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

by Gordon Doherty

  ‘Time to leave,’ Sura slapped a hand on Pavo’s back and pulled him away from the parapet as one of the equites riders scanned the acropolis heights. The pair slipped down from the walls and scuttled out of the acropolis gates, seeing the last of the Goths on the eastern side of the settlement, draining away through the lower town’s eastern gate, across the Tonsus bridge and onto the open way north. Open, but closing rapidly, Pavo realised, seeing the silvery waves of the Western legions drawing round like the fingers of a giant iron hand.

  He and Sura ducked and darted, judging their pace so as to stay far enough behind the last few departing Goths, but well ahead of the equites and Molossian hounds – the echoes of the snarling dogs and clopping hooves searching the lanes and alleys behind them, growing closer.

  They came to the bridge gate and saw swinging ropes where horses had been picketed – all gone, along with any hope of a speedy escape. They slipped through the gates and across the wooden bridge on foot. Dawn spilled across the land like a fiery tide now – the top of the sun sizzling into view.

  ‘I see two of them,’ shouted one of the equites riders somewhere behind them, ‘the last of the Goths, trying to flee. Ya!’

  The howl of dogs and thunder of hooves rose into a frantic rhythm. Pavo and Sura set off at a sprint, hurtling through long grass of the open country, stumbling over potholes and scrambling up hillocks. Exhaustion came quickly. Their usually rope-hard muscles were loose, and their bodies weak after months of torpor and poor nutrition. The slavering growl of Molossian dogs and equites grew louder and louder.

  Madly, Pavo scanned the way ahead. A low, oak-lined ridge, broken by a small gap. ‘Through that gap and a sharp left,’ he panted, ‘put the ridge between us and them.’

  He and Sura loped through the gap, and swerved left, running along the ridge foot. For a moment, the clamour of their pursuers became muffled. But the officer’s cry was clear enough: ‘The dogs have their scent, ya!’

  Utterly spent, Pavo stumbled uphill towards the trees topping the ridge, his legs trembling with the last drops of energy in him. ‘We can hide,’ he panted, ‘in the woods.’

  He knew it was a fatally flawed plan. The dogs would sniff them out in moments and it would all be over. Sura, pale and dripping with cold sweat, had nothing left in him to resist, merely nodding and stumbling up the ridge with Pavo.

  Just as they were about to sink into the treeline, they saw the riding officer and the armoured, slavering dogs speed through the ridge gap, the heads of animal and man sweeping right, then left, a heartbeat away from spotting the pair.

  And then a filthy hand wrapped across Pavo’s mouth, yanking him back from sight and forcing him to the ground. A filthy and stinking hand. Pinned to the carpet of dead leaves and twigs, Pavo looked up at the one-eyed dirt-creature staring back at him. The thing pressed a finger to its lips for silence. The thrum of a loosed bow sounded, then the distant snap and crackle of branches. Pavo listened, breath held captive, as the pattering steps of the Western officer’s mount and the growling of the dogs began to fade, suddenly changing direction.

  ‘That’s the stuff,’ the one-eyed thing grunted. ‘A cut of bloody deer meat tied to an arrow. Those mutts’ll be sniffing that out for a while yet.’

  Pavo sat bolt upright, Sura too. ‘Libo?’ they said in unison.

  Now the shade of the trees rippled and changed, and Pavo saw that there were others in here. Many others. Pulcher, digging the lower stave of his bow into the earth and cleaning deer blood from his hands. Opis, sitting on a high branch and watching the countryside like an eagle. Trupo, one hand raised, keeping the many others in here on one knee like a starter organising a sprint race.

  ‘You said you’d call on us. You didn’t think we’d wait forever, did you?’ Libo shrugged.

  Rectus emerged from the foliage, walking with his cane. ‘Anyway, we were driven north too when the Western legions advanced and broke the Gothic positions.’

  ‘We’re in this net just like you,’ Pulcher added.

  Pavo stood and looked over the men, who saluted in silence. All apart from young Indus, who boomed aloud: ‘Sir!’ before Trupo swatted him over the head. But scores more were absent. Many had fallen since that snowy night after their flight from the dell cave hideout. Less than four hundred men were here.

  ‘Seventy-nine men,’ said Rectus quietly. ‘Killed, that is. Two taken alive.’

  ‘Legionaries, killed and captured by legionaries,’ Libo spat into the dirt.

  ‘Then Gratian knows we are within his grasp?’ Pavo asked.

  ‘Aye,’ said Rectus, handing Pavo a strip of salted meat, a small loaf of bread and a waterskin, Libo giving Sura the same, ‘so eat as much as your stomach will take, then we move on through these trees and off to the north in the Goths’ wake. Those dogs will only be distracted for a short time. The chase is on.’

  Chapter 17

  A cool, late September wind swept through the streets of Marcianople. For six years the city had languished in silent decay, abandoned by the empire and sacked by the Goths. Now, the drum of imperial boots echoed through the city wards once more as two Western cohorts trooped around the pomerium, doing endless loops of the city, spurred on by the barking demands of their commanders. They carried full marching kit, and extra lead bars to make every stride burn.

  ‘Stay in line, you dogs!’ one crow-like officer snarled down from the rooftops in baritone Latin. ‘If I see any of you lagging I’ll come down there and lash you with my cane. Slow down during the battle that awaits us at the coast and the Goths will lash you with steel, strike off your heads!’

  As the marching cohorts went, they blinked through sweat-streaked faces, gazing up at the cracked facades of once mighty temples and churches, the vine-clad and shabby vestibules of palaces, the scattered items of the people who had fled from the place six years ago upon the outbreak of the Gothic War: tavern stools, cups, children’s toys, garments – now mere discoloured rags – and smashed vases lay everywhere. They stared in particular at a chilling sight: the disarticulated skeleton of a man, broken into chunks, frayed ropes tied around his wrists and ankles. He had been roped to horses and wrenched apart. The grinning skull sported a Roman officer’s helm, and mice had made a nest within one of the eye sockets.

  ‘Is it him,’ the passing men whispered, ‘Lupicinus?’

  ‘Aye, it must be,’ said one. ‘The feckless officer who mishandled the Gothic migration and triggered this war, all those years ago.’ The manner of Lupicinus’ demise had been myth and whisper, until now. All slowed to stare and the drum of boots began to fade.

  ‘Who said you could slow down?’ their commanding officer screamed at them from above, shattering the silence. At once, and with a chorus of yelps, they bucked and stumbled into full step once more.

  One set of footsteps rose over the rest, speeding like a sprinter. A messenger flailed along the street, overtaking the cohort. He cut in from the boundary road and sped along the ruined decumanus maximus – the wide avenue partly reclaimed by wild saplings from a once-manicured orchard that had long gone to seed – before racing into the heart of the city towards the old imperial residence. The Alani guardsmen lining the cracked, weed-strewn steps bunched together and crossed their spears. The messenger halted with a yelp, waving his scroll and the seal at the sentries, who parted to let him enter.

  Within, a handful of men stood in parade armour around the mosaic floor, silent and stationary like game pieces. Gratian was up on the marble mezzanine, elbows on the dusty balcony, diadem hanging on his wrist like an oversized bracelet, eyes trawling the mosaic floor like a gull looking for a worm.

  ‘Domine!’ the messenger cooed up like a besotted lover, waving the scroll.

  ‘Not now,’ one of the armoured men hissed at him through taut lips. ‘If you want to keep your head, then shut your mouth.’

  Gratian shot an icy look at the messenger, then returned his gaze to the tessellated map of Thracia spread across the lowe
r floor. The Heruli legionaries down there were positioned in a crescent formation, cupping a region of the Thracian coast. Each man held not the Heruli shield of red and white concentric rings, but of the other legions in the Western Army. The man on the right end of the crescent carried a cavalry draco standard. Standing on the coastline like a cornered mutt, looking inland and facing this crescent, was Tribunus Lanzo, stripped of his armour and draped in a shabby ‘Gothic’ rag, holding a spear and a bow.

  Gratian’s eyes returned again and again to the southern end of the Roman arc. A section was marked with light blue tesserae, indicating a coastal morass of some kind. Or a moor…

  He heard the moor-creature’s wet, sighing breaths, imagined it coming for him, drawing its heavy blade, lifting it to point the weapon at him like a judge and an executioner. This will not be the end for me… it is only the beginning, he snarled inwardly, beating a fist upon the balcony. I will be a victor, a saviour… true Emperor of West and East!

  ‘Domine? Are you well?’ a voice asked cautiously nearby.

  ‘The Gentiles riders,’ Gratian snapped, flicking a finger towards a bare section at that south end of the crescent. ‘Are they not supposed to be on the flank there?’

  ‘They are, Domine,’ Arbogastes replied. ‘We are just short of men for the map.’

  ‘You there,’ he pointed at the fidgeting messenger and clicked his fingers, pointing at the moor region. ‘Take up a draco and stand by the blue tiles.’

  ‘But Domine-’ he started.

  Gratian rose a little and the act was enough to silence the man, who did as he was bid.

  ‘Good,’ he purred. ‘So the southern end is secure. And you can assure me there will be no nasty surprises – like extra horde riders falling upon our backs?’

  ‘In this last month we have captured and slain two full wings of enemy cavalry,’ Arbogastes replied. ‘All they have left – riders, spearmen and archers – are trapped here against the coast. It seems they did meet with fresh kinsmen who crossed the Danubius in the summer – but that has barely replenished their recent losses. There are other splinter forces roaming elsewhere in Thracia, but they are merely small warbands who act under their own banners and none could reach this place quickly enough to trouble us. The horde is here, pinned, yours to crush.’

  ‘This must be a clear and decisive victory,’ Gratian tapped his lips in thought. ‘We must slice the head clean off. Any who flee or toss down their weapons… must be offered no mercy.’

  ‘They will not run,’ said Merobaudes. ‘This is not just an army we have trapped here, it is an entire people. Were the situation reversed – were your family pinned and you with them – would you forsake your loved ones?’

  Arbogastes’ eyes grew distant, harder. Absently, he reached up to trace his fingertips around his neck, as if recalling an old piece of neck jewellery he had once owned.

  ‘You are telling me we will have a fight on our hands,’ Gratian said like a child unwrapping a gift.

  ‘Domine,’ Merobaudes said quickly, ‘if we make battle with them, it will be no ordinary clash. Trapped men can sometimes fight like beasts.’ A cool breeze sighed through the hall. ‘I once tracked and cornered a knot of Lentienses tribesmen in a box valley. I had a cohort of soldiers with me – six spears to every one of theirs.’ His eyes grew distant and sad. ‘They destroyed us, charged with a desire to live. One of them knocked me out cold with a swipe of a club. I escaped with my life only because they thought me dead like all my men.’

  Gratian twisted lazily towards Merobaudes, his eyes hooded. ‘If we fight them, Magister Militum? You would rather we stood back and quaked?’

  Everyone else in the room exploded with laughter. Merobaudes did not. ‘When I was a boy, riding in the saddle with my father, he taught me that war is a simple thing, and the wise warrior will know he has an uncomplicated choice: to crush his enemy entirely, leaving nobody alive…’

  Gratian’s eyebrows rose in respect.

  But Merobaudes continued: ‘… or to offer his foe heartfelt and generous terms. To fall in between the two camps is to foster lasting, intractable strife: orphaned sons ablaze with the fires of vengeance, fathers beset with grief and rage for their fallen sons. I beg you to ask yourself, Domine, do you truly believe absolute victory is possible?’ He gestured towards the mosaic map, letting a weighty silence swell, then batted a palm down on the balustrade. ‘Nor do I. We might edge victory, but not a full and decisive one. So the choice is simple: now is the moment to twist the arms of the Gothic leaders. End this war on terms that suit the empire and grant the horde dignity and honour.’

  ‘Peace?’ Gratian snorted. ‘You still harp on about Theodosius’ bungled efforts to charm Fritigern into submission? Fritigern is dead, don’t you understand that? Winguric rules the horde in his place and has made it clear in this last month that he is not interested in any peace. And nor am I,’ Gratian laughed. ‘Besides, the II Julia Alpina lost an entire cohort to Gothic archers during their flight from Kabyle. Was that the act of a peace-seeking enemy?’

  Merobaudes bristled. ‘The Julia Alpina chased the trailing Gothic cattle train like blind men, Domine. That they wandered into an arrow storm was their commander’s fault for not reconnoitring the hills flanking the train. And I ask you again: were it your family and your worldly possessions at stake – would you not have loosed all manner of missiles upon the pursuers?’

  Gratian stepped towards the big Frank. ‘So you have sympathy for the Goths? I do not see such weakness in your chosen man, Arbogastes. Perhaps your roles should be reversed?’

  Gratian watched as Merobaudes and Arbogastes shared a steely look. The moment was wondrous. He had left a sack of coins in the lesser general’s tent at the start of the month. Arbogastes had said nothing of it, and he had not returned the gift. The fire had been kindled, and to fan the flames of animosity between these two might lead to great things: should Arbogastes take it upon himself to kill the big Frank, then Gratian’s opponents could blame nobody other than Arbogastes. Valentinian’s guardian would be gone, the balance of support in the West would swing in his favour, and the whelp could be quietly despatched.

  ‘I must interject,’ Bishop Ambrosius said, shuffling along the mezzanine to join the three. ‘Peace can be had. Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called sons of God.’

  Gratian glared at him.

  ‘And we will have peace,’ Ambrosius smiled wholesomely, ‘but only when the Goths are wiped from this land. Complete and total annihilation is the answer. God would understand, Domine.’

  Gratian sighed in contentment and appreciation. ‘Aye. God will smile upon our triumph. The victory will be in his name. We will carve peace with our swords!’

  Merobaudes said nothing. His silence was his protest. Gratian basked in the big general’s impotence. Turning back to the map floor, he pointed to the spot on the coast where Lanzo stood. ‘The cliffs, can we bring ships round there – to assault them from the waves?’

  ‘The Classis Moesica has already set sail, Domine,’ the impatient messenger called up from the map room floor. ‘That is what I was eager to tell you. Emperor Theodosius will bring his few legions to our aid by sea.’

  The last few words stung Gratian like a whip. To our aid? ‘I gave no order for this.’

  The messenger gulped. ‘It seems he acted on his instincts, Domine. Word of your impending victory spreads like wildfire across these lands. In any case, the Eastern ships will not likely reach us in time to play any part – you will have surely secured victory before their sails appear on the horizon.’

  Gratian batted a hand against the balustrade. ‘Quite. We will fight the Goths tomorrow, and this damned Gothic War will be over before noon. Show me again how it will happen,’ he clicked his fingers and waved a hand at those on the map floor. The crescent of Heruli shuffled forward, the crescent growing tighter and closer to the coast, converging on poor Lanzo. ‘The legions are in position, honed, ready. Aye?’
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br />   ‘Yes, Domine,’ Arbogastes confirmed before Merobaudes could. Merobaudes shot him a foul look.

  ‘The Goths will have the choice to fight, to leap from the cliffs, or to beg for my mercy,’ Gratian mused.

  ‘Or they might take to the ruins of Dionysopolis,’ Merobaudes said.

  Gratian swung to him again, agitation swelling.

  ‘It is a fortress-town, just inside the northern end of our corral of legions,’ Merobaudes explained. ‘Although it lies in ruin, it could be used as a defensive position.’

  Gratian scoured the map floor again and again. ‘Where?’ he snapped.

  ‘It is not indicated on this map, but it is on others,’ Merobaudes said calmly, ‘ones which have been inked for generals instead of aristocrats.’

  Gratian’s eyes narrowed. The cur would not be mocking him for much longer.

  ‘Merobaudes is right,’ said a new voice. All turned to see Vitalianus, stepping into view from the side of a pillar, the light casting his handsome mien in sharp relief. ‘My exploratores riders sped to within sight of the coastal cliffs last night and they saw the torchlight of the Gothic camp… but they also saw movement in the dark at the nearby ruins of Dionysopolis.’

  ‘Movement?’ Gratian cooed.

  ‘Men, hiding in there. Strangest of all, one of my riders swore they carried shields. Roman shields. The rogue legion, Domine. The Claudian deserters. They are trapped in this corral just like the Goths.’

  Gratian’s heart thudded with sweet anticipation.

  ‘Merobaudes, you will lead the centre tomorrow.’

  Merobaudes quarter-bowed in acceptance.

  ‘Arbogastes, you will lead the right.’

  Arbogastes’ lips twitched, gazing down at the arc of men on the map floor, his eyes jealously evaluating the more prestigious palace legions in the centre against the standard legions on the right.

  ‘Vitalianus, you will lead the left… and flush out any rats hiding in that fortress-town.’