An odd sound rose then – a buccina. Not a heraldic call but a military one. A call usually reserved for the mustering of legions. Had things gotten so bad in the Hippodrome that extra regiments were needed to calm affairs? Yet the sound was coming from the Julian Harbour, not the arena.
His thoughts were sent in every direction when a knife spun crazily towards his back but fell short, sparking against the stone walkway by one ankle, twirling up and grazing his leg.
‘Be wary – the Optio Speculatorum wants him alive,’ Skull-face hissed as that strange military horn sounded again. ‘He will tire soon and we will not.’
The man’s confident prediction sent the fear of the gods through Pavo. He would back himself to run faster and longer than most – his legionary training having hewn him into a net of muscle and sinew. But he was wearing heavy mail and the Speculatores were different – expert in every art. The rooftop walkway ended with a set of stony stairs, leading down into the huge, circular Forum of Constantine. Pavo took each flight with a vaulter’s leap, but still he could not shake his pursuers. He bowled into and through the crowds in the forum. They seemed to be in a panic about the ongoing and urgent wails of the buccina. It suited Pavo, for amidst the staggering, flustered crowds he had a better chance of losing his pursuers. He slipped in behind a hay wagon, ducked down and hurriedly stripped off his mail, stowing it on board the vehicle, then darted across to a pomegranate stall, lifting the draped pale-blue and white striped cloth around it and crouching underneath. Through a gap he watched the three pursuers spread into the forum crowds like fingers raking through hair, heads switching this way and that. He saw Skull-face’s lips move, speaking to the other two. We’ve lost him.
Pavo felt a cool wash of utter relief surge through his veins. By all the gods, I’ve done it… I’ve escaped them again. I’ve escap-
The striped cloth whooshed to one side, and a jug-eared Speculator glared in at him, grabbing his ankle. ‘Got him.’
Pavo’s body tensed up at once, kicking out. But the jug-eared one’s grip was vice-like. He heard the thud of more feet converging on the stall. ‘Hold him there,’ he heard Skull-face grunt.
‘Optio Speculatorum, we have him,’ another said.
‘Excellent,’ he heard Vitalianus reply, running closer.
No way out, Pavo realised. The wagon ride to Gratian was his fate now. The grim torture cellars and the long death.
Then, thunder. Hooves and grinding wheels. It rolled at a furious pace and for a moment, Pavo was convinced it was Vitalianus’ wagon and it was set to flatten the stall and him too. But, like a sudden storm, a blur of thrashing hooves and wheels sped over and across the jug-eared one who held his ankle. Jug-ears vanished in a burst of red. Pavo stared at the streak of blood and twisted flesh where the man had been, then heard a cry that set light to his heart.
‘Pavo, hurry!’ Sura roared.
Pavo ducked out from under the stall, pomegranates tumbling around him, bursting on the flagstones like dashed heads. He saw his primus pilus standing, feet set wide for balance on the driver’s berth of some ‘borrowed’ trade wagon, lashing a whip above the two galloping horses pulling it round in an arc to come past the stall again. Paces away from the stall either side were Skull-face, Vitalianus and four others. Pavo leapt clear of the grasping ham-like hands of Skull-face and grabbed onto the side of the wagon. They sped through the crowds – who dodged clear with screams, dropping baskets. As the strange buccina call continued to sound, Sura guided the wagon through the mighty arches framing the great forum’s eastern end, then sped up a tight lane towards the city’s northern wards.
Panting, Pavo hauled himself up and over the wagon side, falling into a mass of chickens – the birds seething at such indignity. In a puff of moulted feathers and a riot of clucking, he rose and clambered over into the driver’s berth beside Sura.
‘By Mithras’ hairy balls, I owe you a jug of wine,’ he gasped. Then a streak of cold horror hit him. ‘Eriulf, Saturninus?’
‘They escaped too,’ Sura said as he guided the wagon around a corner at reckless speed, the vehicle sliding and a chicken leaping free, clawing and flapping at the face of a local womaniser who had been close to charming a young lady. ‘I told them to head for the barracks. Once we’re back inside, then we’re safe too.’
They turned onto a long, wide street with a grand and ancient fountain at the far end, sporting a green statue of a trident-bearing Poseidon. The buccina wail sounded again. ‘What in the realm of Mithras is tha-’
Something whooshed past Pavo’s ear, between him and Sura. Both gawped at the arrow that quivered in the wooden lintel above a tavern door ahead, then looked back in unison at the two mounted Speculatores galloping – and gaining on them fast.
‘Sword?’ Pavo snapped.
Sura shoved something into his hand. Not a sword but a plank of wood with a handle – like a short oar.
‘What in Hades is this?’
‘It’s a chicken paddle,’ Sura said. ‘Back in Adrianople, the feathery bastards escaped their pens one year. The citizens needed a hero then, a man to guide the chickens back to their coops. That man was me. The Chicken Lord of Adrianople, they called me, and let me tell you...’
Pavo turned a deaf ear to Sura’s rambling, twisting just as one Speculator rode level, bow nocked once more, drawn and trained on him. Pavo held the paddle across his chest just as the man loosed. The shaft hammered into the stick, then Pavo grabbed the thin end like a club handle and swung it, hard. With a spang, the makeshift cudgel took the man square in the face. A stark snap of his nose exploding filled the street, along with a burst of blood that fell like mizzle in his slipstream. The western agent slid, dazed, from his horse, to land on his head, his neck snapping and his body rolling wildly through a mass of street side tables and chairs at one eatery. Through the blood mizzle the second agent came, dark hood and cloak billowing behind him as he lay low along the horse’s back and drew level with the rear of the wagon. Like a cat, he leapt into the vehicle, landing amongst the chickens. The vehicle bucked and swerved thanks to the sudden jolt of new weight, and the man was obscured by a fresh puff of feathers and a chorus of outraged clucking and shrieking.
Pavo was already braced, facing backwards with one foot on the driver’s berth, the other on the edge of the wagon, eyes scouring the feather cloud, paddle braced and ready to strike. The feathers settled. Nothing but chickens.
‘Pavo?’ Sura croaked. ‘Pavo!’
Pavo swung round, seeing the agent crawling into view from the side of the wagon where he had crept along the outside edge. He brought the paddle round with all his strength, only for the Speculator’s fist to hammer into his jaw. An explosion of white light filled his head and he tumbled back, into the chicken morass. The world became chaos, the wagon violently swerving, splinters of wood flying as it rattled and battered against street side objects, people screaming and the horses whinnying in panic. Pavo rolled to his feet and shook his head, seeing Sura and the agent locked in a brawl on the driver’s berth, the reins unmanned. The agent had Sura pinned, a serrated dagger at his chest. ‘A slow death for the tribunus, but a quick one for you,’ the man hissed, pushing the blade in. Pavo could not reach, not in time. He saw only one of Sura’s legs and the loose reins. In a single pulse of instinct, he lunged up and over the low wooden wall separating the wagon’s rear from the berth, and grabbed the two loose reins in one hand and Sura’s lower leg in the other, then fell back with all his weight. A pained whinnying split the air and the wagon came to a violent slowdown and then a halt, one wheel buckling and shredding. Pavo braced a foot against the inside of the wagon rear and held on as Sura’s weight tried to catapult them both forward from the vehicle. The effort nearly ripped his arm from his body. But it was worth it, especially when he saw the agent, unbraced, shoot ahead, still facing them, mouth agape, before the green trident of Poseidon exploded through his breast. The man shuddered violently and then sagged like a wet sheet, dangling at
shoulder height to the stunned people milling nearby.
Pavo grabbed the man’s dropped knife, clambered from the ruined wagon, helped Sura down and the pair barged on through the gathering crowds, shooting looks back down the street as the strange horns wailed again. No more in pursuit, Pavo realised.
‘Come on, until we are in the barracks we can’t be sure,’ Sura said.
They forged through the wide streets at the base of the second hill and across an open flagged way, the Neorion compound just an arrow shot ahead. ‘We’ve made it, Brother,’ Sura hissed through gritted teeth.
Pavo peered at the stony barrack house. ‘Then why… why are the gates open? Why are there no men on the walls?’
Herenus had been brutalised into telling the Speculatores where Pavo would be sitting in the arena. The Cretan had died a hero. No man could hold out against burning brands and flesh-cutting shears indefinitely. But where was the rest of the Claudia? Had they betrayed him? No, never. He knew it could not be. It simply could not happen.
Sura slowed and he did too, eyeing the open gates as if they were a bear’s jaws, peering inside but from here seeing just the deserted drill square. The legionary horns screamed once again from the docks way over on the city’s southern side, even more urgently this time. At just that moment, Vitalianus, Skull-face and the last two Speculatores hurtled into view from an adjacent street. The lead Speculator halted, eyes flicking to the barracks, then to Pavo and Sura, as if judging whether he could intercept them before they reached the safe haven. The man’s face melted into a beatific smile. ‘The kennel is deserted,’ he called across to Pavo. ‘Where will the dogs hide now?’
Vitalianus and his three men paced carefully across the open space towards their prey, spreading out to cut off the way to the many streets that led back into the city’s sprawling heart. The military horns pierced the air one again, and this time shouts and martial cries sailed across the city.
‘Sura, what in Hades is going on?’ Pavo hissed as they backstepped.
Sura shot a look over his shoulder, seeing the sea walls and the closed Neorion Harbour gates – devoid of sentries. They were being driven back against stone, and barring a handful of staring refugees, all eyes in this many-eyed city were absent. ‘I fear we may never find out.’
Skull-face drew his blade with a hiss. Vitalianus pulled on a pair of black gloves and drew out a coil of rope. The other pair brought a small axe and a blunt club from under their cloaks. A jangle and jostle of hooves and wheels sounded as the black Speculatores wagon that had been waiting outside the Hippodrome rolled up behind the four, a door swinging open in wait. The four agents crept to within twenty paces.
‘Sura, I love you. So listen to me,’ he said, taking the knife and giving it to his friend. ‘Stab me in the heart. Then cut your own neck. Death by our own hand would be a blessing compared to a torture in the hands of these creatures.’
‘Sir!’ a voice cried from behind and above. ‘We thought we would have to leave without you, but-’
Pavo and Sura twisted to look up. Rectus, the legion medicus stood up there on the harbour walls, his lantern-jaw falling agape when he saw the four Speculatores.
‘The Tribunus is in danger!’ Rectus roared over his shoulder, down into the Neorion wharf.
The four Speculatores halted. Pavo and Vitalianus’ eyes met. Then thunder exploded through the harbour gates. They crashed open and a bevy of Claudia men spilled inside, clad in helms and mail, clutching shields and spears. It took a heartbeat for the foremost – Libo, Cornix and Trupo – to see what was happening and lunge forth to hurl their lances at the black-cloaked four. Two fell, broken. Vitalianus and Skull-face scrambled back, piling into their wagon and bawling at the hooded driver, who took them away at a frantic gallop.
Pavo gazed at the departing wagon, then turned to his men, in full battle-dress, having abandoned their barrack compound. ‘What in the name of the arse of every god that ever lived is going on?’
Libo’s good eye bulged madly. ‘The peace envoy – the messenger who was sent to bring Fritigern to the table for talks?’
Pavo nodded. ‘Dignus?’
‘Well he’s no doubt horse food by now, and whatever he said didn’t work. Because Fritigern’s horde is right now at the walls of Thessalonica. The place has been under assault for seven days already. The Classis Moesica is moored in the city’s harbour – midway through its latest voyage to get grain and bring it back here. They knew it would be there and they mean to raze the city and take the fleet for themselves. It was only this morning while you were away that a skiff made it here to raise the alarm. Every legion in the city has been mobilised. We’re ready to set sail, now!’
Pavo’s skin crawled. The hopes of peace lay broken like clay. If Thessalonica fell it would be a hammer-blow, a guarantee of famine. He looked around the faces of his men – many of whom had family in that coastal city.
His eyes flickered this way and that. ‘Give me a sword. Give me a damned sword,’ he roared.
Chapter 6
The legions of the West were hailed like marching gods as they trooped eastwards. Having trekked across the Diocese of Dacia, they spilled into the neighbouring and war-torn Diocese of Thracia and encountered a storm of petals tossed down from the turreted walls of Sardica. Here, people ran from the city to hem the edges of the Via Militaris in great throngs, screaming feverish acclamations, men on their knees and weeping with joy, women pressing charms and packages of food and wine into the hands of the grateful soldiers, some bearing their breasts at the marching men. Children play-fought with wooden sticks, dogs yapping and running around them. Salvation had come to this riven land, at long, long last.
When the city fell into the horizon behind them, the songs of acclaim fell away too. Now there was just the shrill cicada song and the low, constant rumble of boots and hooves. All eyes watched the golden, undulating countryside ahead – heat-warped, still and… deserted? Fritigern the Goth and his great horde were camped but days from here. Every single man in the column now began to contemplate what lay ahead, the dizzy grins and heady confidence beginning to harden and shrivel. When a small band of riders appeared in the haze of the eastern horizon and sped towards the column, voices rose in alarm. Gratian’s purple banner rose and the march halted sharply. A slow and instinctive shush of armour sounded, all along the huge column as almost every man braced and gripped his spear a little tighter, waiting for the order to form battle lines.
‘It is the Magister Militum and his outriders,’ those nearest the front whispered, spreading the news back. All eyes watched as the riders slowed to a trot and halted before Emperor Gratian to report their findings.
Gratian beheld General Merobaudes, leader of the outriders. ‘I came here to crush the barbarians – to surround and trample their camp.’ His eyes slipped past Merobaudes’ shoulder and on down the Via Militaris where several days’ march ahead his Gothic quarry was supposed to lie, indolent in their great camp. ‘Now you tell me they are no longer there? How can a horde vanish?’ he said through a cage of teeth.
‘If none who see them move are allowed to live, Domine,’ Merobaudes said, his thin hair plastered to his scarred face with the sweat of his frantic ride. ‘But one man did.’
A ragged wretch slid from the back of Merobaudes’ horse and fell to his knees, shaking.
‘We found him wandering, south of the abandoned camp.’
Gratian stared down his nose at the beggar. ‘Speak.’
The man looked up, meek and cowering. ‘The horde moved some time ago. They poured south into Macedonia, and to the walls of Thessalonica. I saw them coming just as I was leaving the city – they fell upon it like an iron claw. Pity the people inside, for those walls will not hold for long.’
Gratian looked at Merobaudes. ‘And Theodosius? Where are his legions? He was supposed to be awaiting my outriders, and my orders for his brigades to support this army. That was the plan.’
‘He most probably still awai
ts your riders, Domine. It seems that no messengers have managed to escape Thessalonica to alert him of the horde’s movement.
‘The horde blockades the landward approaches,’ the kneeling wretch explained. ‘The marines and crews of the fleet are pinned on the walls – the fray upon those battlements is incessant. Only a small skiff managed to launch and head northeast – but that was days ago.’
Bishop Ambrosius leaned a little closer to him. ‘The Goths present their backs to the countryside at Thessalonica. Your underling, Theodosius, sits in dim-witted ignorance in his capital. The East cries out for a saviour now more than ever, Domine. God has been gracious in affording you this opportunity.’
Gratian wriggled in his saddle and clasped his hands across his belly. ‘Ha!’ he barked, then laughed breezily, flicking a finger to the crossroads that lay ahead: an older highway striking across the Via Militaris, leading south and into Macedonia. ‘South it is. But I am in no rush. I want the people of Thessalonica to appreciate their salvation. A man hooked from the sea too quickly might not value his rescue. Best to let him swallow a bellyful of brine first.’
Merobaudes’ expression curdled. ‘Domine, Thessalonica has but the thinnest of garrisons. The Classis Moesica is moored there too, along with the coming winter’s grain supply. If the city falls, so too does the fleet, and famine will befall the other cities that we can still call our own in this land.’
‘Yes, General, it will be a hard fight ahead. But I will have to choose my tactics carefully.’
Merobaudes’ lips quirked balefully. ‘When your father was emperor, he stood beside me in many battles. In the very thick of the fray. Perhaps when we reach Thessalonica, it will the time for you, Domine, saviour of the East, to do likewise?’ The big Frankish general glared at him. Even Arbogastes, the wigged shadow, dared to mimic his superior’s look.
The Blood Road (Legionary 7): Legionary, no. 7 Page 12
