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

by Gordon Doherty

  ‘Take out your sword,’ Gratian whispered, his lips barely moving. ‘Strike at me. I dare you.’

  The icy words splashed on the fiery storm in Pavo’s heart. He saw now that the Alani bows were already nocked, that the Heruli were watching carefully. It was a half-chance and no more, and if he took it and failed, it would give Gratian a perfect excuse for a public and irrefutable shaming of the legion.

  ‘Decimation always seemed too lenient for me,’ Gratian whispered, reading his thoughts. ‘The bludgeoning of only one man in ten – that is hardly a punishment.’

  Pavo took the deepest of breaths and swallowed his feelings. ‘Spare the legion and I will submit to you.’

  ‘Show me, Tribunus. Show me how sincere you are.’ He held out his ring-encrusted hand.

  Pavo felt his stomach tighten like in those moments when he had drunk Libo’s feet-wine. ‘Domine,’ he said for the crowd and knelt before Gratian. ‘It is an honour to be in your presence for the first time… since your brilliant victory at the Battle of Sirmium.’ He took and kissed Gratian’s soft hand. It was like swallowing the bitterest of poisons.

  ‘Indeed,’ Gratian said for all to hear. ‘It was all so rushed and chaotic after that clash. I would have honoured you then, but I can do so now.’ He clicked his fingers, and one Alani came across from the rear of the dais, carrying a torque like that awarded to Eriulf. Gratian slid the piece around his neck. The closeness of the young man’s hands, of cold metal around his throat, was nightmarish.

  ‘Tribunus Pavo may be an officer of the East, but I wish to revere him for his deeds in battle. You are now a Domesticus of mine. Whenever your duties take you into my realm, you are welcome in my court,’ Gratian explained in the most earnest tone. ‘Now rise, Pavo Torquatus,’ he proclaimed as the crowd erupted in joy – amazed at the apparent resurrection of a hero most had thought dead.

  ‘Most generous, Domine,’ Pavo said. He made to back away towards the steps, only to bump into a figure behind. Vitalianus.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Gratian laughed. ‘Not back to your ranks, surely? As an honoured man, I insist that you spend this coming night in my lodgings here, with my council.’ His face fell like a banner sagging at a sudden dropping of the wind, taking half a step back and looking over Pavo’s torso as if it was hanging in ribbons. ‘And my Medicus Ordinarius will have to look at the wound that caused you to lie unconscious in the days since the struggle for this city.’

  The crowds and the legions cheered in encouragement.

  ‘Drink enough wine to float a galley!’ one yelled.

  ‘Goose and dates for you!’ they cried, oblivious to the truth. Only the Claudia remained silent.

  Gratian turned Pavo towards the crowd, raising a hand of salute, half-smiling. As the masses cheered, he heard the Western Emperor whisper again. ‘I have a feeling that your ‘wound’ will be troublesome… and that the treatment will be painful.’

  With that vice-like grip again, Vitalianus guided Pavo to the back of the dais, beside Gratian’s generals. Only Merobaudes spared him a look. It was a mournful glance that said a thousand words, for the general knew full well what fate lay in store for Pavo. Stealthy as a cobra, Skull-face – who had picked his way onto the stage and round behind the group, took Pavo’s spatha from its scabbard and the pugio from his belt in such a way that none of the crowd noticed. Nor did any hear the Speculator grunt in his ear with a waft of breath that reeked of boiled onions: ‘You didn’t really think you could run from us forever, did you?’

  He felt the cold edge of a knife pressing against his lower back – just like that day at the Hippodrome.

  ‘Now,’ Gratian boomed to the crowd, his back turned to Pavo. ‘The matter of the rampaging Goths. They rampage no more – did you not see how they fled at the mere sound of my horns? The war is turning,’ he cried, whipping the crowds into a fervour.

  Pavo thought of every turn and twist of the Gothic War, every siege, skirmish and colossal clash during those five years. Gratian had played no part in it – until now. Yet here he was proclaiming himself the architect of victory – a victory that hadn’t even been won. Worse, his many crimes would go unpunished and be forgotten. The many dead in the fields of Adrianople would go unavenged.

  ‘My legions will set out tomorrow for the north. Scouts have been following the horde’s movements, and relaying their position back to me. They are on a leash now. As for the legions of the East, they will re-garrison this city or return to their bases in Constantinople and around the Thracian approaches to the capital.’

  Pavo hoisted his head up as if it was a lead weight, and sought out the eyes of his Claudia brothers, near the back of the agora. Fittingly, the piled white clouds of earlier had spread and darkened and now a murky grey sky loomed over Thessalonica. He met the gaze of Sura one last time. So pleased were the Speculatores at catching Pavo, his oldest friend had been spared, it seemed. Spared or missed. Either way it was a small mercy. He looked to the silver eagle and the proud, war-frayed ruby bull banner hanging from its crossbar, and fondly beheld the veterans serried under it. Fare well, Brothers. Drink for me in the taverns. Laugh for me around the fires. Serve well and stay strong.

  ‘I would request, however…’ Gratian continued.

  Pavo’s ears pricked up and a horrible sense of realisation crept over him. He saw Gratian half-turn his head towards Theodosius. The grey skies grumbled as distant thunder rolled across the sea – now disturbed and choppy.

  ‘…that the Claudia come with me.’ His eyes rolled back a little, glorying in Pavo’s reaction. ‘They are strong and valiant – and they know Thracia better than any other legion. Is that not true, Tribunus Pavo?’ he said, now cocking his head round to look Pavo square on.

  Skull-face’s knife jerked, prompting Pavo. But Pavo gave only a half grunt by way of reply: ‘You treacherous cur!’

  Nobody heard, and Gratian was quick to ‘repeat’ what Pavo had said for the benefit of the crowd. ‘Of course they are!’ he cried, extending his arms, just as the wind picked up into a gale. ‘So it shall be,’ he proclaimed, going on to conjure the crowds into greater heights of passion with tales of how nobly this war would be won. When the self-panegyric ended, the legions were dismissed, peeling away back up the triumphal avenue towards the city gates and the crescent camp outside. For the citizens, slaves brought out fresh vases of wine and more spitted boar. The people roared in gratitude and the celebrations continued.

  Gratian watched them for a time from the odeum stage, then swung to his consistorium, Pavo amongst them. ‘Now, shall we retire to my quarters?’

  Chapter 9

  Arbogastes closed his eyes and thought of his youth outwith the empire, in the wild lands of the Frankish tribes, when he was young and did not have to wear this treacherous wig. There were myriad memories in those dark corners of his mind, but some stood out like beacons. There was the spring evening he had held his baby brother in his arms for the first time. The cold winter’s morning he had buried his father. The day he had first killed another man. He thought of the time a Frankish chieftain had come to his family home, a low longhouse of mud and brush. The chieftain had been overly-familiar with his mother and abrupt with him.

  ‘Cynebald is not good enough for you,’ the chieftain laughed as Mother had quietly skinned a hare in the corner. ‘He is poor and now so are you. Worse, when he has a sword in his hand, he rabble-rouses. Convinces men – my men – that he could lead them better. Into poverty, perhaps.’ The chieftain roared with laughter.

  He had tossed a thick golden circlet down upon the floor. ‘There! A taste of what you could have. All you need to do is taint his food with poison. Or smother him while he sleeps. None of my men must know I was behind it, you see.’

  Mother had continued to skin the hare, impassive.

  The chieftain had stared at her for a time, then left with a parting burr: ‘See that it is done by the new moon, or the next time I come to visit, I will bring a gift of sharpen
ed iron instead of gold.’

  Arbogates had crept over to the left-behind circlet, reaching out, the golden aura entrancing him. But Mother had snatched it before he could touch it, then marched him outside. She made him dig a hole in the mud by their chicken coop and bury the treasure. ‘Treasures like this are worthless, my boy,’ she had said, placing a hand over his heart. ‘The true riches lie within: loyalty to one’s kin is more golden than gold, love like molten silver, courage to stand up to bullies like gemstones. Honour has no price.’

  The fire guttered and roared in time with a sudden gust of wind outside, rattling the shutters of the high palace on Thessalonica’s imperial hill, scattering the memories of youth. Arbogastes opened his eyes and lifted his head, the coppery braids of his wig toppling down behind his shoulders. On the table before him sat a set of scales. He stared at them as if each cup was an eye socket in a demon’s skull. Every gust of night wind outside caused the scales to tremble, and Arbogastes’ nerve to shudder too. Gratian, sitting across from him, stripped a garum-soaked pigeon leg of its meat, then tossed the tiny bone into one cup of the scales. The scales wavered but remained in equilibrium.

  ‘Balance is like a delicate, well-kept secret,’ Gratian said through a full mouth, dabbing his lips with a linen cloth. ‘For a fighter, a rider, a rope-walker… a leader. And I have noticed a shift in the balance of recent times…’

  ‘How so, Domine?’ Arbogastes asked, his unease growing.

  Gratian picked meat from his teeth with a splinter of wood, and lifted gold coins from a small plate. ‘For some time, I could count upon a good number of generals and legionary tribuni, to be my eyes and ears. There were enough, you see, to watch those who are… less loyal.’

  Arbogastes glanced furtively at the fang ring on Gratian’s finger. He had witnessed a few of the dozens who had died on the sharp tip – compelled to do so by their own hand. More, he was acutely aware of the Molossian hound – as big as a pony – asleep at the emperor’s feet. Worst of all, he could not help but think of General Flamma: Flamma had been a friend of his, until a year ago, he had vanished. High-ranking and a trusted man of Merobaudes, not a trace of him was ever seen again. But there was a slave… a slave who found something the very next day in Gratian’s palace chambers: a human heart, resting in a set of scales.

  ‘But now, I feel that balance has tipped,’ Said Gratian, flicking a coin with his thumb.

  Arbogastes watched as it flipped round and round then clattered into one of the scales’ cups. The cup tilted down onto the tabletop with a gentle clunk. His eye grew wide as moons. ‘Domine, you need not be concerned about my loyalty. I serve you, I serve the West, I…’

  Gratian laughed and rocked back on his chair, petting the slumbering hound. ‘You misunderstand, I am not threatening you, General. I am offering you a chance – a chance of better things.’

  ‘Domine?’ Arbogastes said, his weathered, pale features wrinkling.

  ‘You cling to Merobaudes’ side like a limpet,’ Gratian explained, eyes hooded and untouched by his smile. He flicked a dismissive hand over Arbogastes, gesturing at his frayed, lozenge-patterned trousers and rank-quality scale vest. ‘You have seen over forty summers, yet you exist only in his shadow. You are not truly a man in your own right. Yet you are the nephew of Richomeres,’ Gratian threw out a hand as if casting the remaining coins to a crowd. ‘One of the West’s most famous generals… and yet,’ he reached forward to take the short sleeve of Arbogastes’ scale vest between thumb and forefinger, before pinging it away with a disappointed sigh. ‘What have you got to show for your efforts? For the many times you have raced into battle. Scars, certainly,’ he chuckled.

  ‘Honour,’ Arbogastes replied with an edge of steel, his honey-gold irises swelling as his pupils closed to pin-pricks, like a hunter readying to pounce.

  ‘Now that’s more like it,’ Gratian purred. ‘I measure a man by the things that rile him. You weather much indignity, Arbogastes, and for a time I thought you were meek, or foolish. Ask any citizen of the West to name the great Frankish General and do you know what they will answer? Do you?’ Gratian craned forward. ‘Merobaudes is the champion of the armies. People laud him for battles and even campaigns that I know you have won. That must burn inside you like a brand.’

  ‘Merobaudes deserves most of the accolades he receives,’ Arbogastes snapped.

  ‘Most? Not all, only… most?’ said Gratian, clapping his hands together once in satisfaction. The humour faded almost instantly. ‘Well, you clearly believed in his cause when you sided with him, years ago – when my father died and you and he supported young Valentinian’s case to be emperor instead of me?’

  Arbogastes stiffened, seeing the hard glares of the two Alani standing either side of the hearth harden further. The dog’s belly rumbled and he glanced down, a film of sweat suddenly breaking out over his face. ‘I never claimed that you should not be emperor, Domine. Only that Valentinian would be a strong deputy.’

  ‘Strong? He is not strong. Valentinian is a thewless flower,’ Gratian cooed, making a cage of his fingers then bringing them to his lips. ‘And what better claimant to the Western throne than one who is weak and easily manipulated?’

  Arbogastes said nothing.

  ‘Merobaudes has that market sewn up already. He throws himself in front of the boy at every opportunity and the lad considers him as his guardian. Yet again, you are in the shadow of it all.’

  ‘What are you asking me, Domine?’

  A dull rumble of footsteps and voices sounded outside, then the thick clunk and creak of a door opening downstairs drew the attention of them both for a moment. The hunting hound woke, nose high, ears stiff, the iron spikes on its collar glinting in the firelight. Arbogastes shuffled back in fright.

  ‘Easy, boy,’ Gratian said, patting the dog’s huge neck. ‘When my father died, men were quick to stake their claims and cluster under their favoured banners. Partisans, all of them – some generals in full support of me,’ he tossed a coin in the lighter side of the scales, giving them momentary balance, ‘and some in favour of the whelp, Valentinian.’ He tossed a coin in the other side, returning that cup to the table’s surface. ‘As I say, in recent times the pup’s champions have begun to outnumber my own.’

  ‘So you are asking me to renounce Merobaudes? Why would I? Will you make me a Magister Militum, his equal?’

  ‘No, I am asking you to remain in his shadow. Until the time comes…’

  ‘The time comes for what?’ Arbogastes spluttered, then his eyes grew wide as plates. ‘Is this a joke?’

  ‘How much gold and silver would you like?’

  Arbogastes rocked back. ‘Honour has no price,’ he mouthed, seeing his mother’s face in his mind’s eye, her lips moving in time with his words, a single tear darting down her cheek.

  ‘A wagon-load? Enough to make one hundred men obscenely wealthy?’ Gratian mused.

  Arbogastes’ tongue flicked over his lips. From the dark caverns of memory, he heard the scrape-scrape of a shovel. He hesitated for the briefest moment, then rose from his seat. ‘I must end this discussion now, Domine, I canno-’

  ‘An estate, a governorship… a fleet and a trade business.’ He flicked a hand towards Arbogastes wig. ‘A legion of bare-breasted women to massage oil into your hairless scalp.’ He laughed, then leant forward just a fraction, his eyes growing hooded and his voice dropping. ‘And in good time, a title: Magister Militum. All yours. You need do nothing now. Maybe not even for years. All you have to do is agree.’

  Arbogastes stared at his emperor. An age passed. He recalled the weight and feel of the golden circlet in his boyish hands as he lifted it from the excavated pit. So smooth. The lustre was still magical, despite the dirt clinging to it. It had charmed him into that first kill, when he had slain his father in his sleep and buried him the next day. Honour has no price, he heard his mother say once more. Oh but it does, Mother, he spoke inwardly, recalling the Frankish chieftain’s subsequent rich rewar
ds. His heart thumped and his mind flashed with thoughts of the rewards on offer now. All you have to do is agree.

  The silence ended when the dog padded out to the stairwell and braced, looking down the flights with a low growl. Gratian looked through the doorway, seeing one of his hooded Speculatores ascending the steps, frozen by the sight of the dog. ‘Boy!’ Gratian shrieked, patting his thigh. The dog came back, whimpering, tail wagging. ‘It is just Viridio. Viridio, have you brought the scalpels and hooks?’

  The hooded one nodded. ‘Yes, Domine,’ he said in a snake’s hiss through foul teeth.

  ‘Then I shall be along shortly to watch the tribunus’ first ordeals. Be on your way.’ As the black-cloaked one shuffled on along the upper corridor, Gratian turned back to Arbogastes, whose face had paled a few shades. ‘Go, and sleep well. You have much to think about, eh?’

  Arbogastes stepped away, his expression lost, and left the room.

  Skull-face and a stocky, flat-nosed Speculator stood at the foot of the stairs leading to the palace’s attic room. A Herul patrolled the corridor monotonously, the floorboards creaking as he strolled between patches of night shadow and torchlight.

  ‘When Viridio brings the hooks, you will see,’ Skull-face said to the flat-nosed one. ‘It’s hard to make a man hurt too much without him losing consciousness, but the hooks are ideal. One through each armpit, carefully avoiding the arteries. One through each pectoral muscle, and one behind each shoulder blade,’ he said, demonstrating with invisible implements. ‘Attach the other ends of the hooks to a hoist, haul it up so his feet are off the floor and there you have it: muscle straining to tear away from bone, sinews drawn impossibly tight. Even the slightest movement, such as nodding off into an agonised coma, will jolt you right back awake again.’