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

by Gordon Doherty

  But Indus, marching right in front of Pavo, tripped on a cracked flagstone. The young Rhodian flailed and fell to one knee. A streak of alarm sped through Pavo as he heard a murmur of interest and sensed many heads twitching round to see what had happened. Pavo squatted on one leg to hook both hands under the armpits of the fallen legionary, hoisting him up. Onwards, he willed himself, picking up the pace again. But a hand shot out, across his chest, barring his way into the city.

  The rank Pavo was in halted, those behind bunching up too. Pavo tilted his head towards the hand, then looked up along the arm, not letting the brow of his helm rise too much. His gaze came to rest on a red-moustachioed, pale-faced Herul. An officer. The Tribunus, no less. Lanzo, the leader of Gratian’s closest legion, he realised with horror. The man stared at him, his eyes gradually narrowing. Pavo made sure to look disinterested and dull-headed. Lanzo’s other hand reached out, offering Pavo something: a small pugio dagger.

  ‘Sir?’ Pavo rumbled in his best attempt at a crude northern accent. He could hear the blood crashing in his ears and was certain every other near him could too.

  ‘Your comrade who stumbled, he dropped this,’ Lanzo said, eyes still combing Pavo’s face, searching the thin band of shade under the brow where his unbandaged eye hid. ‘Keep moving,’ Lanzo finished. Pavo took the dagger and on they went, a shaky, cold relief washing through his veins.

  ‘They’re everywhere,’ Sura hissed as they marched down past the rotunda, glancing up at the men posted on the rooftops and street sides. ‘Heruli, Alani… and those bastards in black cloaks. I didn’t realise there were so many Speculatores.’

  Pavo shook his head almost imperceptibly, remembering the few things Scapula had shared with him. ‘There are maybe only two hundred of them. But they school boys in their arts. When one falls, another rises, charged with the vengeance of his predecessor’s death.’

  They spilled onto the agora square – now polished clean of blood and gleaming white. The edges were packed with citizens enjoying meat and wine, the square itself subdivided into legionary blocks. The Lancearii, the Gemina, the Claudia and the Flavia Felix sections were somewhat ragged, square at the front but uneven and of different sizes towards the rear, the gaping spaces due to their telling losses. There were bare heads where men had lost their helms and bandaged heads and listing men on crutches too. Some men had mismatching tunics, badly-repaired or no armour. The banners had been scrubbed of battle-filth but looked pale and frayed for it. Then there were the strange and ancient regiments of the West, replete and striking, each block a sea of gleaming iron helms and plumes, shields bright and unscratched, adorned with emblems of leaping golden hounds, blazing suns and writhing serpents: the Celtae, the Petulantes, the XIII Augusta, the I Noricorum. The I, II and III Julia Alpina, guardian legions of the Alpes Mountains. Two wings of elite Scholae cavalry, the silver-shielded Gentiles and the white-plated Armatura, sat astride their mounts in perfect diamond formations. There were auxiliary cohorts of javelin-throwers too, and scale-helmed sagittarii archers in long red cloaks. Slinger bands. Mercenary Moorish horsemen. Artillery crews. Everything. Bright and fresh, unsullied as once the Army of the East had been.

  Until you sealed their fate, Pavo seethed within, spotting the small figures on the odeum dais, then glaring at the younger of the two seated emperors.

  ‘Three years too bloody late,’ Cornix hissed.

  ‘Enough,’ Pavo snapped at him. ‘Think what you wish, but say nothing.’ He felt the shape of the pugio – tucked into his belt – pressing into his side. ‘And here,’ he said, nudging Sura, ‘pass this along to Indus.’

  Cornua blared over the square and all fell silent. Every pair of eyes rested on the twin emperors. Pavo now glared at Theodosius: why did you reject Libo’s plea for help? The Claudia men are your allies. Gratian is our common enemy.

  Gratian rose first, his silk gown trailing in his wake as he paced to the edge of the dais, the light catching on his jewelled diadem. ‘Citizens of the Empire,’ he cried, his voice still edged with a youthful screech. ‘You have been delivered from tyranny, freed from despair, released from the stranglehold of the Goths.’ Theodosius shuffled in his throne, stung by the ignominy of it all. ‘It was a day of great triumph, when the eagles from the heart of the empire – the ancient, beating heart – glided over the horizon to chase the Goths away. God shines a golden light on his champions today,’ he boomed, pointing to his own legions, gleaming in the sun.

  As the spiky rhetoric continued, Pavo’s uncovered eye drifted over each emperor’s retinue: Bacurius and Modares stood near Theodosius; behind Gratian’s throne stood Merobaudes, the big Frank who had helped win the Battle of Sirmium the year before, along with another of non-Roman stock who wore an ill-fitting, braided hairpiece. Bishop Ambrosius stood with them but strangely apart, drumming his fingertips together lightly and moving his lips in time with the young emperor’s speech.

  Just then, Sura nudged his shoulder, handing him the pugio back. ‘Indus says it’s not his,’ Sura whispered, shrugging.

  ‘Then why-’ Pavo started, but fell silent when he noticed a shadowy shape drifting around the serried blocks of soldiers, in the narrow corridors of space between each regiment like a shark’s fin. Skull-face, hands clasped behind his back, eyes appraising each and every soldier he passed. Nearby, Vitalianus did likewise. Pavo felt that crashing blood in his ears again.

  A change of voice from the dais stole his attentions back to the spectacle. Gratian was seated and now Theodosius addressed the crowd. ‘The blood spilled in these streets stains my soul,’ he said in a sombre and far-more penitent tone that Gratian. ‘But the Lord of the West is correct: without his legions, this city would be ashes and the rest of the East would now be facing starvation.’ He turned away from the crowd and towards Gratian, dipping to one knee. ‘You have the gratitude of the East, Domine.’

  Pavo’s heart sank like a stone as Theodosius took Gratian’s hand – the hand of the man who had executed his father – and kissed the golden rings encrusting his fingers. Had the balance swung so severely that Gratian’s enemies now chose to cower before him and bear their indignities in silence?

  ‘There are others too, without whom we might have lost this great city. One man acted swiftly and wisely not only to ensure the fleet was kept from enemy hands, but also to lay waste to the contingent of barbarians who sought to seize the wharf and butcher our citizens there. Comes Eriulf, of the Thraciana Auxiliary Cohort, come before your emperor.’

  From the side of the dais, Eriulf stepped up, his topknot fashioned in those distinctive resin-stiffened spikes and his steel cuirass polished to a blinding sheen. He looked struck with unease as he stepped towards Theodosius. The crowds fell deathly silent. Pavo sensed a collective intake of breath. For a moment, he thought they might explode in a storm of resentment: Goths were Goths, in the eyes of many. But after a tense moment, they erupted in a riotous cheering, hands rising, waving and punching the air madly like a wheat field in a choppy storm. Perfectly-timed, women tossed down bright ribbons from the curved wall at the top of the odeum, and they floated down onto the dais, lining the marble and the space between Eriulf and Theodosius as the Gothic Comes approached his emperor.

  Eriulf, as tall as Theodosius, came to within a few paces of the Emperor of the East and stopped. He knew it was befitting of a subject to genuflect or even drop prone before his emperor. No part of him wanted to. In his heart, every ghost of his dead and exiled people cried aloud for vengeance. Only once before, during the triumphal adventus of Theodosius’ first entry into Constantinople, had he been so close to the Emperor of the East, riding in the imperial chariot along the main way through cheering crowds. But that had been before he had awakened to the truth.

  The Wodin-chosen will slay the emperor’s spawn. The time of the Vesi draws closer, Runa’s spirit urged him. The Vesi strike hard, and at the highest of men.

  Theodosius’ warm expression altered. Had the emperor heard the gh
ostly whispers? No, he realised: the emperor, like the now-silent crowd, were merely expecting him to behave as a subject should. To kneel. He almost felt the fiery talons of his dead sister’s wrath. Bend your knee to this man? One of the two horns upon which our people were ravaged?

  He could not refute his sister’s argument. Theodosius was the man who had invited his and Runa’s tribe into Roman lands on the promise of good farming lands in Thracia and Macedonia – similar in climate and terrain to their ancestral homes north of the Danubius – in exchange for military service. In fact, they had arrived in Roman lands only to be treated like cattle, most shipped off to Egypt, men of fighting age separated from their families. Tribunus Pavo had assured him it was the now-dead General Julius, Butcher of Chalcedon, who had been behind such treatment, but that only lowered his respect for Theodosius even further – to allow a wayward underling to commit such atrocious crimes. Then the Christian diatribes and those wretched Inquisitors had ground the last crumbs of esteem into dust.

  For the glory of Wodin, tear that knife from under your cuirass and plant it in his neck! Runa screamed, the memory of her beautiful face warping, her soft skin streaked by the red paint of the Vesi, her pale beauty ruined by frothing anger. For just a moment, his hand twitched. The Inquisitors were too far away to intervene. It could happen. Here… now.

  A notch of confusion appeared between Theodosius’ eyebrows.

  Eriulf’s arm shot out… and he took the emperor’s hand, falling to one knee, kissing Theodosius’ gem-studded rings as he had seen Theodosius do to Gratian. ‘Domine, I serve you now, always…’

  The crowd gushed with a tumultuous round of cheering and applause and a fresh, thicker fall of petals and ribbons drifted down.

  Runa’s wrath was like an earth tremor in his heart and mind, but he steeled himself against it, dipping his head in full deference to Emperor Theodosius. You do not understand, Sister. I might slay this man here today, but the horns are a pair, as you said yourself, he rolled his eyes sideways to glare at Gratian, and a new one would simply sprout in its place. The way of the Vesi must change. Brave and reckless attempts on the ‘highest of men’ might fire the blood and cause shock amongst the Romans, but it will never bring about the change of order you sought. Instead the very spine of the empire itself must be shattered – the legions! I realised this during the struggle for this city: when I had my men allow the Gothic warbands in to seize the wharf, when we stole through the city to sabotage the land gates and deny the legions fighting on the earth wall a means of retreat. It is a way which requires patience, and sacrifice: when I turned the fleet’s artillery upon men of our blood, it was like taking a hot knife across my soul, but it had to be that way. The chance to ruin the Eastern regiments slipped away as soon as Gratian appeared on the horizon. Equally, those tribesmen at the wharf were doomed the moment Fritigern retreated. Had I not bombarded the wharf men, I would right now be in disgrace… in chains, even! Their deaths allowed me this praise, this trust… the chance to stay in the emperor’s thoughts, for when the time comes once again to smash the empire’s steely spine… and come it will.

  Eriulf shuddered as he felt a cold touch of metal around his neck. For an instant, he again thought his inner words had been heard by all. But the metal was not sharp. It was heavy, and all-encircling.

  ‘Rise, Eriulf Torquatus,’ said Theodosius.

  Eriulf did as he was bid, slowly, reaching up to feel the thick, soft sheen of the golden band around his neck and understanding the honourific title the emperor had added to his name. The torque was etched with fine detail. Wolves, lions… and a Christian Chi-Rho, he detected through his fingertips. He smiled beatifically, whispering an inwards oath to Wodin.

  ‘I hereby bestow upon you the exalted rank of Domesticus, brave and loyal protector of the emperor.’

  The crowds gasped in delight and amazement. It was a rare accolade, and the title towered high over his acting rank of Comes of an Auxiliary Cohort.

  You see, Runa? he thought as silvery threads of exhilaration sped through his veins. The shrewd path is the worthy one. The way of the Vesi is not mindless vendetta; it was always about the aspiration – for an empire of our kin, with Gothic masters and Roman slaves. I am more powerful now than any Vesi has ever been. Yes, I tried and failed to engineer the fall of this city and the collapse of the East. Now, I will have my pick of opportunities to put that right.

  Cornua blared in triumph, hailing Eriulf’s accolade. Theodosius gestured for him not to retreat down from the stage, but to stand beside Bacurius and Modares, two of his most trusted men, as part of his sacred council.

  Pavo glowed within as he watched Eriulf. The man cared little for material wealth, but this would make him a rich man in many ways. A wing within Constantinople’s Imperial Palace might now be his. Such trust and recognition surely would be some form of relief for the man’s tortured heart.

  ‘Head down!’ Sura hissed by his side.

  ‘Eh?’ Pavo whispered, then saw why. In the block to the right of the Claudia, one Gemina legionary’s neck stretched like a giraffe’s and his gormless face creased like a man gazing into a dark hole… peering over in their direction.

  ‘Dulcitius,’ Sura rumbled. ‘I only owe him a bloody follis. A single, bloody, bronze follis!’

  Then from the dais, Theodosius began a eulogy of sorts, honouring the dead. ‘The fallen men must never be forgotten. The legions of the East are few, and all of the dead are heroes. Tribunus Viator of the Flavia Felix, in his twentieth year of service, stood in many battles throughout this Gothic War, and…’

  Pavo glanced to his right again, seeing the neatly-ordered iron square of the Gemina ripple like a still pond disrupted by a tadpole swimming just below the surface. Dulcitius! he realised, seeing the oaf shift and barge his way through towards the near edge of his regiment.

  ‘Decurion Glycia, of the Scutarii riders,’ Theodosius continued.

  ‘Psst!’ Dulcitius hissed when he reached the edge of the Gemina men.

  Pavo looked up, met his eyes for a flash then looked away.

  ‘You,’ Dulcitius persisted, whispering over to the man on the edge of the adjacent Claudia rank. ‘Who’s that, seven files in?’

  ‘Shit,’ Sura cursed, counting and realising Dulcitius’ suspicions were on the mark.

  ‘Tribunus Pavo of the XI Claudia…’ Theodosius continued.

  Dulcitius’ neck stretched a little more, and his eyes bulged. ‘Eh? Hold on, he’s not dead.’

  Theodosius halted at the interruption. Many heads twisted in the direction of Dulcitius, who shrivelled back like a hair from a flame. ‘He’s right there in rank,’ he warbled sheepishly.

  Pavo felt a wintry dread settle upon his shoulders as every single head on the square and lining it swung round to stare at them.

  Theodosius faltered. ‘I don’t understand.’

  Gratian – slumped and bored until now – rose in his seat like a cat spotting movement in the grass.

  Pavo scoured the agora with his peripheral vision. Heruli everywhere. Alani everywhere else. Walls of people in every direction. Not even the fastest runner or the most cunning conjurer could escape this one. Even Sura failed to drum up some highly-unlikely tale about his aptitude for slipping out of these situations along with a ridiculous moniker such as ‘the Eel of Adrianople’.

  ‘Ah!’ a familiar voice sounded. ‘I think what we have here is a case of a wounded man mistaken for dead.’

  Pavo turned to see Vitalianus edging his way through the Claudia ranks like a long-lost friend, his face bright. He came over to pat Pavo on the back with a black-gloved hand – a warm gesture that turned into an expertly-disguised, vice-like grip around his shoulders. ‘Comrade!’ he boomed for all to hear, ushering him on and out into the narrow lane of space between the Claudia and the Gemina. ‘It seems our hero only woke from a stupor this morning,’ he called up to the dais, guiding Pavo that way.

  Gratian rested one elbow on his throne and
leaned forward now, his lips quirked and his shoulders shook with a dry laugh.

  ‘He was too groggy to lead the legion, so had another man take his place for this day. Isn’t that right?’

  Theodosius’ brow furrowed as he watched Vitalianus guide Pavo through the foremost Western legions and over to the dais steps. Gratian rose as if to greet him. Pavo recalled the fear of facing battle for the first time: alongside Centurion Brutus during a Gothic farm raid near Durostorum – the white-hot and winter-cold claws that ripped at his belly and the spiky poison that raced around his body, making every part of him shiver; the sudden press upon the bladder and drying of the mouth. It had lessened over the years. Today, it returned with the potency of a wild horse.

  ‘Tribunus Pavo?’ Theodosius said, still befuddled.

  ‘Tribunus Pavo!’ Gratian cried, throwing out his arms.

  Pavo stood stock-still before the Western Emperor. Vitalianus stepped back, having neither disarmed him or searched him. He felt the weight of his spatha pull on his shoulder, felt his sword hand tremble, felt the pugio in his belt. Alani equipped with bows stood on the high wall behind the odeum where the petal-throwers had been. Heruli lined Gratian’s half of the dais. But all he needed was the time to tear his blade free and thrust it forward into this bastard’s unarmed chest. He saw in his mind’s eye the faces of Gallus, Zosimus, Quadratus, Felix, Felicia and so many more. It was like a cauldron of hatred rising to the boil. At that moment, somehow, he noticed something else: near the back of the dais, Eriulf was staring intently at him, at his twitching hand. It was the gaze of a man who knows – to his core – what he sees in another man’s heart. It was enough to break Pavo’s train of thought.