‘Loose!’ the centurion up there yelled.
The smack of iron arrowheads and javelins on crumpling armour and soft flesh seemed never ending. Gothic warriors fell in their hundreds. Blood-spray was carried by the whistling wind, up the Shipka Pass until Fritigern could taste its coppery tang on his lips.
‘Fall back,’ he snarled, seeing the legionaries ready for another volley. ‘Fall back!’
The Gothic camp lay just north of the Haemus Mountains. It was a vast sprawl of tents and torches and home to more than a hundred thousand souls; the great tribes of the Thervingi and the Greuthingi along with many ragged bands who had previously associated with neither. All now stood together as the Gothic Alliance. Near the heart of the camp, a small circle of men sat around an open fire under a cloudy night sky and a waning moon. They were dressed in leather armour and wore furs on their shoulders. Fritigern sighed as he eyed this collection of reiks across the fire. This council of noblemen was his to command, yet they looked upon him like scornful fathers. Through the swirling air and dancing sparks, he saw expressions of fury and despair, narrowed eyes laced with cunning and thin lips on the edge of yet another recalcitrant outburst.
In an attempt to pre-empt this, he spoke first. ‘Today was a black day. Many of our kin died at the Roman fort on the ridge path. But we must show conviction in our alliance. At Ad Salices, we showed that we can stand against the imperial legions.’ He grasped out, snatching at the darting sparks from the fire. His mind spun back to the spring day when his Gothic Alliance had faced the Thracian legions, turning that pleasant meadow, edged by a willow grove and the Roman hamlet of Ad Salices, into a mire of blood. ‘We can still use that as leverage – force the emperor to parley and end the blockade of the five mountain passes. Such an endeavour might ensure that no more of our kin die in the treacherous passes, and that we finally gain lands to settle south of the mountains.’
Silence reigned until Reiks Alatheus chuckled, the firelight dancing in his eyes.
‘You hark back to Ad Salices as if it was some kind of victory?’ he said calmly. This one was tall and slender with long, white locks and black eyebrows. Skilled with the sword, lethal with the tongue. ‘Yes, it was almost a fine tactical victory for us . . . but it was a strategic triumph for the Romans, for their reinforcements came – we did not break them nor they us. They had the lands and resources of their vast empire to fall back on. We won nothing that day. Nothing but this Moesian wilderness they choose to corral us within.’ He cast a hand out and swept it around the night air.
‘Aye, they treat us like goats!’ Reiks Saphrax agreed. ‘There is little meat, grain or forage to be had in this strip of wasteland. It was impoverished even before we drove the Romans from it.’ The squat, bald, slit-eyed and flat-faced man threw a scrawny chicken bone stripped of every morsel of flesh into the flames as if to stress his point.
Alatheus’ nose wrinkled at Saphrax’s interruption. ‘My point is that we have no leverage, Iudex. The time for parley with the emperor has passed. The five passes must be taken by the sword. So far . . . we have failed to do so,’ he said, all those at the fire glancing to Fritigern as if attributing blame. ‘And rumour tells us that Emperor Valens is readying his armies from far and wide. If he brings all his forces to these lands, then we are without hope. Thus, we must look to whatever means might be available to change this state of affairs.’ he finished with a slight bow. A murmur of agreement rippled around the circle of men.
Fritigern’s eyes grew hooded. He could not refute the man’s habitually well-chosen words, yet he knew that to remain silent would further weaken his position amongst these nobles. He could best any of them in combat, he was sure – despite his ageing body – and no one of them led enough warriors to challenge his own loyal and numerous Thervingi ranks. But together, they could destroy me . . .
‘We need to act, Iudex,’ Saphrax urged him. Another rumble of accord. ‘We need food.’
This time, Fritigern opted not to react. Instead, he took up his wineskin and swigged from it. Alatheus and Saphrax, he was sure, hungered more for power than for food. These two leaders of the Greuthingi Goths had crossed the Danubius and entered imperial lands shortly after Fritigern and his Thervingi the previous year. The Thervingi and Greuthingi had quickly allied as one force, driven by their shared need to escape the wrath of the Huns north of the river, and to stave off the threat of starvation whilst marooned in Roman lands. Only adversity could serve as a crucible for such an alliance, for the largely Arian Christian Thervingi and the pagan Greuthingi had seldom missed an opportunity to quarrel and make war in years past. And so it was that the two Greuthingi Reiks had gracefully bowed to Fritigern’s command, and the many thousands of cavalrymen they brought with them had been a welcome addition to the growing Gothic ranks. Neither man had made a move to unseat him in that time, yet there was a foul air of impending perfidy whenever either spoke. The reek had always followed these two. Indeed, Alatheus and Saphrax had been mere regents before the Greuthingi had crossed the Danubius, serving the boy-reiks Vitheric; yet somehow in the great river crossing the healthy and spry lad – a strong swimmer – had drowned. Alatheus and Saphrax, of course, had been elected in his place. Would either now be so bold as to challenge his authority at the head of the Alliance? And for what prize – the chance to lead this wandering and desperate Gothic horde for themselves? No prize for any man, any man but a fool.
He looked up, sure to meet the eyes of each man around the fire. ‘In today’s assault on the Shipka Pass defences, I was repelled, but I learned much. The walls of that fort can be brok-’
Just then, a cry rang out from the northern edge of the camp, cutting him off. All necks stretched, heads turned and a murmur of confusion broke out. Fritigern peered through the forest of torches to the gloom out there. He saw many heads emerge from the sea of tents: families, children and barking dogs roused by the cry and wary of its meaning. He rose from the fire and strode to the north, embers swirling in his wake and leather-armoured bodyguards hurrying to flank him. Nearing the perimeter of the vast camp, he slowed, his eyes fixed on the blackness of night beyond. It was crawling with shapes. ‘The legions?’ he whispered to himself as the chill finger of fear traced his spine. ‘They have come round our flanks?’ Then a hand rested on his shoulder.
‘At ease, Iudex,’ Alatheus purred. ‘The Romans remain in the south guarding the five mountain passes, ignorant of all that goes on in these parts. What you see before you is an army of reinforcements.’
Fritigern swung to the tall, lean reiks. ‘What? I knew nothing of this.’ His eyes darted, trying to make sense of it all. ‘You have summoned Athanaric’s cursed Goths from the Carpates Mountains?’
Alatheus shook his head. ‘These men are not Goths, Iudex. We felt a different caste of warrior might ease the taking of the five passes.’
‘We?’ Fritigern glared at him, then repeated; ‘I knew nothing of this!’
‘We,’ Alatheus repeated, this time nodding to Saphrax, ‘felt it would be best not to trouble you with false hope in case our initiative did not bear fruit. We sent one of our best men north, across the river, to bring to you what you need.’
Fritigern switched his gaze between the two – each wearing looks of matching equanimity – then looked back to the crawling night. A rare shaft of moonlight illuminated the approaching horde: squat and stocky riders saddled on sturdy ponies, each rider bearing three slashes on their wan cheeks. ‘Huns?’ he stammered. ‘Huns!’ He could not contain his panic. ‘You fools, what have you done?’
The clouds parted to allow the moonlight to bathe the approaching horde. Many hundreds of them, scratching, cursing and spitting. These were the demon cavalry from his nightmares. The very riders that had the previous year driven his people from the fine pasture of Gutthiuda, across the river and into imperial lands, kindling this desperate standoff against Rome.
‘You think you can control the Huns?’ he hissed to Alatheus, struggling to hide
his fear, recalling his old rival Athanaric’s past attempts to harness these rogue riders. ‘How many of them come?’
‘Enough,’ Alatheus smiled with irritating calm. ‘But not so many as to cause us a problem. And they bring us grain wagons too. With them come the Taifali,’ he continued, gesturing to the rear of the incoming horde. Tall, fair Germanic riders in leather and iron vests carrying lengthy lances and dark-blue shields adorned with two howling wolf heads. ‘Close cousins to the Gothic tribes.’
Fritigern ignored Alatheus, instead struggling to estimate the size of this horde of northern horsemen. A thousand Huns, maybe closer to two thousand, and the same number of Taifali, he reckoned. He sought to remain calm, to find logic in the situation: the Gothic Alliance could count over thirty thousand warriors, and that number was growing with every passing week – more than enough to keep these newcomers in check, surely. Perhaps these new riders would be of some use, he tried to convince himself. And, loathe as he was to admit it, he could not help but be impressed by the initiative, mustering a hardy wing of Germanic chargers and steppe riders and bringing them to his ranks in good order like this. This brought a question to his lips.
‘Who harnessed this horde?’
‘Our champion,’ Alatheus replied, stretching out a hand to one approaching rider near the front of the Hun horde: a mail-clad giant on a silver stallion, bull-shouldered, with raven-dark hair scooped into a knot atop his head and a trident beard.
Fritigern squinted in the darkness, then felt his stomach turn over as the moonlight flashed across this rider’s face: handsome yet spoiled by a fearsome expression and troubling, obsidian eyes. Reiks Farnobius, a troublesome leader of a few hundred of the Greuthingi Goths. The head-taker some called him. A savage on the battlefield and a mercenary off it – doubtless guided shrewdly by careful words from Alatheus’ silver tongue. And what else did he and Saphrax convince you to do, Farnobius? Fritigern thought, his eyes narrowing as he thought again of the drowned boy-reiks, Vitheric. Farnobius had once been Vitheric’s protector. Where were you that night the boy died, Farnobius?
Farnobius was the only one Fritigern doubted he could surpass in combat. Yet as the colossus approached, Fritigern sensed the eyes of all the other minor reiks fall upon him again. His skin writhed with a cold shiver as he imagined himself trapped in a pit of asps: small and troublesome on their own, deadly when united.
Farnobius halted his stallion before Fritigern, then bowed in response – tilting his head just a fraction as if adding a dash of disrespect. When he lifted his head again, he wore a grin. It was the grin of a shark, passing into a stony glower as the two beheld each other for what felt like an eternity. It was only some sharp, involuntary twitch of Farnobius’ head – as if some dark and troubling thought had snagged the man – that ended the moment.
With a low snarl, the giant reiks drew the battle axe from his back and swept it up to test the edge, cutting the air before him. The grin returned. ‘Iudex Fritigern, I bring you many more horsemen for your horde; warriors who will break the Roman blockade.’ He raised his voice so the gathering crowds could not fail to hear. A clamour of eager voices chattered and gasped at this proclamation.
‘When we next attack the mountain passes . . . they will fall,’ Farnobius roared. ‘The heart of Thracia and all its fine cities will soon be ours to plunder!’
A great, guttural cheer erupted and washed across the Moesian Plain, shaking the land.
Chapter 1
The dipping mid-September sun silhouetted Constantinople’s skyline: mighty stone walls that encompassed seven hills packed with palaces, gardens, markets, baths, columns and marble temples to the old gods competing with the great new domed Christian basilicas. The air remained disagreeably hot and dry, carrying with it a tang of dung and vintage armpits. The main way that ran from the Imperial Palace region at the tip of the peninsula all the way to the land walls was bustling as usual; thick with a sea of sweating faces and jostling wagons moving to and fro in a chorus of clopping hooves and babbling voices, a haze of red dust lingering above the throng. The people shoved and shouldered past each other to buy bread, wine, fabrics and spices at the street-side stalls. But there was one face amongst the throng entirely disinterested in trade: a young, lean man with a crop of short, dark hair and a sun-burnished, hawk-like face, heading west along the main road at haste.
Pavo barged past a pair of squabbling shoppers, straightening the sleeves of his fresh white tunic and brushing a hand across his smooth jaw. After some five months in the burning sands of Persia, such simple pleasures as shaving and clean clothes were still a novelty to be savoured. The very fact he had survived the fraught journey east was a blessing he would never forget.
A two-hundred-strong vexillatio of the Claudia had been sent into Persia that spring. Yesterday, just five had returned. They had sailed from Antioch, enduring a stomach-churning fortnight at sea before reaching Constantinople and docking at the Neorion harbour in the north of the city yesterday morning. Utterly spent, they had staggered to the dusty little barrack compound that they had left behind earlier that year. His itchy hay-mattress bunk had felt like a silken cradle, and he slept dreamlessly for the rest of that day and most of this one too. Waking just hours ago, he had eaten like a starving beggar with his four surviving comrades in the barracks. Half a pheasant, three bowls of mutton stew mopped up with half a loaf of bread, then yoghurt and honey, finished with a small lake’s worth of chilled water. They had said little as they ate, each man exhausted and acutely aware of their many absent comrades who had fallen in the east. So much had changed during those months in the burning sands. So many questions had been answered, he realised, gulping back the swelling in his throat as he thought of Father. And so many new questions posed, he mused, glancing down to the leather bracelet on his wrist – Father’s last gift to him.
Numerius Vitellius Pavo, Hostus Vitellius Dexion. Every beat of my heart is for you, my sons.
He could even hear Father’s voice as he read the etching on the bracelet one more time. A father lost, the promise of a half-brother found. It truly had been a monumental time in the fiery east.
A sudden waft of floral perfume from a passing group of lead-painted ladies on the way stirred him from memory and reminded him of his destination. All throughout the unpleasant voyage home, he had yearned for the moment when he would be reunited with Felicia. Again, his mind’s eye taunted him with images of her. Her amber locks, her floral scent. Her warm, soft skin against his. Soon it would no longer be a fruitless longing. Before setting sail from Antioch he had sent her a message on the Cursus Publicus, assuring her he was well and would return to her. The imperial messenger would have reached her in a fraction of the time their sea voyage had taken. She would have had days to eagerly anticipate his return.
He noticed his surroundings growing less salubrious as the road skirted the foot of the seventh hill – with crumbling insulae tenements becoming more dominant than marble edifices. Regardless, the sight evoked a thousand precious memories within him. His early years had been spent here with Father, and now it was home for him and Felicia. He came under the shade of the city walls and the Saturninus Gate and then veered off down a narrow and relatively quiet alley. His boots clattered on the uneven flagstones, drawing glances from the few characters lingering in doorways and looking down from windows. Pavo noticed one hooded fellow with a scarred face straighten up a little as he passed. From the corner of his eye he saw the tell-tale shift of something under the cloak. Lightning-fast, Pavo swung and shot out a hand, fiercely grappling the man’s wrist through the cloak until the sinews in his arms bulged. The man winced and a dagger fell from the bottom of his cloak.
‘Go and haunt some other street,’ Pavo snarled.
The mugger’s eyes darted over Pavo’s face, panicked. He backed away, then turned and ran, leaving his fallen blade.
The moment was gone like an unwelcome breeze, and Pavo turned his attentions to the listing tenement bef
ore him. His heart pounded as he looked up to the third floor and let anticipation run riot. He bounded up the rickety timber stairs onto the third floor landing, his face broadening with an incontrollable grin . . . until he beheld the vacated apartment, door ajar. His Cursus Publicus scroll lay unopened where it had been shoved under the door. The room was bereft of her things. Just a bare bed and a scarred table sat there, an irate-looking mouse scowling at him from its surface, interrupted from its meal of a bread crust. Then he saw a lonely-looking strip of red silk on the table, layered with dust. He stalked inside and lifted it, shaking the dust clear and holding it to his nose, inhaling the weak trace of Felicia’s scent. It was just like the piece she had given him which had been lost in Persia. Her farewell to him? A way of leaving the past behind? His pounding heart stumbled to a near standstill.
Legionary: The Scourge of Thracia (Legionary 4) Page 2
