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Gordon Doherty

Legionary

Chapter 1

Summer, 363 AD

Constantinople stewed in the midsummer sun. The Augusteum writhed with squinting faces, basted in sweat and seasoned with dust; a thick tang of roasting garlic and the fuggy stench of drying horse dung permeated the air. Raised market stalls clad in vibrant fabrics pierced the throng, sucking the hungry shoppers in like swirling currents. Hemmed in by the towering grandeur of the Hippodrome, the Imperial Palace and the Baths of Zeuxippus, the market square was a surefire hotpot for moneymaking.

Dead centre, with no respite from the midday inferno, one craggy-faced trader grinned as he scanned the eyes of his rapacious clientele; nobles, senators, businessmen and almost certainly all of them crooks. He could feel the weight of their purses — eager to be lightened. The trader’s gold teeth glinted in the sunlight.

‘Bring ‘em out!’ He bawled over the hubbub.

Two incongruous figures dressed only in loincloths were pushed up onto the rickety timber platform; a towering Nubian, scarred on every inch of his charcoal flesh and a stumpy, pale Germanian. The crowd broke into a keen rabble.

Without turning from his audience, the trader swept a hand back towards the platform. ‘Slaves are the foundation of any man’s business. An’ today, my friends, you’re boun’ for a bargain. ’ He jabbed a finger at the Nubian. ‘Will it be the mighty warrior from the distant sands of Africa — a power’ouse who will serve as a brave bodyguard or a fine labourer,’ he shifted his hand towards the Germanian, ‘or the ‘ardy northern swordsman — this ‘un’ll fight for you till ‘is ‘eart bursts!’ He revelled for a moment in the rising hum of interest.

‘Or will it be the agile youth, a boy of legionary stock…’ His voice trailed off as the crowd began to mutter in confusion. Then he turned to the platform and the conspicuous space beside the Germanian and the Nubian. The crowd broke into a chorus of laughter.

‘Where’s the boy?’ He hissed to his trade hand.

‘I’m sorry, master,’ the scab-coated figure yelped as he swiped into the slave-cart parked by the platform. ‘He’s being…difficult!’

The trader growled, thumping over to the cart. The laughter rose into a chorus of cheers as, with a snarl, he wrenched the wiry form of a boy from the cart, dangling him at arm’s length by the scruff of a filthy tunic. With a shaven head, a beaky nose dominating his gaunt face, and sharp, hazel eyes tucked under thick brows, he had the look of a malnourished hawk. The boy kicked and punched in a fury, spurring the crowd into raptures.

‘Only in ‘is seventh year,’ the trader fought to regain control, dumping the boy on the platform, while his trade hand clipped an ankle-manacle into place, ‘the boy comes as the son of a seasoned legionary. Don’t be fooled by ‘is frame. This lad has years ahead of ‘im, and a bargain at ‘alf the price!’ At last, the crowd seemed to be coming round to him once more.

‘C’mon — all three could be yours, let’s start the biddin’!’ He roared. ‘Who’ll be takin’ ‘ome the bargain today?’