devastation upon the world. Thus, Hattu must fight against the goddess’ words and prove to his kith and kin that he is worthy. Yet with his every action, the shadow of Ishtar’s prophecy darkens…

  1. SON OF ISHTAR (2019)

  For Eileen.

  You thought of everyone else first.

  The Roman Empire, circa 382 AD

  Note that full and interactive versions of this and all the diagrams & maps can be found on the ‘Legionary’ section of my website, www.gordondoherty.co.uk

  Thracia circa 382 AD

  Gaul circa 382 AD

  The Western Imperial Army circa 382 AD

  See glossary (at rear of book) for a description of terms

  The Eastern Imperial Army circa 382 AD

  Structure of Legio XI Claudia Pia Fidelis

  Part 1

  Exile

  Chapter 1

  Late October 382 AD

  The Syrian Desert

  Three dozen Romans padded across the searing wilderness, the air dry as salt and crawling like the breath of an oven across their skin. The first six of the party rode on the backs of camels, and the thirty behind were escort legionaries, trooping two-abreast, their ringmail armour glinting like white flames in the dazzling sun. Every so often the sound of popping corks and glugging water broke the shrill song of nearby insects and croaking desert toads.

  The men saddled upon the two foremost camels were dromedarii scouts, draped in white robes, bronze scale jackets and iron helms. With the lands of Sassanid Persia just days ahead, these expert desert watchmen were supposed to be leading the way, alert and vigilant, but one of them was clearly drifting into a heat-induced slumber. He listed backwards in the saddle until the scales of his bronze vest – hot as coals – sizzled against the camel’s hump. The beast grunted and groaned, then shook its great body, throwing the scout. The man woke as he fell, screaming. He threw out a hand to break his fall and instead broke his wrist. With much grumbling and sighing of hot and exhausted men, the column slowed.

  Ambassador Sporacius guided his camel carefully around the fallen man then looked back down the column. His chiselled face was streaked with sweat, his deep-set eyes like vaults of wisdom as he scanned the small party before settling on one of the marching men near the back: a low-ranking type, going by his scarred helmet, poor-quality ringmail, tattered boots and the way he marched with his head down – a soldier yet to win confidence.

  ‘You, Legionary,’ Sporacius called. ‘Help him.’ It was a command that was not his to give, for he was not a military man, but he delivered it assertively, the demand clear but respectful.

  The legionary mutely jogged forward, helping the injured dromedarius to his feet. The camel-scout, ashen-faced with pain and embarrassment, cradled the wounded wrist under his opposite armpit and coyly glanced up at Sporacius. ‘I will lead my beast on foot from here on in.’

  ‘Probably for the best,’ Sporacius said, again, with a well-measured tone selected to reprimand but not humiliate. He mopped at his neck and short silver hair with a damp cloth then turned to the legionary who had helped. ‘It’s Urbicus, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes sir,’ the legionary muttered in reply.

  ‘Good work,’ Sporacius said, flicking his head towards the column’s end. ‘Now back to your place.’

  ‘Yes sir,’ the legionary replied mutedly, his head still dipped.

  With that, Sporacius circled his camel again and swished a hand. ‘Onwards.’

  As the column crunched ahead once more, Urbicus the legionary held back, shoulders rounded, head dipped. After years of leading men, where eye-contact and a proud stance had been essential, this false name and pretend posture felt strange to Pavo. But it had to be this way. Exile and anonymity.

  Only when the rear ranks of marchers – two abreast once again – came by, when every strange face was past him, did he tilt his head up just a little, the shade of his helmet peeling back and the sunlight spreading across his eagle-like face and hazel eyes.

  He fell into place alongside the unpartnered legionary at the tail end of the party, who marched with that same head-down posture. This man’s emerald eyes were rolled up a little in their sockets, scrutinising the column, particularly the riders. ‘He was watching you,’ Sura said quietly, the words disguised by the thump and grind of boots on dust and sand. ‘Studying your face when you were helping the fallen scout.’

  Pavo followed his oldest friend’s gaze. Behind Sporacius, guiding his camel alongside the remaining dromedarius scout, rode a young officer in a white tunic spotted with two large purple decorative
circles and arrow-stripes at each shoulder. He wore a black felt cap from the rim of which short brown curls sprouted, and he sported a thick, curly beard. This was General Stilicho, half-Roman, half-Vandal – and most importantly a military man of growing repute, sent on this sortie to aid and learn from Ambassador Sporacius. He was a few summers younger than Pavo and already he was Emperor Theodosius’ Comes Stabuli – master of the imperial stables – and husband to the emperor’s adopted niece.

  ‘Not him,’ Sura said. ‘Him.’

  Pavo followed Sura’s slight tilt of the head to see the silver-cloaked man riding alongside Stilicho. Trierarchus Ripanus, captain of the vessel that had brought them here to what felt like the edge of the world. Ripanus was staring off to the right of the column, scanning the desert wastes, his pinkish face pinched against the sun’s glare and one arm – bare apart from the leather bracer on the wrist – raised to shield his deep-set eyes from the light. He wore an intercisa helm with a jutting and sharp fin-like ridge similar to Pavo’s and Sura’s, but made distinct by the opals inlaid in the two eye motifs above the brow. ‘He was watching me? Are you sure?’

  ‘As sure as cock-rot in the island brothels. Do you think he suspects?’

  ‘No,’ Pavo muttered. ‘We played our part well on his boat. As far as he’s concerned, I’m Urbicus and you’re Mucianus – nothing but a pair of low-ranking swords.’

  ‘He was smiling when he was watching you… but his eyes weren’t. And what about the thing the oarsman said when we were at sea?’

  Pavo chewed his bottom lip and stared at the swaying supply pack of the legionary in front of him as he replayed the memory. One of the rowers on Ripanus’ vessel had been particularly friendly – bringing Pavo water during his bouts of sea-sickness. One night, as the others slept, the fellow had shared wine with him and Sura. Pavo, irked by Sura’s suspicions about Ripanus, had asked the rower what he knew of the captain. The rower had laughed wryly, and answered in a way Pavo had not expected. ‘There is a statue of Neptune in the Rhodos docks. One night, years ago, I made love to a beauty of a woman at the foot of the statue. It was one of those moments you know you’ll remember forever. I recall thinking at the time that I’d never forget the statue’s bright red robes and golden trident. Yet the next time I put into port there, the robes were blue and the trident silver. The locals swore to me that nobody had repainted it. It was the same statue, no doubt. But at the same time, it wasn’t.’ He had swigged on his wine a few times before continuing. ‘What do I think of Ripanus? He is a fine captain. Loves his ship and his men as if they are his brothers. I’d row into a storm if Ripanus asked me to.’ He had sucked on his wine again and exhaled contentedly through his nostrils, before holding up a finger and wagging it towards the figure of the trierarchus, sleeping near the helm. ‘But that… is not Ripanus.’ Pavo felt that same shiver now as he had then. ‘He’s wearing Ripanus’ cloak and helmet. Looks very similar… similar, but not the same. Maybe it’s just age; before this voyage I hadn’t seen him in years. I don’t know…’

  Something yanked Pavo from the memory. Two small, simultaneous flashes of reflected sunlight, just ahead. He looked up, realising the flashes had come from Ripanus. Yet the captain was still staring out across the desert wastes on the right. But Pavo’s gaze was drawn to the inlaid opals on the man’s helm. Two polished gems, two flashes of light. Had the man just snatched a rearward look at him and Sura? The croaking of insects rose into a shrill, almost deafening sound, and the beat of footsteps seemed to quicken and quicken. He felt his sweat-soaked tunic and his ringmail tighten around his chest like a shroud.

  ‘You’re probably right,’ Sura exhaled. ‘I’m making too much of it. The heat is cooking my brain. Nobody here knows who we really are,’ he tried to reassure.

  Pavo sighed, the tension easing a fraction.

  ‘We are two escort legionaries. The lowest-ranking men on this mission,’ Sura continued as he peered ahead through the silvery heat in search of some sign that they were near their destination. ‘Our job is to stand around in a Persian palace while that lot at the front flap their lips at the new King of Kings.’

  Pavo took a few dried tarragon leaves from his purse, popped one onto his tongue and offered Sura the other. The texture and earthy flavour conjured a little saliva into his dry mouth, and the herb was always a good source of energy on a march such as this. As he chewed, he mulled over their role. The Persian King of Kings, Aradashir, was dead. His successor, Shapur III, needed to be persuaded that the recent peace between his empire and that of Eastern Rome was worth preserving – formalising, even. The division of Armenia between the two states had been agreed in principle. Now it was time to thrash out the detail.

  ‘Right now things are not ideal,’ Sura continued, gesturing to the marching men and animals ahead. ‘The aroma of thirty-four sweaty crotches and six camel arses is,’ he paused to pluck the perfect word out of the air, ‘diabolical! But give it two more days and we’ll be in the cool and shady halls of Ctesiphon. I heard stories from escort soldiers who travelled there before. Apparently the Persian women like us ‘exotic’ westerners… and General Stilicho reckons these talks will last for some time.’

  Pavo tried to smile, but it was a feeble attempt.

  ‘Come on, Pavo,’ Sura continued. ‘Thracia may be a thousand miles behind us, but our homeland is at peace, at long last. The war is over.’

  Pavo slid his eyes round to meet Sura’s. ‘But the wrong man won.’

  Sura’s lips moved a few times before he fell silent.

  There was no argument to counter this, no platitude to lessen the truth of it. The Gothic War was over, but Gratian, Emperor of the West, had claimed it as his victory, securing and reaffirming his position as senior emperor over Theodosius and the still-weakened eastern realm. Gratian, the man complicit in the terrible military disasters that had crippled the Eastern Empire, was now effectively its master. Worse, his agents – the Speculatores – were still crawling all over their distant homeland. They came in many guises – artisans, entertainers, riders, soldiers, friends, beggars – but every one of them was a highly-trained killer. All Speculatores were marked somewhere with that wretched emblem of their secretive school – a single, staring eye.

  Checking nobody was watching, Pavo reached into his purse and lifted out a leather strap, from which two lead tags hung, bearing his true name and that of his beloved legion back in Thracia. He traced a finger over the etching, Legio XI Claudia Pia Fidelis, and sighed: ‘Be watchful, Brothers.’

  ‘The Claudia lads will be well,’ Sura said.

  ‘Even with their new commander?’ said Pavo, tucking the signaculum tags away again.

  ‘I only heard about the man chosen to replace you. I don’t know for certain that-’

  ‘You said he was a Western officer.’ Pavo cut him off.

  ‘That much is true, but that doesn’t mean-’

  ‘If he’s from the West then he’s Gratian’s man. Gratian knows that the Claudia lads were behind us in everything we did to defy him,’ Pavo said, staring at the ground before them.

  ‘Doesn’t mean this new tribunus is a bad man. Gallus came from the Western Empire,’ Sura said quietly. ‘Sebastianus too, and Geridus.’

  Pavo tilted his head to one side in agreement. ‘Aye, you are right, and they were golden. I just can’t help but taste danger for our comrades back there.’

  Sura spat into the dust. ‘What can we do? We’re supposed to be dead men, Pavo. If we show our faces in the Eastern Empire anytime soon, Gratian’s Speculatores will peel them off, and if we go near the Claudia then they will suffer too. We can’t go back,’ Sura finished.

  ‘Exactly. We’re at the wrong end of the world, in hiding, in failure.’

  ‘So why torment yourself? Think of what lies ahead,’ Sura said, then batted the rear of one hand across his chest, his neck suddenly lengthening. ‘Look, we’re almost across the desert.’

  Pavo peered ahead to see a shimmer on the
horizon – some four miles away. A great river, which from this distance was merely a vague green ribbon, glittering where the sunlight caught the rippling current. ‘The Euphrates,’ he said almost in unison with every other man in the party. Beyond was ancient and fertile Mesopotamia, the heartland and bread basket of Sassanid Persia.

  One of the legionaries in front of Pavo and Sura smacked his dry lips at the sight of the broad and flowing fresh water. ‘My drinking skin is warm and flat. Little more than spit left in there. When I get to the river, I’m going to drink myself sick,’ he said with a cackle.

  ‘Idiot,’ Sura whispered.

  The legionary swung round, his bulbous nose scrunched up in anger. ‘You got something to say, tiro?’

  Sura balked at the term. ‘A recruit?’

  The legionary snorted. ‘Looks like it to me.’

  Pavo noticed his friend’s fair skin reddening with ire. ‘One day we’ll be veterans like you two,’ he said before Sura could reply.

  ‘Wasn’t talking to you,’ the bulbous-nosed one sneered, then jabbed a finger at Sura. ‘This one was whispering about me.’

  Mercifully, while Pavo had been talking, Sura had used the few heartbeats of respite to calm himself. ‘Just wanted to offer you some advice, that’s all. The trick with marching in hot lands is to drink water carefully. Small and controlled sips,’ he reasoned with Bulbous-nose in a friendlier tone. ‘Back where I come from, I was famed for my ability to march for days on end with just a single drinking skin. You know what they used to call me? The Camel. The Camel of Adrianople.’