The Blood Road (Legionary 7): Legionary, no. 7

by Gordon Doherty

Sighs and grumbles broke out again. Pavo shared a pensive look with those nearest. The last time they had brought Goths – Eriulf’s people – into the empire en-masse, it had nearly ended in disaster. Now, the plan was to bring those of Athanaric, the most scheming and baleful of the Goths?

  Athanaric held out the war horn to one side, towards the slave near the wall who was looking after the trolley of wine kraters. Pavo frowned, then realised the thing might once have been an instrument, but now it was a cup of sorts. ‘Drink with me. Show your support. A toast to our shared future,’ the Gothic lord beamed, his waxy, sagging features rising. Some officers seemed keen – notably those green to the war, drafted in from the Persian front or from Egypt in recent months.

  ‘The emperor has agreed to this?’ Pavo whispered.

  ‘That we are here and listening to this means it is so,’ Saturninus replied.

  Eriulf and Modares stared, dumbfounded. Bacurius made a series of noises like a man trying to find a word that does not exist.

  ‘Raise your cups with me and tomorrow, I will send for my forces,’ Athanaric compelled them.

  ‘This is not a vote,’ Bishop Ancholius hissed around the table. ‘Raise your cups.’

  Pavo tentatively reached for his cup, trying to gauge the mood of the Lancearii guards standing behind every man here. There were plenty of them – far more than were needed, surely. Theodosius was an enigmatic ruler: human in the best and worst of ways. How far would he go to compel his officers to obey? Rumours were he had consented to the murder of certain officials and high-ranking men on the say-so of his bishops. The warmth of the wine drained away completely. But before Pavo could clasp his cup, he noticed something: the slave at the wine trolley lifted one krater and half-turned towards Athanaric and the outheld drinking horn, then halted, his eyes flaring for a moment. He turned back, lifting another krater instead. He filled Athanaric’s drinking horn, and the Gothic lord drank in a deep, lasting draught. All around the table, officers drank from or lifted their cups half-heartedly, Pavo included.

  Athanaric sighed in deep contentment. ‘The earth will shake with the boots of my army. Fritigern will kneel before our forces soon. I will be the one to slice off his head, I will let his blood fall in gouts upon my boots. I will-’ he stopped, coughing once, then sucking in a breath to continue. ‘I will-’ he started then stopped again. He exploded in a fit of coughing… before lurching forward, both hands slamming onto the table, the drinking horn clattering across the surface and onto the floor.

  Gasps rang out all around. The Lancearii dotted around the hall leapt into life, fearing some reckless attack on the emperor. But Athanaric’s face had turned the colour of wine, his eyes wet and bulging, bloodshot, his mouth agape and quivering. He pawed at his chest and then his throat, gagging, pounding the table thrice before collapsing onto it and rolling onto his back, shuddering like a hooked fish. Foam bubbled from his lips and a single streak of blood rolled from one nostril… and then he fell still with a final death rattle. Chairs screeched as all those around the table rose, taking a step back, staring. The emperor’s medicus came scampering in, falling to his knees before Athanaric. But all in the room knew the Gothic lord was dead.

  Saturninus’ face bent in deep furrows of confusion. Modares was white as milk. Eriulf stared. Pavo’s heart thundered.

  The emperor’s food taster scuttled across to Athanaric’s dropped cup, lifted it and sniffed at it. He looked up, his face white. ‘The wine was laced with poison.’

  ‘No,’ Theodosius croaked, standing, head switching around the long table. Then he looked at Athanaric’s dead eyes. ‘This was not why I brought you here. This was not my doing,’ he wailed at the corpse then clutched at his hair and wailed at the frescoed ceiling. ‘Almighty God, you must believe me – I had no part in this.’ He watched in horror as the body was lifted away, then turned slowly back to the table. ‘Who did this?’ he said. His voice was measured and calm, but Pavo saw the fire creeping into his eyes.

  Silence.

  Pavo noticed many around the table twitching nervously. It was like asking a wagonload of starving beggars who would like some bread. Athanaric and his warriors had been to battle against Roman armies many times. Many of these men would have lost brothers, fathers or even sons to their blades. But Pavo knew what had happened: someone had signalled the slave to use the poisoned krater. Bishop Ancholius shuffled over and whispered in Theodosius’ ear. Pavo saw the man’s lips move: God weeps and demands justice. The fire in the emperor’s eyes flared.

  ‘Who did this!’ Theodosius repeated with a lion-like roar.

  ‘Not I,’ said one. ‘I was never close to those wine kraters,’ wailed another. Most others quickly warbled some such alibi.

  Then Bacurius One-hand stood. ‘It was not my doing, Domine, but I feel not a crumb of grief for that bastard. His army would have taken Fritigern’s head and then yours.’

  A few rumbled in agreement.

  Pavo glanced over to Modares, expecting an explosion of rage at this. But the big Gothic general was impassive. ‘Bacurius is most probably right. My uncle was a scheming bastard.’

  Theodosius’ head snapped round towards the wine slave. He snatched a sword from one of his Lancearii guards. ‘Who gave you the poisoned krater?’

  ‘I, I don’t… I…’ the slave flashed a look across the whole table, then leapt onto the end of the sword. Blood puffed over the emperor and the wretch gagged and spluttered as he slid clear of the blade. Theodosius’ glared at this second corpse, still twitching, then the emperor’s eyes seared in turn at each man around the table. For a moment they even deigned to rest upon Pavo – but there was no hint of acknowledgement despite the deep secrets they had both shared. Barely even recognition. One fellow who had bravely resumed eating a pheasant leg whimpered and dropped the morsel when the emperor’s gaze brushed over him. ‘The last chance we had to take our fate in our own hands… for the East to save itself… died on the poisoner’s word.’

  Every alibi was repeated and the Chalke Hall echoed with myriad voices. Pavo saw the Lancearii grabbing one tribunus by the shoulders. ‘This one, Domine – he has a pedlar in poisons amongst his retinue.’

  ‘I do, I do,’ the officer wailed, ‘but this is not my doing.’

  Theodosius stalked towards him, his blade dripping with the slave’s blood, his arm shaking with rage.

  ‘There is another way,’ Pavo cried.

  The clamour around him settled like a dropping wind, his skin prickling in realisation that all eyes were upon him. Even Theodosius had stopped, just a pace or two shy of the terrified officer, his robes stained red, his head twisting towards Pavo. The emperor’s copper-rod glare bade him to continue.

  Gulping and licking his dry lips, he said the one word that had been neglected for so long.

  ‘Peace.’

  It was like a rock tossed into a calm, glassy pool. The wind of dissent picked up again in a gale of guffaws and snorts of derision. ‘Peace? Where have you been for these last five years, Tribunus? We are in the middle of a war!’ one shrieked in triumph.

  ‘He was in the middle of the war, you mutt,’ Modares growled in support. ‘Where were you?’

  ‘He is a mere limitanei tribunus,’ mocked another with a dismissive swipe of the hand.

  ‘Speak,’ boomed Theodosius. The dissenters fell silent.

  Pavo sucked in a breath and steadied himself. ‘The legions we have here in the east are thin and few. The Western legions might be enough to tackle Fritigern’s horde. Might,’ he repeated, trying to talk directly to the emperor and ignore those muttering and whispering at the sides. ‘It has been five long years since Fritigern brought the horde across the Danubius. I have dug countless graves for my comrades during those years,’ he said, a tremor of emotion betraying him. ‘If we march to battle against Fritigern again, then we will dig many, many more; and who is to say that those graves will secure victory? We have fought Fritigern many times in this war: repelled him once or twi
ce, reached a stalemate too… but mostly he and his armies have gotten the better of us.’

  ‘He tells us what we all know, a prophet of the past!’ one officer scoffed.

  ‘I faced Fritigern once,’ Pavo said, ignoring the man.

  A murmur of interest rose now.

  ‘He intercepted me and my men as we journeyed through the Rhodope Mountain ravines – on our way to Sirmium to face the Black Horde. You might assume we fought one another. But both of us went on about our way that night, unharmed. Why? Because instead of fighting we spoke: of integrity, of honour. He talked of… peace. Before the disaster at Adrianople, he tried to secure an armistice. Before the Battle of Scupi Ridge he tried again. Both times the efforts were in vain, thanks to agents on both sides who desired no such accord.’

  A drone of whispers and murmurs rose.

  ‘But I do not wish to pick through those ashes. Instead let us look at what might still be possible. I believe that Fritigern will be receptive to peace talks again. As it was supposed to be in the beginning when he and his masses crossed the river,’ he made the effort to meet every pair of eyes around the table. ‘To farm our lands, to serve in our legions. To become part of our empire. This war could end without another costly battle… a battle we have no guarantee of winning.’

  The dissenters’ lips wrinkled as they mulled over this, some clearly disgruntled that they could not simply laugh off the suggestion.

  ‘That is all I have to say, Domine,’ he finished with a half bow.

  As he sat down again, Saturninus stood, clapping a supportive hand on his left shoulder. ‘I second Tribunus Pavo’s suggestion. I spent months in the Haemus Mountain passes behind freezing pickets, only to watch those stockades fall to the horde; I was there at Adrianople when the Eastern Army was crushed into a mire of blood and bone and reduced to its current paltry state. This is a war the likes of which we have never seen before: a war that cannot truly be won without grievous loss even for the victor. If peace is still an option, then at least we must try.’

  Modares rose now. ‘Tribunus Pavo’s argument has merit. Fritigern rules the Thracian countryside at the moment not like a baleful pillager, but like a lord – a man who values order and stability. When did he last ransack a town? Not since we last fought him and forced him to plunder in order to replenish his grain and cattle. And even though we have the approach to this city festooned with barricades… I have yet to hear of his forces even scouting those defences let alone testing them. Things are good for him and his horde right now. He treasures order and amity over chaos and battle. He must know, however, that the empire cannot simply cede Thracia to him. Equally, he can no easier relinquish it to us. There must be a middle-ground. I, too, believe he would be receptive to talks.’

  Bacurius stood once again. ‘We can send an emissary, perhaps. Why not? If Fritigern rejects our overtures, then,’ his face crumpled into a malicious snake-smile and he made a cutting gesture across his neck with his good hand.

  Eriulf rose by Pavo’s right. ‘The generals speak wisely, and Tribunus Pavo – a hero of this war,’ he added, shooting a disdainful look at the officer who had mocked Pavo as a mere limitanei tribunus, ‘should be commended for his suggestion. I offer my backing.’

  Pavo felt a warm thrill of relief and hope shoot through him. Others stood too, now, one by one, offering their support. More than half.

  ‘Domine,’ said Bishop Ancholius, ‘remember that Fritigern and his masses are heretics! Not true followers of the Christ. They are Arians like Valens was. To embrace the Arian masses,’ he said with a gull-like stare at the emperor, ‘would be to anger God.’

  Theodosius shuffled in his seat, clearly agitated by the threat.

  Pavo watched, knowing how consumed the emperor was by the Christian God and the Nicene version of those beliefs. In his mind’s eye he imagined Mithras the Soldier-God emerging from the ether to swat the bishop away.

  ‘But were we to bring them to their senses and have them convert to the Nicene way,’ bleated another officer, ‘God would be pleased, surely?’

  Theodosius’ eyes darted, his lips occasionally twitching with the beginnings of a smile that crumbled away every time.

  ‘Yet would it not be a sign of weakness, Domine,’ the Lancearii Tribunus pitched in, ‘to seek peace with invaders in our own country? It would not be the Roman way to pander to them like this.’

  ‘A peace in which we dictate the terms could be as Roman as we wish to make it,’ said another.

  A handful more rejected the idea, but the majority had cast their opinion favourably.

  Theodosius did not respond immediately. He flopped onto his seat, his head nodding slightly every so often as if locked in an internal dialogue, patting the bloody sword on the table’s edge. Finally, he rose again. ‘My sacrum consistorium has spoken, and I have listened. You are here to advise me, and I hear good advice: overtures of peace will cost us nothing. I will speak with God on the matter to let him know of my intentions. Then I will brief my best emissary, Dignus. He will set out for Fritigern’s camp in the Ides of February.’

  Pavo felt a cool, calming wave of relief wash over him. He shared a look with Saturninus, both wearing the looks of weary men suddenly unburdened.

  ‘But,’ Theodosius finished, ‘if Fritigern rejects our approaches, then…’ his eyes flashed with madness as he braced and swung the bloody sword overhead, chopping it, hard, into the table, where it quivered like an arrow, ‘battle, it will have to be; and victory… for God!’

  Members of the sacrum consistorium drifted from the Chalke Hall and left the Imperial Palace complex. Eriulf returned to his villa on the third hill. Inside, he entered the bare tablinum, and sat on a stool. He lifted his swordbelt, drew the fine Roman spatha and stared at his reflection on the blade’s surface. A Roman officer, an Arian Christian, proud and enthused by the talk of peace, the chance of harmony. He placed the sword’s tip on the floor and began to turn it, slowly, the point grinding on the pale floor tiles. The noise grew deafening after a time, and then he stopped. Placing the sword to one side, he drew out, from underneath a table by the wall, his old Gothic longsword. It felt weighty in his hand. A comfort, a pleasure. He gazed into this blade and the demeanour from moments ago slid away like fat in a hot pan. Now, a tribesman stared back, a disciple of Wodin, God of death, battle and frenzy. How twisted was it that after all this time, all the places he had been and all the forays against the empire in his younger days, that he had found a place here, allied to them and living in their midst, right at the heart of their armies.

  ‘The flame of the Wodin-chosen will never die. When the time is right, the Vesi will rise,’ he said sadly, thinking of his dead sister who had taught him the mantra, then of his Roman brother, Pavo. Pavo knew nothing of this crucible that bubbled within him, and it would have to stay that way. ‘I would walk through fire to save you, friend,’ he whispered, ‘but your empire must burn. It will begin when the legions dash themselves against Fritigern’s horde.’

  He replayed in his mind the last moments of Athanaric. The mandrake root had been powerful and it had to be. The scheming lord had sealed his own fate by booming about his plans – plans that might have brought about a Roman victory over the horde. Athanaric was dead and his warriors would not be coming to the empire’s aid. Indeed, when they heard about their lord’s fate, they would more probably march in the name of vengeance.

  He stood and walked to the open shutters leading onto the balcony. The afternoon light washed over him and the fresh breeze was rich with a salt-tang from the Golden Horn. He saw a pair of horses being exercised in the imperial stables at one end of the palace complex on the first hill, and spotted the bald-headed Dignus waddling to and fro, directing slaves to bring provisions and load them onto wagons. The diplomacy party, being readied. But this proposed peace simply could not be allowed to happen. To bribe or kill the messengers en-route? No. That had happened before, but not this time, he realised. Talk of a strong escort
meant there would be little chance of killing or turning the messenger, and even if he did manage to do that, there would be many others in the party who could ensure delivery.

  He thought over Pavo’s words in the Chalke Hall, and those of the supportive generals. Saturninus, bleating away. Bacurius One-hand at his blistering, baleful worst. Modares – damn him like his dead uncle – prattling through the virtues of accord. His thoughts snagged on Modares’ arguments for peace:

  Fritigern rules the Thracian countryside at the moment not like a baleful pillager, but like a lord – a man who values order and stability.

  His eyes darted, and he gripped the marble edge of the balcony.

  When did he last ransack a town?

  His heart soared as he realised he had it: the golden hammer that would smash this talk of peace into smithereens. The iron heel that would crush the legions.

  ‘I am sorry, Brother,’ he whispered to the absent Pavo. ‘I pray you will forgive me.’

  Chapter 3

  A skirling, bitter February wind swept over the circular sea of Gothic tents. All within the great camp were gathered – the many reiks of the council, the warriors, the families. Hunting dogs and hawks, even, clamoured to see the men standing atop a makeshift rostrum of a wagon berth and a crate.

  Fritigern, standing back from the display, closed his eyes tightly, the tremors coming with a surge of pain. In the blackness there, he imagined himself battling a wicked dragon with many heads. Two of the heads were familiar, Alatheus and Saphrax, the most common agitators in the years of the Gothic War, stoking old wounds, rousing discontent where there was none and doing all they could to undermine his role as Iudex. In his mind, he drew his sword and sliced off both heads with one swipe. That was how it had felt when he had heard that the pair had died along with the majority of the Black Horde at Sirmium. But from the two bleeding, thrashing stumps, two new heads sprouted – those of Judda and Winguric. Their mouths gnashed and snapped endlessly. When he opened his eyes to the late winter’s day, that is exactly what he saw.