Legionary: Land of the Sacred Fire by Gordon Doherty

of us,’ Zosimus grimaced as he stood, stark naked, eyeing his bruises then cupping his testicles to examine the swollen, purple one. With a shrug, he hooked his tunic from his bunk side and dropped it over his hulking frame, then rolled his head this way and that – the bones in his neck cricking as he did so. Next, he sucked in a breath that seemed to double the size of his chest then took to striding around the other five bunks, booting at the frames.
    ‘Right, you pussies! Get up and get your marching gear together!’ The still-drowsy legionaries sat up with a start, some with a yelp. They scrambled out of their bedding, bleary-eyed and throwing salutes. ‘Tribunus Gallus is finalising things with the emperor. We move out at mid-morning when he gets back. So don’t piss about – after last night, I don’t want any sloppy armour or kit showing up my century.’
    Habitus, the beanpole legionary who had joined the XI Claudia only months ago, was last to rise. ‘Yes, sir!’ he barked, blinking the sleep from his eyes.
    ‘Mithras!’ Zosimus backed away, cupping a hand over his mouth. ‘What in Hades have you been eating, soldier? You’re breath smells like you’ve been munching on pig shit!’ The rest of the legionaries stifled their laughter as Habitus reddened. Satisfied with his torturing of the younger lads, Zosimus strutted from the contubernium, chuckling to himself. Few noticed the big Thracian frowning in disgust when he breathed into his hand and caught wind of his own breath. ‘Must have been that bloody ale,’ he muttered as he left.
    Pavo and Sura took to waking the others of the century, then went outside and into the dry morning heat. The dusty drill yard at the heart of the fort was cramped, and hemmed by the colonnaded contubernia blocks. On the far side of the yard was the principia, the heart of the barracks. Like the rest of Antioch in daylight, all of the buildings seemed to reflect and intensify the sun’s glare.
    ‘I suppose the Flavia Firma lads will be in a similar state as us,’ Sura mused.
    Pavo was about to agree when he saw the glinting square of armoured men at the far side of the principia; Baptista and his century, fully prepared to march already, waiting on Centurion Carbo, passing the time by scowling upon the newly woken XI Claudia men. The Flavia Firma were a comitatenses legion. Thus, unlike their limitanei counterparts, they wore fine scale vests, new shields freshly painted in dark-blue with the silver Chi-Rho emblem, fresh leather boots and recently tempered intercisas with flared noseguards, spathas and spears. To add salt to the wounds, they each looked fresh and alert, only the bruises from the brawl spoiling their immaculate turnout.
    Sura grumbled; ‘Those bastards are far too self-assured for my liking – there’s no man more smug than he without a hangover.’
    They strolled over to a water barrel tucked into a shaded corner nearby. The pair cupped the tepid water in their hands and soaked their faces and scalps over and over again. The liquid helped calm the stinging bruises on Pavo’s face just a fraction. He took a linen rag and soaked it, then clamped it to his ribs under his tunic.
    ‘I don’t think I’ve ever felt less ready for a march,’ he confessed.
    ‘Aye, my skin feels like fire,’ Sura grumbled, examining his ruddy arms. ‘Time to see if this works,’ he said, lifting the small clay flask from his belt. ‘I bought it from some old goat at the market yesterday evening. He claimed it was jasmine oil and it would shield me from the sun,’ he said, tipping the lotion onto his palms then rubbing it onto his shoulders and face. He pulled a self-satisfied grin, then almost as quickly it fell again. ‘Mithras, it’s itchy.’
    ‘Better itchy than burnt,’ Pavo chuckled.
    The pair re-joined their comrades in the shade of the contubernia block porch. They sat, cross-legged, munching on salted fish and fresh bread brought in from the market