Read Online Legionary: The Scourge of Thracia (Legionary 4) by Gordon Doherty - Free Book Online Page B

hectoring cries.

     

     
    Night had fallen, blessedly darkening the horizon and veiling the menacing outline of the Haemus Mountains. The mizzle had stopped too, but the camp was still a morass. Worse, Barzimeres had assigned them – entirely deliberately – the boggiest patch of ground for their tent. Pavo finished tying the goatskin to the tent frame and hammering the guy-ropes into the soft earth. Next, he took the opportunity to wade into the shallows of the river, ducking under to soak his head. It was white-cold and perishing, but it washed every morsel of splashed mud and filth from the march from his person. A fair bit cleaner, he ducked inside the tent. Sura, Quadratus and Zosimus had laid out their bedding on a goatskin roll that would serve as some kind of floor over the mud and were now cleaning their armour.
    ‘Don’t know why I’m bothering,’ Quadratus moaned. ‘Every other bugger in this place looks like they’ve had a bath in pigshit.’
    ‘Apart from that winged bastard,’ Zosimus flicked his head in a random direction that was his best guess as to where Barzimeres’ tent stood. ‘I bet his lot bathe him by hand every bloody night.’
    Quadratus’ face split in a grin as he made an obscene hand gesture. ‘Aye, I bet they do . . . ’ he said, his shoulders jostling in a chuckle.
    ‘Oh for f-’ Sura started. A small channel of muddy water had found a way in over the goatskin floor mat and soaked his bedding. ‘Perfect,’ he cast both hands up, dropping his half-cleaned boots.
    Pavo rummaged in his pack to set up his own bedding in the empty space beside Gallus. The tribunus sat cross-legged, bed already laid out, armour already cleaned and polished, eyes staring into the distance. ‘Sir, before I sort out my gear, can I - ’
    Gallus looked up, startled, as if he had been in another place entirely. He shook his head as if to clear out whatever thoughts were in there. ‘Your woman?’ he guessed.
    Pavo nodded.
    ‘Go,’ Gallus said, flicking his head to the tent entrance, ‘but return by curfew.’
    ‘Thank you, sir,’ he nodded, throwing off his damp tunic, roughly towelling himself then pulling on a clean, dry white and purple-edged tunic from his pack. It felt like silk on his skin.
    In a flash, he was outside, hurrying through the sodden earth. He knew where Felicia would be. Just as when they were in Constantinople and she had helped out at the barrack valetudinarium , surely she would be in the medical area of this camp too . Though in this light and given the haphazard layout of the camp, it might be more difficult than he had anticipated to find the surgeon’s tent. But across the sea of wandering and seemingly constantly inebriated population of the camp, he spotted one larger tent further along the riverbank. Close to clean water and enjoying a spot on shingle as opposed to mud, this tent had a tall wooden staff erected beside it, bearing a winding, carved serpent – the staff of Asclepius, God of Healing – and a Christian Chi-Rho to boot. His heart thundered as he slowed, then it leapt as, through the sliver of tent-flap, he caught sight of her.
    In the orange bubble of lamplight within, she looked like every one of the dreams he had escaped to in those tortuous nights of incarceration deep within Persian lands. Her long amber hair tumbled all the way down to the small of her back, resting on her generous hips and the waistband of her pale green robe. Her milky skin seemed flawless, her lips ripe and glistening. He reached out to pull the tent flap back and enter when a rather grotesque squelching noise sounded – his boot had been pulled right off by the treacherous mud. He hopped to one side, balancing on one leg before tilting carefully to retrieve his boot. Felicia had a way with words; she could reduce a grizzled legionary to tears and pleas of mercy with her acerbic wit, so to hop into the tent wearing one boot or to stagger in splattered in mud would not do at