Free Legionary: Land of the Sacred Fire by Gordon Doherty Page B

the thirty or so Claudia legionaries around him melted into a soothing babble. Now when he touched a finger to the phalera on his chest, he felt a keen sense of optimism. Had Father once been in this city? Had he maybe drunk with his comrades in this very tavern – at this very bench?
    He chuckled at the powers of the drink as he poured himself another measure from the jug then reached out for the water to dilute it, halting only when he remembered they were drinking it neat and there was no water jug. They had only been here for an hour at most. After dropping their packs and armour at the city barracks by the eastern gate, they had set off in search of refreshment. Led by Zosimus, Quadratus and Felix, they had wandered through the streets, still busy despite the late hour. They passed through the Forum of Valentinian, lined with merchant stalls. Next, they had wondered past an open-fronted basilica, packed with Christian worshippers chanting along to the promptings of a priest. Only when they reached the agora near the south of the city, they had found what they were looking for; a stirring pole and vine leaves resting by an open doorway – the symbol of wine and ale known the empire over.
    But inside it was very different from the chaotic – often perilous – drinking pits that he had grown used to on the Danubian frontier. There, the taverns were always packed with jabbering legionaries, locals and a mixture of Goths and travelling traders. There, a legionary was almost guaranteed a black eye or a thundering hangover as a memento of his night out. Here, there were only a few locals dotted around the other benches, most sipping watered wine and chatting quietly, some eating mutton and vegetable stew. The bench commandeered by the XI Claudia was in stark contrast: at the far end, Zosimus and Quadratus seemed keen to make this place a little more like home, exchanging insults in between frequent mouthfuls of ale. It was obviously strong, like the wine, given Zosimus’ ruddy features and Quadratus’ giddy grin.
    ‘Aye, and on the first day I joined up, Zosimus here was supposed to show me how to use the bow drill to light a campfire.’ Quadratus spliced his words with laughter, his blonde moustache jostling. ‘He was all wrinkled and serious looking, as if he was some kind of survival expert . . . then the bloody fool goes and sends a shower of sparks over himself – a moment later and the hem of his tunic’s on fire!’ Quadratus doubled over at this, roaring, and the rest of the bench erupted in laughter too. ‘Nearly burnt his bloody cock off!’
    Zosimus’ complexion reddened, his anvil jaw straining as he fired angry glances around the table. ‘Aye, well, it’d be wrong of me to tell these lads here of the time you once farted a whole contubernium out of the barrack blocks at Durostorum, eh?’ He met the eyes of the others around the bench and jabbed a finger at the big Gaulish centurion. ‘Had three portions of bean and root stew and apparently he was at it all night. The other seven lads in there with him couldn’t take it any more, they came stumbling out, retching and choking. One of the poor sods ended up having nightmares for weeks afterwards!’
    There was a hiatus of shocked faces around the bench, then they erupted once more in laughter.
    Quadratus’ beaming smile faded at this and he shook his head and smoothed at his moustache as if in firm denial, booming out over the hilarity; ‘Nah, nah, that’s a long way from the truth. The beans were on the turn, you see, and I only had two portions . . . ’
    At that moment, a hand slapped on Pavo’s shoulder. He twisted round to see Sura. ‘You’re feeling better?’
    Sura pushed in to sit next to Pavo. ‘I told you – a couple of hours sleep and I’d be in fine fettle.’
    Pavo was unconvinced, seeing the odd, ruddy glow on his friend’s skin. ‘How did you know we were here?’
    Sura cocked an eyebrow. ‘I just followed the twisted scowls