Pavo felt these words echo round his mind and wash through his veins like an elixir. ‘They . . . they are well?’
‘Aye, the iron tribunus and the tenacious dog that is your brother – you thought a winter journey across half an empire was beyond them?’ Quadratus chuckled.
‘The Sarmatians saw them to a Cursus Publicus waystation and on their way to Emperor Gratian. They’ll be arriving at his court any day now.’
Pavo swung to the western horizon. The fading daylight was fighting against the night, but out there lay hope. The XI Claudia would be strong again and Gallus would march at their head. Dexion would serve with them, bonding blood with brotherhood. Emperor Gratian and Emperor Valens would unite and the Gothic war would be brought to an end. Thracia could be saved.
The bitter winter’s night could not fend off his elation. The weary but hearty laughter from the XI Claudia nearby strengthened his resolve. Only the echoing words of Geridus could temper his burgeoning hope.
Put your faith not in emperors, but in your gods and your comrades.
Chapter 23
The Western Province of Belgica Prima was bathed in fine winter sunshine and sheathed in a thick fur of morning frost. The silver-grey roads that cut across the rolling hills and meadows all led to one place: the mighty city of Augusta Treverorum. The city’s beetling grey walls straddled the waters of the River Mosa, dominating the ancient river valley just as Emperor Gratian dominated his entire western realm from the palaces within. The place was a hallmark of imperial power: the vast, domed Basilica of Constantine, a fine and ancient arena, majestic temples, great bathhouses, wool mills and clusters of red-tiled villas segmented by broad streets and leafy forums.
The legionary garrison in the fourth storey of the high grey towers flanking the city’s mighty eastern gate strode back and forth, blowing into their hands and stoking the brazier, glancing from the arched windows and out across the countryside. There was always little activity in these winter months. But when they spotted a trio of riders approaching on the eastern road from Mogontiacum, they halted. The pace of these riders marked them out from the other few ambling wagons or herders.
‘Is that a messenger?’ one said, leaning on the sill of the opening.
‘Aye, looks like he bears the papers of the Cursus Publicus,’ his centurion agreed, nodding to the scroll clutched in the lead rider’s waving hand.
‘What of the other two?’ the first replied, frowning at the tall and gaunt man on one side, his dark, grey-streaked hair unkempt and his jaw sporting the beginnings of a beard. He wore a ragged, filthy red cloak. On the other side, a younger man rode, a hawk-like expression and a thatch of overgrown brown hair and similarly scruffy stubble on his chin. ‘They look like bloody barbarians.’
‘Hmm,’ the centurion mused. Ruses like this – with forged scrolls and men wearing stolen messenger robes – had been used in recent weeks by the rebellious Alemanni from across the Rhine to hijack Cursus Publicus waystations . . . but what harm could three men inflict upon this great city? He chuckled at his own naiveté, then nodded furtively to the archers deeper inside the tower eating bread by the brazier. At once, these men hurried over to the nearby window, nocking arrows to their bows and peering at the approaching three but staying in the shadows and out of sight. ‘On my word,’ the centurion said, lifting a hand, one finger extended.
He leaned his other hand on the sill and called down to the trio. ‘What is your business?’
‘I bring word for the Emperor,’ the Cursus Publicus rider replied.
Of course you do, the centurion thought, seeing the furtive glances of the gaunt one by the rider’s side. This was no mere message. He teetered on swiping his finger down. The archers stretched their bowstrings in expectation of this.
‘From the East,’ the rider added.
The centurion’s complacency faded. ‘The East?’
‘From Thracia, sir, all the way from Thracia!’ the messenger insisted.
The centurion’s ears perked up and a shiver danced down his spine. The Quadi insurgents on the upper Danubius had cut off all communication with the east for over a month. Emperor Gratian had been enraged when he heard of this. I must know of the eastern situation. My uncle, Valens, is expecting me to march to his aid. Yet I find that my own realm is in turmoil? The Cursus Publicus – the very fabric that weaves my cities and provinces together, is unravelling?
The centurion then began to salivate, for Emperor Gratian had offered a reward. Word from the east would buy those who brought it a fine estate and early retirement too. He waved the archers back then made to call down to the gatehouse, when a last modicum of caution gripped him. ‘Who rides with you?’ he challenged the rider again.
‘Tribu-’ the rider started to reply, when the gaunt, wolf-like one grunted something and bowed his head a fraction, so his features were hidden. The rider looked to the two flanking him and then back up to the centurion. ‘Two soldiers of the Thracian legions.’
Now the centurion saw the leather bags the pair carried over their shoulders. Legionary kit.
He let his doubts fade and focused on the reward.
‘Open the gates!’
Gallus’ head swayed with his mount’s every stride through Augusta Treverorum’s flagstoned streets as he and Dexion followed the messenger towards the palace in the city’s north-eastern quarter. The journey had been relentless since they had crossed paths with the Sarmatians. That moment when the lead rider had pinned him to a tree, blade on his throat, had been the nadir of their quest. Moments later, when the Sarmatian chieftain had recognised him and Dexion as Romans, the blade had fallen and the rider had embraced them. The steppe riders had led them to the nearest Cursus Publicus waystation then set off for Trajan’s Gate at haste, eager to reinforce the legionaries there as Gallus had implored them to do. Loyal and fierce allies, Gallus thought once again, and Thracia will need them in what is to come.
As soon as the Sarmatians had set off, Gallus and Dexion had accosted the nearest imperial rider in the waystation. The young lad made little sense of their weary and garbled explanations, but soon they were off, the rider leading them overnight to the next waystation. There they swapped their exhausted mounts for fresh ones, and the imperial rider tasked his colleague at that waystation with leading them onwards to the next stop. And on it went over the next few weeks, Gallus and Dexion snatching just a few hours of sleep and rushed meals on the saddle as they galloped through fog, blizzards, flooded roads and gales. In the frenzied journey, he thought only of the objective. Reach Gratian’s court. Now, he had to confront the consequences.
Yes, the Western Praesental Army could now be hastened to the east. Yes, Thracia might yet be saved from the marauding Gothic hordes. Yes, his comrades in the legion, so far away, might yet know victory and see their families and friends safe and well.
But what about you, Gallus? a dark voice goaded him from within. What now, iron tribunus?
He looked up furtively, scanning the streets of this fine city. Passing eyes seemed to linger a little too long on him. Grim-looking legionary sentries posted in the forums they passed looked a little grimmer than they should. A boy tossing a stick for a dog ran to pick the piece of wood up when it landed before Gallus’ mount’s hooves. The boy’s playful expression fell away when he met Gallus’ ice-cold eyes, and he backed away, frightened.
It is written all over my face. They can see I am not here merely to bring word to Emperor Gratian, he thought. ‘They know,’ he muttered to himself.
‘Sir?’ Dexion said.
The young officer’s voice stirred him from his morose thoughts. He looked to his primus pilus, seeing Pavo for an instant then recognising the few features that marked him out as that plucky lad’s older brother. Dexion looked every bit as gruff and weary as Gallus felt, and this gave him a degree of comfort. ‘Merely thinking aloud,’ Gallus replied.
As they followed the Cursus Publicus messenger uphill towards the palace region, Dexion ro
de a little closer. ‘Sir,’ he said in barely more than a whisper, ‘outside, when we were challenged . . . ’
‘Nobody in this place must know my name,’ Gallus cut him off. ‘You are Dexion, Primus Pilus of the XI Claudia. I am a veteran from your ranks, nothing more.’
Dexion flinched a little at Gallus’ tone, and Gallus immediately felt guilty. ‘I’m sorry. Like you, I’m exhausted. But without you, I couldn’t have made it all the way here. Your blood is every bit as fiery as your brother’s, and I want you to know that what happens next . . . well, I don’t want you to be part of it. I want you to return to Thracia, find the XI Claudia – Mithras willing that the Sarmatians rode to their aid in time – and lead them in my stead.’
Dexion’s face paled and he shook his head. ‘No, sir . . . what are you planning to-’
‘I don’t know,’ Gallus whispered. ‘But I know that I cannot rest until the shame of my past has been eradicated. They always follow the emperor and his court. They are here,’ he hissed, flicking a finger to the looming palace gates and the hulking marble edifice beyond – silhouetted in the winter sun. ‘The Speculatores are here.’
‘Sir, please, I beg of you, be wary . . . ’
Dexion’s words faded as they came to a halt before the palace gates, flanked by a pair of bearded, bronze-helmed guards there.
Heruli, an auxilium palatinum legion, Gallus realised seeing their shields of concentric white and red rings. Part of Gratian’s Praesental Army. The army of the West and maybe the saviour of the East? He wondered.
The palace gates groaned open and they dismounted, surrendered their arms and armour, then left the Cursus Publicus rider behind and followed the Heruli inside. They strode through ornamented archways, fine lawns and gardens speckled with scented winter blooms and fountains babbling gaily. The aroma of spices and cooking meat wafted from the lower chambers of the great palace as they approached, and Gallus realised how long it had been since he had eaten properly. But hunger could wait . . .
Justice could not.
They climbed the marble stairs and entered the palace’s cavernous main hall. A cloying, sweet smoke wound from sconces mounted on the forest of porphyry columns. Every footstep echoed around the room, bouncing from tiled floor to frescoed wall and gilded ceiling. Slaves scurried past, shooting horrified glances at their tattered condition, while the noses of fine-robed courtiers wrinkled as they passed. When they came to a towering doorway, the Heruli halted, one slipped inside then returned. ‘The emperor will see you now.’
Dexion looked to Gallus.
Gallus shook his head. ‘This is not the time for me to speak . . . sir,’ he said, bowing deferentially as if Dexion was his superior.
Dexion beheld him with one last look, then nodded. ‘Then be seated, soldier, until my dialogue with our emperor is complete.’
Gallus watched Dexion slip inside the imperial chamber, then slumped on the bench by the door. For the first time since that dark confrontation in the Mithraeum in Constantinople, he drew the idol of Mithras from his purse. He stared at it absently, thinking of Thracia, of his brothers in the XI Claudia, of the hope for that land and his people. Then he wondered at how close the dark agents were to him right now – how close justice was.
Which is it to be? The dark voice taunted him.
The thought troubled him greatly until, like the passing of a cloud, he saw that it was a false choice. It can be both, he retorted, Thracia can be saved, he glanced to the door of the imperial chamber, knowing that Dexion’s words would surely spur Emperor Gratian into action, and I . . . I will have my revenge.
Torches crackled in the corners of the dim throne room, sending dancing shadows across the painted scenes of the old gods and the fresher emblems of the Christian faith. A raised dais in the centre of the room was crowned with the imperial throne. Dexion came to a halt before the dais, genuflected, then beheld the young man on the seat of power. Draped in a purple robe and silk brocade, he looked every inch the youthful emperor. His fair skin was flawless and unblemished, his golden locks were swept across his forehead and his delicate features bore an expression of pure equanimity. There was no trace of a scowl or disgust at this guest’s ragged condition. It was then that Dexion noticed there was nobody else in the room. Not a single guard.
‘You bring word from the East?’ Gratian said, breaking the tense silence.
‘The Goths have overrun Thracia, Dominus,’ Dexion replied, licking his dry lips. His words seemed to be swallowed in the echo of the emperor’s question.
Gratian did not flinch. ‘And what of the legions in those lands – the comitatenses and the limitanei?’
Dexion mulled this over, thinking back to the fragmented remains of Thracia’s field army and of the scattered border legions. ‘They remain a force that can at least monitor the Gothic movements, but-’
‘Yes, yes,’ Gratian interrupted, swishing a hand lazily as if swatting a fly. ‘But when my Uncle Valens comes from Persia with his Eastern Praesental Army, will the remnant of the Thracian forces be enough to supplement his ranks and to win this Gothic War?’
Dexion remained silent, his golden eyes darting to the shadows around the dais.
Gratian’s air of serenity evaporated and his face bent into a predacious grin. ‘Come now, we are alone. You can speak freely.’
Dexion beheld this feral creature before him . . . then responded with a cold grin of his own. ‘Without your aid, Dominus, Thracia will fall.’
Gratian slunk back in his throne and chuckled with satisfaction. ‘Excellent . . . excellent. Then the fate of the Eastern Empire is in my palm. And who better to rule over both East and West, but a saviour? I will muster my armies and yes, I will take them east . . . but only when it suits me to do so.’ He stood and descended from the dais, his cloak trailing behind him. He beckoned Dexion with him to the tall, segmented and stained window at one side of the throne room, looking down the gentle slope to the heart of the city. ‘Your time in the east has been lengthy, and your comrades wondered not when but if they might see you return here.’
Dexion nodded, gazing down to the side of the forum, where the boy they had passed played with his dog. Joyous, unburdened with life. A true smile played with his lips, then crumbled as he saw the boy’s mother and father come for him. They took a hand each and walked him, lifting him with every second step, the dog yelping playfully as the boy laughed. He had known no such pleasure. His father had abandoned him and Mother to survive on their own – deserting them in favour of another family. And Father’s abandonment had stoked the cancer in Mother, he was sure. His forehead furrowed into deep, dark ruts as he thought of Pavo. He had first sought out his lost half-brother long, long ago, finding him on that hot summer’s day at Constantinople’s slave market. He watched from the pillars at the rear of the square as the fat and rich had bid for his last blood-relative, all the time weighing the purse of coins he was sure would be enough to buy Pavo for himself. He had watched, one foot ready to stride forth and into the bidding.
He had watched, ready to save his half-brother . . . then he had walked away.
Pavo had been favoured by Father, why? Why should he step in to save the boy who had gained all he had lost? He gazed into the ether, losing himself in this question, a fiery heat spreading across his chest and his top lip twitching, then he considered the emperor’s words.
Your comrades wondered if they might see you return here.
It was as an orphan that he had found his true family. Not the military as he had told Pavo, but the Speculatores. They were his blood and his soul. When one fell or was lost, others would replace them. They would never leave him, never abandon him. Pavo was nothing to him – nothing but a mocking reminder of his loss.
Something pinched at his heart. It was a dull sensation, something he had not felt in many years. Loss? You deplore it and yet you peddle it!
He tried to ignore the black voice, but it threw up memories of his actions in these last months. His jaw
stiffened as he tried to fend off the images. There were certain people who could not resist digging, prying. That the thug he had paid to deal with the bothersome Felicia could only clumsily wound her meant he had been forced to strangle the thug then silence the bitch himself during the chaos of the Great Northern Camp’s fall. He felt that pinch at his heart again, then he remembered how this had stoked such sorrow in Pavo. A flicker of a movement came to his lips – a tortured, tight smile.
‘It has been a busy time, Dominus,’ he replied. ‘Busy, but fruitful.’
Gratian sighed, eyeing the populace passing on the streets below with disdain. ‘And what of the other matter. Did you find some trace of the other one?’
Dexion brightened at this. ‘Tribunus Gallus? Why, yes, Dominus. Indeed, I have brought him to you as a prize.’
Gratian’s lips broke back into that avid grin. ‘He is here?’
Dexion nodded. ‘He is outside this very room, Dominus. It was an arduous undertaking, leading him here, but I know you have been waiting a long time to have him in your presence. Though it would have been easier had you allowed me to open his throat back in Thracia.’
Gratian cocked an eyebrow as if at once both impressed and concerned for his agent. ‘As you once so deftly dealt with his wife and boy?’
Dexion nodded, his mind flashing back to that shadowy night near Mediolanum when he had slain the mother and child. After so many years of training, it had been his first true assignment in his time with the Speculatores and one he remembered with pride. It had sealed that interminable bond.
‘That cur outside was a bane of my father’s reign,’ Gratian said with a wavering voice through gritted teeth. ‘He supported the senatorial dogs who stood against Emperor Valentinian and then evaded every blade sent to end his miserable life.’
‘So what is to be done with him, Dominus?’
Legionary: The Scourge of Thracia (Legionary 4) Page 37
