Gods & Emperors (Legionary 5)

by Gordon Doherty

  The shadow-man grew, as if riled by his words, then pushed Pavo back with dark, unseen hands. Pavo stumbled and fell to the flagstone floor. The shadow-man stalked forwards as if to strike him again, but the wolf pounced into the space between, snarling ferociously. The shadow-man swept out a silvery blade and struck the wolf, sending it sliding across the floor, howling, before pacing on to loom over Pavo.

  The wisps of dark smoke emanating from this shapeless creature grew thicker and thicker, swiftly billowing and stinging his eyes. An instant later, the walls, floor and ceiling of the farmhouse around him erupted into a fiery orange cage of roaring flames. The heat seared him where he lay, helpless, as the shadow-man hefted his silvery blade to strike the life from him…

  ‘No!’

  ‘No!’ he cried with all the breath in his lungs, arms held up to shield himself. He felt a whoosh of air then a thwack and a blunt pain in his knees and palms. The world, spinning around him, came to a halt and he realised where he was: Constantinople. More precisely, on all fours on the cool stone floor of the barracks where he had landed having fallen from his bunk, his blanket still tangled around his waist and his skin slick with sweat. He blinked and shook his head, panting, seeing the dull, pre-dawn light shining through the slit windows at the top of the sleeping quarters.

  Groggily and somewhat irritably, two other figures in the four man bunk room stirred. Sura – his eyes puffy with sleep and his blonde locks tangled and matted – sat up, rummaged in the purse by his bed and tossed a coin to Quadratus, the hulking, fair-haired Gaulish centurion with the drooping moustache. ‘Told you,’ Quadratus grunted, catching the coin before rolling back over in his bed to face the wall and emitting a staccato volley of three farts as if to underline his assertion: ‘Right-as-usual.’

  Pavo shot Sura a quizzical look.

  ‘I said you’d sleep quietly till the sun was fully up. Quadratus said you’d be roaring before then,’ Sura shrugged.

  Pavo scrubbed at his short crop of dark hair and wiped at the film of sweat on his forehead, a droplet of it running down the bridge of his aquiline nose. ‘You were betting on my nightmares? Good to know you have my welfare at heart.’

  Just then, the fourth figure in the room stirred. ‘Mithras, do you bastards do this to me on purpose?’ Centurion Zosimus croaked, sitting upright in his bunk. The senior centurion of the XI Claudia’s usually permanent scowl was exaggerated and his anvil jaw jutted in affront. ‘I was in the middle of the sweetest of dreams… back home in Adrianople with Lupia.’ He traced an outline of his wife as if she was astride him. ‘I was this close,’ he growled, holding up a thumb and forefinger, almost touching, then opened his hands as if to pluck two ripe pears from a tree, ‘this close to getting my hands on her ti-’

  ‘Here,’ Sura cut in, grudgingly throwing Zosimus a coin too.

  Pavo frowned. ‘Oh, so you all had a wager on my personal distress?’

  Zosimus’ snorted the contents of his nose down his throat then his face cracked into a mischievous smile as he flicked the coin up with his thumb and caught it. ‘Well I was for punching you in the balls – really hard – every time you woke us up before roll call, so think yourself lucky.’

  ‘Speaking of which,’ Quadratus glanced to the slit window, where the dawn light had grown brighter.

  Zosimus’ face fell again. He swung his bull-like figure from his bunk, grabbed a buccina from a hook on the wall and tossed the bronze horn to Pavo. ‘Make yourself useful, eh?’

  Having shaken off the last traces of sleep and now clad in a white tunic, thigh-length mail shirt, brown cloak, leather boots and an iron-finned intercisa helm, Centurion Numerius Vitellius Pavo of the XI Claudia Pia Fidelis, Second Cohort, First Century, strode from the barrack blocks and into the fresh April morning. He crossed the small parade ground then flitted up the steps and onto the parapet atop the squat, sturdy walls of this compound in the north of the city. He spotted the lone sentry at the corner, back turned. This man was the buccinator, the one who would sound morning roll-call. He took one step towards the fellow, but something stopped him: a will to savour the moment of calm before the legion was roused.

  For a few breaths he allowed himself to enjoy the clement heat of the dawn sun on his skin and gazed over the marble pearl that was the imperial capital: gentle hills dotted with bright gardens and orchards, terracotta domes, gilded statues and temples, porphyry columns stretching for the sky, winding steps and broad avenues dappled with early-risers and traders heading to the many market squares. All this was bathed in gentle golden light, the last of the grey shade slowly receding to the melody of the dawn birdsong. A gentle chatter and the scent of fresh bread and baking fish drew his attentions to the north and the activity of the fishermen at the nearby Neorion Harbour, integrated into the city’s low sea walls. Beyond this wharf, a low, hoary bank of mist lingered over the waters of the Golden Horn, and the Sycae Watchtower on the far shore yawned into the sky. He unconsciously opened a hand as if offering it to an absent companion, recalling the previous spring when he and Felicia had watched just such a sunrise up here.

  One day our children will look out on those waters, she had said as he held her in his embrace, the breath of her whispered words dancing across the skin of his neck like the breeze from a butterfly’s wing.

  He smiled sadly and closed his hand. The grief had been acute for many months and although it was ebbing now, at times it was still cruel like an unexpected stroke of the lash. He took a deep breath, strode over to the buccinator and handed over the horn. The fellow saluted to Pavo then lifted the buccina and emptied his lungs into it. The horn keened across Constantinople. Like wild beasts calling out in reply, many more horns sounded from the other barracks dotted across the city.

  As the cry of the horns died, the empty parade ground just below Pavo filled with a chorus of groans and shouts as the XI Claudia came to life, spilling from the serried barrack blocks, hastily buckling on armour. He watched them assemble, and as the first two centuries finished their preparations and hurried to take their place facing him, he stood a little taller and his stomach clenched just a little. It was something he had never considered before his promotion to centurion just months ago: that every action, every mannerism, every word would affect the men under his command. Here in the barracks, it maybe didn’t matter too much, but soon, he thought, his gaze lifting to the northwestern horizon, soon, it would be their lives in his hands.

  The last few months had been desperate for the Claudia. The clash with Reiks Farnobius’ Goths at the Succi Pass – out in Thracia’s western reaches – had been fraught. Hundreds of men had fallen in the wintry wastes of that tight valley. Since returning from the clash to see out the winter in Constantinople, they had been tasked with building the legion up to full-strength before the end of May – in time to join Emperor Valens’ army when he arrived from Antioch. Just a few hundred of the legion had survived the Succi Pass, and so swathes of recruits and veterans had been conscripted to replenish the ranks. Now, the fifteen hundred men in this cramped barracks meant the Claudia was just a few centuries short of a full complement. Amongst the many new faces lining up before him, there were a few familiar ones: Cornix and Trupo, the lads just a few years younger than him who had quickly become veterans at the Succi Pass and now served as an example to the others in his Second Cohort. Cornix was a tall and rangy legionary with a talent for cooking that guaranteed his popularity with the rest of the ranks, and a livid Gothic longsword scar running from jaw to forehead that told of his mettle on the battlefield. Trupo – who had been overweight and timid when he joined the legion – was now whippet-like and eager and one of the fastest runners Pavo had ever seen. Over in the ranks of Zosimus’ First Cohort, he nodded almost imperceptibly at Rectus the lantern-jawed centurion and his wild-haired and rather manic optio, Libo, sporting one good eye and one wooden one with a silver iris and pupil painted on, oversized and askew. These two were also veterans of the Succi Pass and ring-leaders in an
y ribald activity in and around the barracks.

  As morning roll-call demanded, every man forming up was dressed in mail armour and carried a swordbelt, spear and shield – painted ruby red and decorated with gold motifs. They were soon joined by Herenus the swarthy Cretan and his century of funditores – expert slingers who had served the legion well at the Succi Pass. Likewise, the century of sagittarii from that same campaign were lining up alongside them: these foot archers wore bronze conical helms with nose guards, mail vests and ruby cloaks.

  Within moments, the parade ground was crammed full of legionaries – three almost replete cohorts. The barrack compound was only designed to house half that number, so he forgave the irregularity in some of the formations, seeing that the signiferi of each century held their unit banners high and stood in the correct position while the legion’s aquilifer stood at the front, holding the taller, grander legion standard aloft so the silver eagle and the ruby bull banner draped below it caught the early morning light.

  Sura, his optio and second in command, climbed the steps to join him, soon followed by centurions Zosimus and Quadratus. Something unsaid made all four turn to the spot beside Centurion Zosimus. An empty place where normally Tribunus Gallus would be. Should be. And there was another space… space for the legion’s second in command. The Primus Pilus. Dexion.

  The absence of Tribunus Gallus and Primus Pilus Dexion felt like an open wound on Pavo’s skin. Where are you?

  The pair had raced to the west to summon a relief force to the Succi Pass. The relief force – a band of Sarmatian lancers – had arrived and helped turn the clash in Claudia’s favour, but Tribunus Gallus and Primus Pilus Dexion had not returned with them. All the Sarmatians knew was that the pair had continued west to take news of the Gothic War to Emperor Gratian and hasten his legions to Thracia.

  May Mithras grant you wings, Pavo mouthed, and shield you on your way, he added – for he knew only too well Gallus’ dark rancour with the Western court.

  ‘I’d planned to put you through a bout of armatura today,’ Zosimus barked suddenly to the assembled cohorts. Pavo looked over the bunched-together men as they stiffened to attention at the prospect of sword, shield and javelin practice. ‘But as we’re all too aware, there’s barely enough room in here to bugger a goat. And some of us know this only too well,’ he said casting a scornful look at one gap-toothed legionary, who hung his head in shame.

  Pavo cocked an eyebrow, recalling the panicked bleating of a goat that had woken him a few nights previously, then shook the distraction from his head. He glanced sideways at Zosimus, recalling the many chats he, Sura and Quadratus had shared with the senior centurion regarding the current predicament: the XI Claudia, like the few other remaining Thracian legions, were forbidden to pass beyond the city’s stocky land walls and had been ever since early March. It was on the first day of that month that Gothic warbands had been sighted on the hills outside the city. A cohort training on the flats nearby had been attacked by them in a swift raid. Hundreds of precious legionaries had been killed or maimed. So the Magister Officiorum – the man in charge of the city at Valens’ behest – had been forced to impose the curfew, denying the scant forces stationed here and their recruits the chance to properly train and ready themselves, penning them within the walls. ‘Like sheep,’ Pavo muttered.

  ‘No – goats,’ Sura whispered, misunderstanding. ‘He likes goats.’

  Pavo barely noticed the comment, his mind stuck on the problem. Constantinople’s broad streets and forums were no place for legionaries to train, especially when they were crammed full of refugees from the Thracian countryside, but it was clear these men needed a place to let off steam. Some, he could tell, were desperate to prove themselves. Others were painfully nervous and wanted to throw themselves into some form of training or combat to shed that pent-up anxiety. Too often over the last month, they had no option other than to pass their days in the cramped streets, taverns and brothels of the city. Pavo certainly had no issue with this in principle – indeed he had joined them for a drink or two some nights – but he knew it was no way to prepare for the arrival of Emperor Valens and the expected march out into Thracia that was to follow. Yes, the ranks were almost replete, but how many knew how to handle a spear? How many could march for eight hours without throwing up? Were there enough men within the cohorts who knew how to control their fear and stand their ground in the face of a Gothic army?

  ‘I tried to reserve the meadow down by the fish market near the Julian Harbour,’ Zosimus continued, ‘but the bastards of the V Macedonica got there first. Still, perhaps it’s for the best – place smells like a whore’s crotch!’

  The ranks relaxed at this, a light chorus of laughter breaking out.

  ‘So fall out, grind your grain and cook your bread then tend to your kit. We’ll have another drill at noon. I’ll see what I can to for tomorrow,’ Zosimus concluded. As the men spilled back to their bunk blocks, Zosimus turned to confer with his fellow officers. Pavo could almost feel the weight on the big man’s shoulders, the Thracian’s eyes were bloodshot and he slumped a fraction when he knew the cohorts had dispersed. Zosimus had been offered the role as tribunus, yet had refused it, insisting that Gallus was still incumbent, if absent.

  ‘The sooner your brother and the Tribunus return, the better,’ Zosimus grumbled more in hope than expectation.

  Pavo noticed Quadratus and Sura share a look of doubt at the prospect. That even these two were now giving up hope sent a stinging lance of anguish through his chest. ‘If Mithras wills it, then it shall be so,’ he avowed, then turned to watch the cohorts setting to work cleaning their armour, whetting swords and baking their morning bread. ‘Now, as for this curfew: it’s gone on long enough. It was put in place to protect the few legions stationed here until Emperor Valens arrives, but it’s becoming a danger in itself. Surely the grounds outside the wall can be utilised somehow?’

  Zosimus shook his head. ‘Not to put too fine a point on it, but the Magister Officiorum is a brainless scrotum. He barely listened to me when I approached him yesterday. Said he had that morning looked out from the walls and seen the situation for himself. The curfew is to remain.’

  ‘He’s not even a bloody soldier,’ Quadratus scoffed. ‘Probably took the word of one of those turds in armour that patrol the walls.’

  Pavo’s eyes narrowed in thought and he stroked his chin. ‘None of us have seen the land outside the city since the curfew was imposed. Maybe Sura and I should make a visit to the land walls… see for ourselves?’

  ‘Aye,’ Sura replied, ‘with my famed eyesight, I’d be able to see for miles.’

  ‘Perfect – the lunatic agrees,’ Quadratus scoffed. ‘Death knell for any plan.’

  Zosimus seemed to be on the verge of pegging them back, before he relented. ‘Then go, but go as civilians and don’t step outside the gates. You’re not breaking curfew that way.’

  An hour later, the mist on the waters had cleared and the sun had chased the dawn shadows from the city. Pavo and Sura had relinquished their iron garb and made their way towards the land walls, each now wearing linen trousers and white tunics decorated with purple, arrow-headed stripes on each breast – enough to mark them out as military albeit off-duty. The light garments offered some relief from the spring heat, but both men still sported a film of sweat on their brows. They headed through the busy alleys on the third hill: the city plan of broad avenues and triumphal ways faltered in this tight sprawl, where listing, red-brick insulae cast the tight lanes in shade. The unsparing echo of some gull-voiced woman berating her husband to ‘empty the latrine’ bucket sounded from one of the apartments in the upper floors.

  They walked through the crowded markets in the valley between the third and fourth hills, following the route of the great aqueduct, passing in and out of the sunlight and shadow cast by its towering arches, then climbed a set of stone steps and came onto the broad northern way hemmed with raised pavements and porticoed walkways – one of the
city’s arterial avenues. This road brought them to the city walls and a vast, fortified gatehouse. A cohort of comitatenses legionaries – the ‘turds in armour’ as Quadratus had so delicately put it – patrolled the battlements.

  ‘Arse-breath isn’t here today, it seems,’ Sura said, eyeing the men up there. Pavo looked but could not see amongst them the cock-sure centurion who had casually dismissed the Claudia when they had petitioned to aid the wall garrison in their duties a few weeks ago. Why would I want the help of mere limitanei? The chiselled officer had scoffed. Your lot are fodder for the Gothic archers – nothing more.

  They browsed the stalls near the gatehouse, waiting until the section of wall to the right of the gatehouse had just one sentry strolling its length. Pavo motioned to Sura with a flick of his head and, wordlessly, the pair stalked towards a small postern gate and climbed the stairs inside. They came out upon the battlements and the lone sentry shot the pair a sidelong look and made as if to challenge them, as Pavo knew he would. Pavo met the sentry’s eyes with a steely glare – a look he had learned from Gallus, a look that told the sentry that he was dealing with an officer. ‘Sir,’ the sentry said at last, seeing the military decoration on their tunics before returning his gaze to the countryside.

  Pavo let go of the breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding, then he and Sura walked to the chest-high crenelations at the edge of the wall. At once a mild northerly breeze cut across them, ruffling Pavo’s short crop of hair and casting Sura’s locks across his face as they moved to rest their elbows on the parapet and look out across the land beyond the city. Their eyes searched from the turquoise, silk-like waters and sweeping shores of the Propontis in the south all the way to the rising green and gold hills to the north. The vast expanse of land was devoid of life. Adequate room for training, Pavo thought, until Sura nudged him with an elbow and pointed to a grey pall staining the otherwise clear sky beyond the hills. It was the smoke of pillage, both men knew, just a mile or two distant.