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

by Gordon Doherty

  ‘You have no victory, Magister Militum,’ Ingolf’s yellow teeth ground. ‘Do not try to gild and trumpet over what was a brutal stalemate.’

  ‘Let the General speak, you fool,’ Fravitta scolded him. ‘Have you not learned from Winguric that a loose tongue is like a noose?’

  ‘We have no victory,’ Saturninus agreed, ‘and neither do you.’ He glanced around the tent, his gaze halting for an instant on Pavo. ‘And now I find myself at an impasse, with the emperor’s power in my hands, but no means to use it. Unless…’

  All hung on his next words.

  ‘I was to offer your people the thing they were promised all those years ago when they crossed the River Danubius.’

  Fravitta leaned forward, just a fraction.

  Ingolf’s defiance fizzled out. A look of confusion crept across his face.

  ‘Peace, Reiks Fravitta,’ he said calmly.

  Fravitta nodded, studying the ether in front of him with a deep stare, one hand on his knee, the fingers drumming slowly and rhythmically, moving the Pax token back and forth along his knuckles. ‘Tell me, Roman… what is peace?’

  Saturninus met his gaze and held it firmly. ‘Lands to farm in the devastated countryside. Homes and estates, free from the terror of the Huns across the river. You will be allowed to worship as you do now, as Arians or as followers of Wodin and the old gods. This is the offer that was despatched to you before our armies clashed at Thessalonica.’

  ‘Pah!’ Ingolf spluttered. ‘It is a trick – Romans do not give gifts freely.’

  Fravitta shot up a hand, one finger extended in a demand for silence. ‘What do you ask in return, Magister Militum?’

  ‘Three things, Reiks Fravitta,’ Saturninus said in a soft, calm voice. ‘Firstly, Ingolf speaks the truth when he talks of the splinter warbands out there, and of the many more tribes across the river who could fuel this war endlessly.’ His face twisted just a little then, like a man greeting a rival with a wry smile. ‘Likewise, the empire will never… never give up. We would draw men from the islands, from Egypt, from the Persian frontier. Our women and children would line our city walls. Between us we have the ingredients to feed a perpetual slaughter. But after wading through bloody corpses – heaped to my waist – just days ago, I know now that continuing this war is not the way for us… or for you. Send word to those bands and tribes, ask them to observe the truce we speak of, and the peace might last.’

  Fravitta tapped a finger on his lips. No sign of agreement. Guarded, measured. Shrewd indeed.

  ‘Secondly, I require you to relinquish your role as Iudex. There can be no more ‘horde’.’

  Fravitta nodded once, slowly. ‘I have no desire to be Iudex. It is a title that rises in times of deep strife, when the many tribes need the direction of one man. When I slew Winguric, I did so only to stop the foolish slaughter, because I want the strife to end. I will continue to speak for my people, however, but only as long as they wish me to speak for them, and not as a Iudex.’

  Saturninus tilted his head a little to the right in a gesture of respect. ‘Finally, I ask for the loyalty of your fighting men – as it was meant to be originally. When Emperor Theodosius calls upon you, you must take up arms and march alongside him and his legions as an army of foederati – albeit on an unprecedented scale. That service will be the only tax we demand of you. The Eastern legions are as battered as the horde. We need each other – as hard as that might be to accept. Together we might be able to fend off the dark riders in the north, for they will one day cross the river in their multitudes.’

  Pavo thought of the ice bridge and a winter chill struck through him. The same shiver seemed to lance through Fravitta, and Saturninus swooped on the moment. He slid a square of vellum across the table, already inked with the terms and a blob of red wax stamped with his imperial signet. He lifted a candle to dribble molten blue wax on the document, then flicked a finger to Fravitta’s ringed finger. ‘Put your seal to this and it is done. Make your mark… and the war is truly over.’

  Every soul in the tent drew in and held a breath.

  Pavo stared at the vellum, then at the Goth being asked to speak for all the others. Fravitta appeared to be a good choice – slow to anger and open to reason. Ingolf – who seemed set to serve as some sort of deputy – was a baleful character. The two were a perfect essence of the horde – good men and wretched ones. Just like the empire. The Pax token on Fravitta’s knuckles tumbled back and forth gently as if swaying between accepting or rejecting the offer. At last, his knuckles fell still. Slowly, Fravitta pulled the vellum over and stamped the certificate, before pushing it back towards Saturninus.

  Scores of tense breath escaped from the mouths of those watching. It was over. The war was over. Pavo stared at the token and the vellum. An eagle cried somewhere outside, and he felt a presence around him.

  He closed his eyes and saw himself on the final stretch of the blood road. Robbed of everything – his weapons, armour, skin and flesh – he staggered to his knees before the Goddess of Peace. She rose, smiling pacifically, her eyes damp with tears. She placed a palm on his ruined head, and then she was gone. The journey was over. With his last vestiges of strength, he crawled to the last tombstone on the road, under the tree’s shade. It was covered with dust. He brushed at the dust with a skeletal hand, but could not make out the name. As he did so, the crone spoke to him.

  Had you not been so strong, Pavo, that token would never have been there for Fravitta to collect, she whispered. He would not have spent months since staring at it every night, contemplating its meaning, watching you in the Gothic cells, contrasting your intentions with Winguric’s boasts. Without it, he would not have taken such drastic action during battle… nor would we now have this peace. It was a brutal road, Pavo, but you walked it to its very end. I knew, from the very beginning, you were the one.

  ‘But can we trust them?’ Pavo whispered, forgetting about all the others standing alongside him.

  Eriulf, standing there, replied in a whisper, thinking the question was for him. ‘I think the Goths in this tent have all the qualities we need, now… and in future,’ he said, nodding at a blonde-braided boy standing behind the two reiks. ‘Alaric is nearly fourteen summers – a man in Roman terms. And he has the hallmarks of a great man.’

  Pavo stepped out of the tent, the rest of the party dispersing likewise. The mild wind furrowed his now-dry hair, blowing it out of place and searching inside his clean tunic. Why did I survive when so many died? That recurring shame came in pulsing, hot waves. And Sura… dear Sura. He looked up at the pale grey clouds bruising the sky over the sea and wondered where his friend was now.

  A hand rested upon his shoulder. Pavo turned to see Saturninus, his long, dark hair whipping across his delicate features. ‘I have spoken to the tribuni of the Western legions,’ said Saturninus. ‘I told them what I knew was true before Merobaudes confirmed it: that you and the Claudia men are no criminals. They all saw how you fought like eagles during the battle, right to the end. They all know the peace was down to you and your men’s efforts.’

  ‘It matters not,’ Pavo said staring west, again towards Marcianople.

  ‘Gratian is convalescing, they say,’ Saturninus replied, reading his mind. ‘He will most likely retreat to the Western realm again when he recovers. By then you and your legions will be safely ensconced back in Constantinople.’

  Pavo thought for a moment of the Neorion barracks, of the babble of voices, the crackling fires, the ribald laughter, of Sura and his tall tales. Then he remembered, all over again. He pinched the top of his nose between thumb and forefinger to stave off a swelling of grief and shook his head. ‘It would be a stay of execution, no more, Magister Militum. As long as Gratian lives, I am a dead man.’

  Saturninus smiled wryly and laughed once, without mirth. ‘As are we all, Tribunus, it is just a matter of when. In any case, Gratian will now have other bruises to tend to: he came here to seal a glorious victory and very nearly fell into
a pit of disaster. This peace will madden him, yet with his legions battered and his Western realm lying untended, even he will not be foolish enough to challenge it.’

  Pavo searched the grassy clifftops before him, his concerns unabated.

  Saturninus squeezed his shoulder. ‘Know that whatever happens, however invincible Gratian seems, Pavo, you have allies.’ He half-raised and shook the vellum treaty. ‘Emperor Theodosius grows stranger by the day, but he told me he would support you again if you delivered to him a treaty of peace. Well you have, Pavo. You did it.’

  ‘The peace agreement… it is right, isn’t it? We haven’t granted them too much?’

  Saturninus gazed off over the sea. ‘Only time will tell what these seeds shall grow to become. But my heart tells me we have acted wisely.’

  Pavo sighed. ‘I truly hope so.’

  Saturninus left him then, and Pavo stepped away from the square of tents where the talks had taken place. He came to the cliff edge and stared down into the smashing, foaming sea far below, his gaze finding the forlorn statue of Dionysus. Sitting on the edge with his legs dangling, he took out a morsel of soldier bread from a small leather bag and broke it in two. He held out one half to the space by his side. For you, Brother? he asked the absent Sura, before letting the bread crumble away in the breeze to be carried out over the waters. He took one bite of his own piece then replaced it in his purse, his head drowning with grief, unable to eat any more.

  The Cormorant of Adrianople, they used to call me: I’d dive from the waterfall outside the city, plunge into the pool below and glide through the waters. The women used to watch in their hundreds…

  Pavo laughed once and broke down in a sob that he quickly caught and strangled. The soldier’s skin sprouted another layer at that moment. A short distance along the cliff’s edge he saw Fravitta, Ingolf and young Alaric. The three held Fritigern’s old battle helm, one hand each, lowering it into a small wooden chest and draping it with the sad, frayed hawk banner. Carefully, the trio sank the chest into a freshly dug hole, then a Gothic spearman shovelled earth over it, burying it forever. A ceremonial end to the role of the Gothic Iudex, he realised, and an end to the horde. From a distance, he noticed General Modares looking on, his face pensive. Eriulf too, perched like a seabird on a rock, a thousand thoughts in his eyes. Both men were Goths who had found a place in the empire. What now for their kinsfolk? Pavo thought. Peace and a promise of a life within the empire… but promises were cheap.

  In the other direction along the cliff’s edge, near Dionysopolis, two white-robed figures strolled together: gentle old men, hands clasped behind their backs. Bishop Ancholius of Thessalonica and Bishop Ambrosius of Mediolanum, Pavo realised. He stared at the pair, wondering if they understood how divergent the Christian teachings were becoming, how dangerous their words were to the zealous masses. Even Emperor Theodosius could be charmed or cowed with a line from these pontiffs’ lips. He watched as the pair wandered inside the Dionysopolis ruins, then turned back to the sea.

  He stayed there for hours. Come dusk, when the light began to fade and the sky thickened with angry-looking cloud, he twisted round and looked over at the legionary camp, thinking of the small row of tents that housed the one hundred and sixty seven Claudia survivors. Stew, wine, maybe stories of the lost – if the words did not cut too deeply… then sleep.

  He rose and walked behind the square of parley tents, obscured from both the Gothic wagon camp and the legionary camp for a moment. As soon as he did this, he realised what a mistake it had been.

  ‘Going somewhere, Tribunus?’ said Vitalianus, stepping out from the gap between two of the white tents, immaculate and rakish, hands clasped over his swordbelt. Two more Speculatores fanned out to flank the man.

  Pavo’s heart froze. And then a loop of cold metal slid around his neck, like dead hands.

  ‘Not without your hard-earned torque, surely,’ purred Gratian, close behind him.

  Chapter 20

  Pavo whirled round, but Gratian had already stepped back. A cool breeze whipped across his face as his head swung between the two foes – poised either side of him like the open talons of a carrion hawk. Gratian wore his battle armour, the bronze glowing dully under the cloud-swollen twilight sky. His black, gold-threaded cape fluttered in the stiff wind, obscuring the jewel-hilted spatha Pavo knew he held underneath.

  ‘It seems my injuries were exaggerated,’ the Western Emperor smiled. His face was a riddle, even now: beatific, equanimous, his pale blue eyes like pools of friendship and tranquillity, sparkling like his diadem. ‘You left your torque behind back in the attic in Thessalonica. Such a shame. Yet you have earned it all over again.’

  Pavo touched a hand to the thick band, a golden manacle.

  ‘For I hear you and your Claudians played a big part in disrupting the Gothic right, the other day? You helped me win the day.’ His words rolled crisply from his well-educated tongue.

  ‘I helped the legions of the East to pull your army from the edge of disaster,’ Pavo replied, his Thracian drawl rough-cut and crude in comparison. ‘And yes, it does appear that you have healed well. Magical, almost. Some might say you saw the battle turning against your legions and feigned injury so you could be taken from danger. You came here for triumph, but perhaps they will remember you instead as: Gratian, the Absent Emperor. He who ran and hid behind the walls of Marcianople while his army gave their lives to bring the war to an end.’

  Gratian’s pale blue eyes frosted over then. ‘Oh, you dig a deep and dark pit for yourself, Tribunus,’ he said breezily. ‘And I have one dug for you already, under Mediolanum.’

  Pavo saw a black wagon roll up to a halt behind Gratian, blocking the line of sight back to the edges of the Gothic camp. Another wagon rumbled into place behind Vitalianus – the two vehicles and the back wall of parley tents forming a three-sided cage with the cliff edge making the fourth. Two Speculatores took their places like sentries before each wagon, feet wide apart, hands clasped over their belts, watching, another two taking their places like crows atop each wagon. A pair of Alani joined them, standing along the back wall of the tents, fingers settling and flexing on their spear hafts. Pavo laughed and the noise surprised him – it sounded like that of older officers he had once known, dry and salted with experience. ‘You turn upon your Torquatus, your Protector?’ he mocked, pinging a finger against the golden neck hoop Gratian had given him in Thessaloniki. ‘Today, this will serve as armour.’

  ‘I will bend that metal tight like a strangulation cord, Tribunus,’ said Vitalianus, almost lustfully, edging towards him.

  Pavo, backing away like a cat, felt the grass on the clifftop become sparse under his boots, and heard the scrape of scree and dust instead – bringing sharp memories of the desperate fight here just days ago. He knew another step backwards meant a plummet into the thrashing sea and the rocks. His eyes flicked up to the wagons and the tent wall. A nervous slave peeked through the gap between two of the large tents at the goings-on here before backing away, head dipped in fear. The officers and reiks in there had dispersed, back to their respective camps. All of them? Would a shout reach the ears of Saturninus… maybe even Merobaudes?

  ‘Go on – call for help,’ Gratian smiled, reading his thoughts. ‘Help! Help!’ he yelled, his shoulders rocking with laughter as he held up both hands to greet the silence that followed. ‘See? Nobody close enough to hear.’

  The twilight darkened and the clouds began to roil above them.

  ‘You think you have me trapped at last, when in fact I have sought this moment just as much as you, Domine,’ Pavo spat. ‘And I am not alone. Tribunus Gallus stands with me today. Centurions Zosimus and Quadratus too. Sura, my primus pilus and truest friend. I have an army of men behind me, baying for your head.’

  Gratian straightened up for a moment, his eyebrows rising in mirth. He extended an open hand, directing the eyes of his guards towards Pavo. ‘Look at the ragged man on the edge of the cliff. Rub your eyes,’ he chuckle
d. ‘Look again… he has an army with him.’

  A dull rumble of laughter rolled around the six sentries and Vitalianus’ handsome grin widened.

  At the same time, cold, dark needles of rain began to sting down upon them, driven in off the sea by the wind. The scent of wet grass and earth rose, and a muted rumble of thunder sounded somewhere out at sea, the clouds there flashing with patches of purple and green.

  ‘You bore me, you deny me, so let us delay no more,’ Pavo said, his hair plastered to his face with the rain, runnels of water spilling along his nose. A gentle hiss of steel on the bronze mouth of his scabbard sounded as he quarter-drew his spatha. ‘Drawing a weapon in the presence of an emperor,’ he growled, ‘grounds to slay any man. You have your excuse, so come… kill me. Or bungle another attempt to drag me to your stinking torture chambers in the West.’

  Gratian smiled gently. ‘No, that time has passed. You are like an eel, Tribunus, and your refusal to accept your fate forces my hand. You will die on this cliff, before this rainstorm eases. It will be a horrible death,’ he said, then clicked his fingers. ‘Vitalianus…’

  Pavo saw the black shape of the Optio Speculatorum shift, drawing a spatha from his black cloak as the rain lashed him. He popped a cork from a small vial and tilted it over the blade, the contents – dark green, thick and unctuous – slipping down the length of the weapon. The Speculator held the blade out flat, twisting it so each face caught the flickering sheet lightning, the steely surface of the sword iridescent with the filth. ‘A drop of this in a man’s blood will send the fires of Hades through him. A mere droplet. When I slash through your skin with this blade, great quantities of it will swim through your veins. You will not die instantly, oh no. I have watched a man thrash on the ground for as long as it took me to sip my way through a cup of watered wine. The cur gouged at his own eyes, pulled at his jaw as if to rip it off, scratched at his skin like a rat, ripping through to the bone. He managed to seize a moment of control over himself – just enough to scramble up onto his knees and beg me to slit his throat from ear to ear, to end it quickly.’ As he spoke, he twisted and twirled the blade before him like a master blacksmith admiring his work. ‘I did him no favours, and I will be doing you none either.’