Legionary: The Scourge of Thracia (Legionary 4) Read Online Free PDF Page B

Zosimus chuckled, ‘but I’ll tell you, Thracia has no shortage of trouble-spots.’
    Pavo curled his bottom lip and tilted his head, seeing no flaw in Zosimus’ logic. ‘Yet we are just five men strong. What can Traianus expect of us?’
    Quadratus returned just then, pushed fresh cups into each of their hands and grinned the driest of grins, revealing a flinty sobriety for just an instant. ‘He expects us to survive. It’s what we’re good at.’
    Sitting a little taller at this, and without another word, they clacked their cups together and drank.

     

     
    Pavo felt the darkness of deep sleep drain away. Suddenly, he sensed an ethereal scene take form around him. Strange, yet familiar at the same time. He was on a raft at sea. No, not a raft, nor a sea – it was a wooden platform, raised above an ocean of faces, waving their arms, calling out, eyeing him like a mangy dog. He felt something heavy on his ankle, and looked down to see a manacle. A heavy, iron manacle. And his legs were different – those of a young boy. A foul terror rose in his belly as he realised where he was.
    No! he mouthed silently, recognising the tall, marbled sides of the Augusteum square, seeing the other slaves standing beside him, chained likewise, heads bowed, spirits broken.
    Just then, he saw a grinning, corpulent face, wading through the crowd towards the platform.
    ‘Forty Solidi!’ Senator Tarquitius cried.
    No! You’re dead, this isn’t real! He mouthed without a sound. But every instant that passed seemed to vitalise this strange, strange place. He could feel the sun blistering his bare skin, the stinging of the blisters on his feet, smell the gold-toothed slave master’s foul breath.
    ‘Sold!’ The slave master cried. A thick clunk of iron and the shackle was off.
    Pavo felt unseen rough hands seize him from behind and push him towards Tarquitius.
    No! he screamed, his voice still absent as Tarquitius’ face widened in a smug smile of victory, arms outstretched, ready to ensnare him.
    As he struggled and thrashed, he noticed something. Beyond Tarquitius’ sweating, bald face and behind the rest of the yelping crowd: the crone. The milky-eyed, withered old woman who had intervened that day. She stared at him with her sightless eyes. Her face was grave and she stood with one arm extended, a bony finger pointing to the north edge of the Augusteum. As he was passed through a sea of hands, he struggled to snatch a glance at the colonnade there. Then he saw it – a figure! Little more than a shadow, half-hidden behind one column. He could see no eyes, but this one was watching him. Watching him pass into slavery.
    Then, through the blackness of the shadow, the eyes glinted like jewels.
    Pavo reached out, just as Tarquitius’ arms closed around him.
    ‘Who are you?’ he called out, his voice coming back at last.
    But the shadow-man slipped behind the column.
    ‘Who are you?’ he yelled as he woke. He realised he was panting, sweating, sitting upright, both hands outstretched, his mouth dry and foul from the wine and his head giddy. He heard his last words echoing around the barrack block, followed by a grumble of discontent from Zosimus’ bunk, nearby.
    ‘Shut up, Pavo,’ the Thracian said through taut lips and gritted teeth without opening his eyes.
    He noticed the shafts of pale light shining in through the shutters and guessed it was dawn. In the bunk below, Sura was fast asleep. From the bunk block next door, he heard Quadratus’ rhythmic snoring. He lay back, aware that he only had a few more hours to sleep before Gallus would have them up and preparing for the briefing from Traianus. He closed his eyes, but saw only the shadow-man behind his eyelids. Each time it seemed to jump out for him, as if to escape his nightmare. Worse, the neat wine from last night had left a vile nausea in his belly and rendered his head like a war drum. Thump, thump, thump.
    When a furious volley of farting sounded from Quadratus’