Pavo breathed a sigh of relief. Then a hand slammed down on his shoulder.
‘Too easy,’ said Saturninus, draped in dark cape and armour. ‘If I was one of Gratian’s agents…’
Pavo swung and gawped. A dull point pressed against his flank.
‘He is right,’ said Eriulf, suddenly by his side, his hand shaped like a spear tip and poking at Pavo’s ribs.
Pavo’s heart lunged almost into his mouth. He shot the pair a stormy look. ‘Very well, you’ve made your point.’
‘About what?’ Sura said about a finger’s width from the back of his neck.
Pavo leapt to face his friend. ‘Right, anyone else?’ he spluttered.
‘Let’s hope not,’ Sura replied, eyes scanning the masses suspiciously.
‘Come on,’ Eriulf said, batting each of them on the chest and nodding towards the nearest of the Hippodrome’s arched entrances: guarded by two Lancearii, the stairs within fading into shadows. ‘Time to hear what he has to say.’
Pavo glanced backwards to meet the eyes of Opis and Pulcher, who nodded, slid from the moving crowds and took up inconspicuous positions on the street sides. They were dressed in their civilian tunics, their swords hidden. There they would wait here to escort him and Sura back to the Neorion barracks when this affair was over.
Pavo filed into the shady entrance stairwell amidst a flood of people, myriad voices echoing and bouncing madly in the near-darkness as the crowds gossiped excitedly about what the emperor might have to say, the air stale and rife with the smell of armpits and unwashed undercarriages. After a few moments, they spilled back out into bright, baking sunlight, onto the lower bank of the arena’s white marble seating.
Pavo halted as the people around him spread out along the rows, taking their seats, paying for faded red cushions and cups of cold water from slave boys. He eyed the great, sweeping curve of the arena’s southern end to his left, and the vast straight terrace to his right, dominated by the kathisma – the marble imperial box, draped in purple awnings and curtains emblazoned with golden motifs. Legionaries stood like a screen along a plinth running around the foot of the majestic enclosure. More Lancearii, Pavo realised. Then he noticed that there was something different about them. Yes, they wore the usual bronze vests and carried blood-red shields and tall spears, but they wore no helms and their heads were shaved – recently, going by the whiteness of their hairless scalps. Not the close crop Pavo often sported, but a severe, razor-close shave. With all the pomp that went with an imperial address, it was unusual for imperial guards not to wear polished helms festooned with plumage. More, their faces… perhaps it was the starkness of their shaved heads, but they looked mean, baleful even.
A man bumped into Pavo’s back and uttered a Tsk! ‘Who reaches the top of a set of stairs then just stops? Unbe-lievable!’ the fellow grumbled, edging past and shooting Pavo and his comrades a disgusted look.
Pavo edged away from the stairway opening, following Saturninus, Eriulf and Sura towards the seating area they had been assigned, just below the kathisma – near Theodosius’ Lancearii. Despite the emperor’s growing strangeness, safety lay there. Mithras, he thought, on a day like today and in crowds like these I would be safer in a lion’s mouth. He noticed Modares and Bacurius sitting a stone’s throw to their right. More security, he thought.
Sura paid for cushions and handed him one. Sitting, taking stock and letting the hypnotic babble of the crowd wash over him eased his concerns. Until a sudden rasp of ropes sounded and the four jolted where they sat, then scowled up and saw the sailors clambering across the overhanging wooden beams above, hauling at ropes to draw the linen awnings out. Strips of shade crawled like snakes down the crowded steps behind them, then the welcome shade crept over them.
Yet even with the shelter of the awning, it was still as hot as an oven. He gazed round the rest of the arena: it was full well beyond its supposed fifty thousand capacity. The terraces were now packed – the few spots of white marble still showing quickly being swallowed up. The arena’s sandy floor too was awash with people, pushing in until there was little room to move. The crowds even filled the space inside the spina, clustering around the monuments there. His gaze snagged on something: the gold-plated Egyptian obelisk: just above the heads of the crowds there, a section gleamed more brightly than the rest – as if recently polished or cleaned. And was that two tufts of frayed or recently cut rope hanging there, pegged to the monument’s side? He shrugged the odd sight away then turned to the Carceres – the colossal gatehouse that formed the northern end of the arena. Groups of children had climbed up there to sit and stand along its flat top, packed around the quadri – a splendorous gilt statue of a four-horse chariot team.
‘Nicenes, most of them,’ said Sura, eyes sweeping over the pumping fists, the pre-emptive celebrations, hearing Trinitarian chants.
‘As long as none are Speculatores,’ Pavo replied dryly.
‘Look,’ Sura reasoned, ‘the danger was in the walk here. This place is crammed. Too full to move around. The people in here will sit or stand where they are and remain there until it’s over. There’s little chance those wretched bastards – if they’re even here – will be able to spot you in this mass, let alone work their way over to you if they somehow did.’
Pavo noticed the numerous flashes of soldier helms here and there. Every officer stationed in the city was seated here in the southeastern section – and many wore similar headwear, mail and cloaks as he. More, the face of each was in shade from the brows of their helms. Sura was right.
‘So we hear what the emperor has to say, then we slip out of here and back to the Neorion compound. I hear Cornix is preparing a mutton roast tonight. Libo’s latest batch of wine is good to drink now too.’
Pavo thought of the barracks, and the dusty, plain corridors and porches. It was a warming thought. Not so much Libo’s wine, though. Some claimed he had trodden the grapes himself… and Libo’s hygiene standards were highly questionable.
The cornua howled from the arena roof once more, and the thick rumble of voices began to fade. All heads turned to the kathisma as the purple drapes up there parted. Emperor Theodosius emerged and approached the balustrade, draped in white and gold silks, crowned in his sparkling diadem. The man’s wide, haunted eyes beheld the crowd, and the crowd fell utterly silent. The distant crying of gulls and the gentle crash of waves against the sea walls sailed across the arena and the rapt masses. Bishop Ancholius sidled up next to the emperor, his smile dripping with pride.
‘Citizens of the Empire. My people,’ Theodosius began, calm and composed. A creature of ice, thought Pavo. ‘We have many troubles to address. Times are bleak, with the horde of Fritigern camped not more than one hundred miles from the walls of this city. God’s city. And God watches us gather here to see how we might address these ills. Just as he watched over me while, for weeks, I discussed matters of faith with my closest aides during the Ecumenical Council…’
Pavo saw Ancholius’ smile double in width and his eyes narrow to slits.
‘… it is with the straying faiths of this city and the East as a whole that I must begin. Once before I addressed the people of close-by Thessalonica to impress upon them the need for piety. Only with true piety can we rely upon God’s support to end the ills of our world.’
Pavo felt his stomach twist as he noticed the pious flame sparkle to life in Theodosius’ eyes.
Ancholius disappeared into the back of the kathisma momentarily, before returning bearing a neatly folded, hooded robe with a small clay libation bowl and an iron knife placed on top. He offered these things to Theodosius.
‘The robes and things of the Pontifex Maximus,’ Sura whispered. Hundreds of others nearby whispered likewise. A shiver ran the length of Pavo’s spine: this was the most ancient ceremony – a tradition established by so many emperors past: the bestowing upon an emperor the vestments of the high priest of the empire, as the appointee of Jove, as the embodiment of the many ancient deities… of
Mithras himself! Theodosius had been emperor for over two years now and had yet to take these robes. Even the gulls and the waves seemed to fall silent now.
Theodosius turned to face Ancholius, then raised a hand… and calmly swept the palm across the offered pile. A refusal. A swell of gasps and murmurs sprang from the crowd. Pavo’s shiver of exhilaration turned cold and bitter. No man had ever rejected the sacred robes.
‘The time of the pagans is over,’ Theodosius said as Ancholius gladly disposed of the ancient vestments in a dark corner of the kathisma. ‘So, too, is the age of the false creeds of Christ and those who follow sham prophets.’
Ancholius returned to the balustrade to swish a hand – a signal read by the line of shaven-headed Lancearii legionaries. Six of them melted through the drapes hanging down below the balustrade. A moment later, they reappeared, shepherding three men, roped at the wrists. Pavo strained to see: noblemen, he guessed, going by their good leather boots, silks and cloaks. He did not recognise any of them. Each of them looked haughty and defiant.
‘I invited these men to attend my council,’ said Theodosius. ‘Had they pledged their support to the Nicene truth, they would be standing with you all today, faithful and free. Yet throughout it all, they chose to reject my pleas. Instead, they insisted upon their continuing worship of the heretical cults: Audians, Quatrodecimans,’ he said, gesturing to the first two in turn, ‘Celebrating Easter, but on the wrong day.’ Thousands in the crowd gasped in horror – many genuine, many more in sycophancy. Pavo and Sura beheld the masses with disgust. Theodosius motioned to the third man. ‘And Manichaeans, chanting in strange tongues over fires in secret temples and underground hides. It must not continue. It will not continue.’
A pair of the bald Lancearii legionaries set down their spears and shields and violently tore away the men’s garments, leaving them naked. The three staggered and gasped, while the crowd roared with laughter and applause. Pavo noted that Eriulf and Saturninus – one Arian and the other Nicene – stood side by side, unmoved, unflustered, watching silently. The sight gave him hope.
‘Thus, you will not be returning home. Your estates have already been seized,’ Theodosius said calmly, peering down on the trio. ‘Your wealth will be diverted to the Holy See.’
Ancholius’ head tilted back, his fingers massaging the kathisma balustrade. His joy was almost tangible.
‘I wonder who suggested that?’ Sura muttered.
‘A galley awaits in the Julian Harbour. It will take you to Egypt. There, you will be marched out into the burning wastes and down into the deep gold mines.’ The three were led away, prodded by Lancearii spears, towards a small exit near the kathisma.
Pavo watched the three go, wishing upon them a swift end. Most who went to those mines died of a lung disease within months. Those who were immune to it went blind within the first year and spent the rest of their lives lost in blackness and horrible squalor. Memories of his own spell in the Persian salt mines sent a shiver across his shoulders.
‘I once before asked for piety,’ Theodosius continued. ‘Now? I demand it.’
The Lancearii clanked back into position – a solid wall of bronze scale, shaved heads glistening in the sun.
‘Should you choose to ignore my demands, my Inquisitors will find a way of changing your mind.’
The men lining the foot of the box stood a little taller and dunted their spear hafts on the marble steps. ‘For God… for the Empire,’ these ‘Inquisitors’ said in one baritone bark. Now Pavo understood their strange hairstyles and almost fervid stares. These were Theodosius’ hand-picked men, chosen for their Nicene zeal.
Ancholius took centre-stage now. ‘These twenty men are the finest in the emperor’s Lancearii legion. They will seek out and bring to account any who disrupt the Nicene harmony, who reject the Doctrine of Trinity. Anyone caught in the black act of haruspicy… will be themselves sacrificed as an example to others.’
The shaven heads of the twenty shifted from side to side, icy eyes appraising the masses. Many in the crowd repeated the Inquisitors’ mantra in a confused babble, eager to appease and prove from the outset that they were, indeed, Nicene faithful. ‘For God… for the Empire.’
‘For Mithras,’ Pavo said quietly.
‘For the God of the Light,’ Sura agreed.
Pavo glanced to see Eriulf whispering something personal to his own beliefs. As an Arian Christian, he was as much an outsider as any Mithras-worshipper. The Gothic Comes looked up and met Pavo’s eye. His lips stopped moving and he smiled.
The hubbub settled, and Pavo felt the tension in him ease a little. The flashpoints in packed bowl-arenas usually occurred in moments like these. That moment had passed, and no trouble had broken out.
‘With a united people, hearts, souls and wills in harmony, we can finally end the evils that stalk our lands. The Goths of Fritigern will soon be a threat no more,’ Theodosius proclaimed.
The people exploded in a riot of cheering.
‘When the legions of the West come, the Goths will be like lambs in the jaws of lions!’ one roared.
‘Death, death to them all – it will be a joy to know the crops which spring next year from the soil of their wretched camp have been slaked in Gothic blood,’ cried another.
Theodosius’ face grew pinched, his lips wriggling as if seeking out a response.
For a moment, Pavo felt certain that the emperor was about to be carried along on the flames of the crowd. Peace, Pavo mouthed for him, thinking of the messenger right now out in the countryside delivering the message to Fritigern. As we agreed.
Instead, Theodosius stepped to one side and a third figure emerged from the shade at the back of the imperial box. Pavo recognised the man – from Theodosius’ coronation over two years ago: Themistius, the ‘great’ orator. He was fleshy with pale lead powder on his cheeks, his hefty body bedizened with a gold-striped pallium. His oily, thin curls of scraped-forward hair were plastered to his temples like wings. He clasped one hand across his heart and the other shot out like a jilted lover pleading after his departing mistress.
‘Our twin oarsmen, Emperor Theodosius and Emperor Gratian, will deliver us from the evils of the horde. But,’ he pronounced sharply, his many chins shuddering and settling, ‘we must remember that it is a good emperor’s job to govern, not to fight. And has Emperor Theodosius not shown his great love of mankind and compassion for those in need?’
A few people shared looks, thinking of the three ‘heretics’ who had just been condemned to the mines of Egypt for the rest of their lives.
‘Recall his kind treatment of poor Athanaric. Once an enemy, yet Emperor Theodosius welcomed him into his capital – to his very palace – and made his final days comfortable.’
Pavo arched an eyebrow. Apart from the officers who had been present that day when Athanaric had been poisoned, every single head in the crowd nodded warmly, believing the tactical fiction of a natural death that had been allowed to spread after the incident. The Gothic lord had been granted a splendorous funeral with gold-bridled horses and hired mourners trudging alongside the seven Gothic guardsmen who had carried his pale, tight-lipped corpse on a bronze pallet. Singers and poets had lamented and wailed around his pyre for a day and a night. The seven guardsmen were sent home, ears packed with lies, belts heavy with golden purses.
‘It is that road which we must tread again,’ said Themistius, ‘when our envoy, Dignus, returns from the great camp. Peace, and harmony with the Goths.’
‘Almost one in four of whom is Arian,’ Eriulf said in a low, dry chuckle.
‘And where in Hades are Dignus and his riders anyway? They were sent out over a month ago,’ Saturninus added.
‘Every soul in this city should pray to every god who will listen that they are already on their way back, and with good news,’ Pavo said. ‘Else the hungry on the streets will begin to die. Plague and squalor will crawl over this city and the few others we still cling to. And for the soldiers? If the horde refuses pe
ace then we can expect nothing but a storm of steel and blood. Gratian will be compelled to complete his march to these parts… and…’
‘Wine,’ Sura said.
Pavo blinked, seeing his friend calling over a boy with a tray of cups and an amphora of wine hanging round his neck.
‘Four cups please,’ Sura said, paying for them then handing Pavo the first one. ‘Drink. I’ve watched you drive yourself mad in the barracks over these last few months. I won’t have it here.’
Pavo made to protest, the troubles still broiling and thrashing in his mind, then Eriulf clacked his cup to Sura’s then Pavo’s, before draining it in one draught. ‘Ah,’ he sighed, ‘but damn, if that doesn’t taste like nectar. Better than that disgusting feet-drink Libo made me taste when I last visited you at the Neorion compound. I swear I picked a thick yellow toenail from my teeth later that day.’
Pavo laughed and swirled his cup. He tilted it towards his lips, then halted.
‘Pavo?’ Sura said, frowning.
‘The wine is no good?’ said Saturninus, about to try his.
But Pavo’s eyes were locked on the reflection in the surface of his drink: of the man sitting behind him. The fellow’s handsome face creased in a friendly smile, the white flashes of hair at his temples rising slightly. Pavo’s heart crashed against his ribs. Woe to the man in a Speculator’s gaze. Despair to the man with none other than the Optio Speculatorum at his back.
‘It is good to meet you at last, Tribunus Pavo,’ said Vitalianus politely.
Sura, Eriulf and Saturninus fell silent, the eyes of each rolling round to look behind them as best they could without turning their heads. In the surface of his drink, Pavo saw that Vitalianus was flanked by a skull-faced colleague and a pair of others.
‘Don’t make a scene,’ Vitalianus said. ‘Come, and we can talk somewhere quieter.’
Pavo noticed Sura, Eriulf and Saturninus jolt suddenly, and saw part-concealed flashes of silver blades, held tight to their spines by Vitalianus’ grunts. Likewise, a sharp pain in Pavo’s lower back sent a streak of cold through him.
The Blood Road (Legionary 7): Legionary, no. 7 Page 10
