The courtier’s face widened in alarm. This was not the sort of detail to be aired in front of nameless soldiers. The two Lentienses shuffled uncomfortably. ‘Domine,’ he said, gesturing to the two guards, ‘perhaps you should… ’
‘Hmm?’ Gratian said, seemingly confused. ‘Oh, yes. Hakon, Cenric – that will be all. Wait on me in the atrium.’
‘Domine!’ the pair of guards barked in unison before scuttling from the room.
The courtier waited until the towering door clicked shut before speaking again. ‘Forgive me, Domine, but those men are from the tribes. If they have loose tongues then-’
Gratian’s beheld the fat man. ‘Then we will have a crisis,’ he said flatly.
‘But yes, Domine,’ the courtier agreed hurriedly. ‘If Merobaudes is far away in Raetia and drawing ever further east with his army then-’
‘Merobaudes is where I ordered him to be!’ Gratian snapped, lurching forward on his throne, gripping the arm rests as if to throttle them and showering the shrinking courtier in spittle. ‘And the army he has the privilege of leading is not his… it is mine.’
The shaking courtier seemed to be on the edge of collapse, cowering and having sunk to one knee.
Dexion stepped forward to intervene, looking down upon the courtier like a master to a dog. ‘All is in hand, and that is all you need to know.’
Two more weeks passed, and Gallus knew nothing other than long hours of agony in the torture chamber and patches of fitful rest in his cell. They were dark times, devoid of hope.
Lurco pressed a red-hot sickle into his flesh and the contact brought about a violent hiss. His back arched, the chains holding him upright by his wrists strained, his feet scraped at the floor and his cry filled the chamber. The stench was vile and the pain seemed only to grow when the glowing blade was removed. He shuddered, then slumped, his head lolling forward.
Lurco lifted a bucket, ready to douse him with cold water to waken him, but grunted in disappointment to find the vessel was empty, as were the others on the floor nearby. He cast an eye over the bent blades and tongs resting over the dulling embers of the brazier. ‘Pah,’ Lurco grumbled, then clapped his hands. ‘The fun is over for another day – throw him in his cell.’
Gallus felt only the dull sense of his arms being hooked over the shoulders of two unseen others, of his feet dragging as he was taken down the stairs, of the wrist shackles biting as they were clipped into place and the dull thump as he slid down the wall to slump on the cell floor. The clang of his cell gate slamming closed sounded distant – more so than usual. He felt no urge to do anything other than let oblivion take him. It was only when he heard the cell open once more and the gentle padding of footsteps approaching him that he gathered the strength to open his eyes and raise his head.
The Hun girl crouched by his side. She tended to his burns as best she could, but she had only water and rags to work with. Gallus winced, sitting up to rest his back on the cell wall. ‘Thank you,’
She nodded.
Gallus noticed the guard who had shown her in was different – not Trogus the mastiff-like one who enjoyed tormenting him but Kuno, a colossus of a man. Kuno was standing further back than Trogus normally did, watching them but possibly out of earshot. ‘How did you come to be here in the western court? You are far from home, are you not?’
The girl looked up and offered a nervous and brief half-smile. ‘This place is home now,’ she said in a tone of resignation.
‘But before this place, where was home?’
She stopped dabbing at a serrated burn welt and sighed, glancing over her shoulder to the stairwell. ‘I should not speak of it.’
‘He cannot hear you. Tell me, please. Take my mind from this dank pit.’
She soaked the rag in water again and as she wrung it, her eyes looked through Gallus. ‘The steppe is everything this place is not: the sky and the plain are all there is to see; Tengri the Sky God looks down from the blue above, while our horses roam unbounded on the pasturelands.’
Gallus saw a smile reappear on her lips. Her dark eyes sparkled and her pink tongue peeked between the small gap between her teeth as she cocked her head to one side, dreamily.
‘I can ride all day in any direction, knowing that I can make my bed or set up my tent in whichever patch of moss is the softest. In the summer, we ride close to the rivers and in winter we roam south, to stay clear of the chill. Under the sun, we hunt hare, goat, elk and fallow-deer. Under the moon, we eat and we praise Tengri for such blessings. Sour milk is our only drink, meat and curd our only food, hide tents our only palace.’
Gallus rested his head back against the cell wall, the girl’s words more soothing than any damp rag. He thought of the Huns he had faced – ferocious warrior hordes. Never had he seen this tranquil side of their society.
‘You do not believe me?’ she said, as if reading his thoughts.
‘No, it’s not that, it’s… ’ he started.
‘I have heard how your empire views my people: screaming warriors wearing wolfskins on their faces; bound, elongated skulls; a hunger for raw horse flesh, tenderised under the saddle,’ she paused and chuckled dryly. ‘You even call us Hunni – bastard offspring of the steppe spirits.’
Gallus felt his wounds all too keenly now, burning on his skin like the Hun girl’s words. ‘I can only imagine what your kinsmen might say of the empire, were you to return to them and tell them tales of your time here.’
She returned to bathing his wounds. ‘There is no chance of that happening, Roman.’
‘You are not a prisoner here though – you are a slave, I presume? Slaves can sometimes buy their freedom. Do you not yearn to be free?’
‘I do. As do you.’
Gallus frowned.
She eyed him gingerly. ‘I have tended to you more than you realise – sometimes when you were barely conscious. You speak even when you are not awake.’
‘What do you know?’ he said, guardedly.
‘Your name is Gal-lus,’ she said, struggling with the pronunciation. She gestured to herself. ‘And I am Evike.’
Gallus bowed a little towards her. ‘And I am sure I said more than my name, Evike.’
She avoided his gaze. ‘You talk much of the two you lost.’
‘Aye,’ Gallus said quietly.
‘I lost my family too, when the Roman slave traders cut them down and brought me here,’ Evike said. ‘Sometimes I wonder as to the nature of freedom. Is it to be on the steppe again with the sun on my skin and the wind in my hair… or is it to be with my family once more?’
Gallus’ skin prickled as she said this. He barely noticed her drawing something from under her robe until she placed the object in his hand. He looked down and saw a semispatha – a short version of the legionary sword – in a sheath, his beaten, bruised face and wintry blue eyes reflected and distorted further in the blade’s polished hilt. He shot a furtive look at the guard, but Evike had positioned her body to obscure the exchange.
‘There are too many guards in here. They will spot or find the blade before I have a chance to use it,’ he whispered. ‘I’d never be able to wield it before-’
She clasped one hand over the blade, wedging it safely in between the cell wall and the small of his back, out of sight, then placed a finger over his lips, leaning close. ‘Do with this as you will, Gal-lus. After all, freedom comes in many forms.’
He barely heard her leaving with Kuno, barely noticed the cell gate crash shut or the footsteps ebbing up the stairwell. When he was sure he was alone, he lifted the semispatha out from behind his back and regarded it. He recalled the twin gateways in the mist.
Freedom comes in many forms? Numbly, he drew the blade from its sheath, his heart pounding. With a zing, the blade was free. The fragment of paper wrapped around the blade tumbled onto his lap. Lost, he lifted the paper and unfurled it. As he read the shaky writing upon it, his eyes widened. It was a guard roster. Every day, four men stood guard between this lower chamber and the
door to the world above. Every day apart from the first day of the new moon: then, just two men were on duty for that single day. And in this coming new moon, Trogus and Kuno would be the two… but Kuno’s name was crossed off. He regarded the blade again, then his chains, then the door to the stairwell.
Just one man?
Hakon raced through the dank, green woods, bounding along the old forest trails he recalled so vividly from his youth. Trilling bird noises and the drumming of woodpeckers echoed around him as he went, hopping across the stones dotting a musty bog, through drifting, cool mist and damp ferns. Since taking leave from Emperor Gratian’s court, he could think of only one thing: home. Now, in the last week of April, he was here at last.
The wagon from Treverorum had taken him to the ferry dock at the stone-walled fort of Argentoratum on the Rhenus two days ago, and he had crossed the river into these wilds. Immediately, the invisible shackles of hegemony – the bond by which his tribesmen stayed at peace with the empire – fell away. He recalled fireside tales of his youth – great yarns about long-dead warriors of their kin, in the days when the Alemannic tribes had been less meek. But now, with the information he had from the emperor’s court, perhaps the factions within the Lentienses who yearned for the glory of yore might be spurred into action, to rise again.
He cut through a veil of ferns and saw it, jutting from the rolling mist: the village of his childhood, a sprawl of thatched roofs and lazy columns of smoke, built around a jutting, steep-sided hill at the centre. The rocky slopes sported just one clear path up to the flat summit which was crowned with a wreath of timber palisade and towers. Rauberg – the Rugged Mountain – they called this hill. Up there he saw men in conical helms with spears and some in dark green leather armour – King Priarius’ best soldiers, keeping watch over this, the grandest of the Lentienses villages. He raced on through the mud tracks of the lower town, past low-walled, homes and pig and goat pens. A few mud-spattered villagers started as he ran past, some of them calling out after him, recognising him. But there was no room for delay. Up the winding path towards the acropolis he bounded, scree tumbling in his wake as he went. Only two crossed spears at the thick timber acropolis gates halted him.
One of the guards scratched his shaggy brown beard for a moment, then his eyes lit up in recognition. ‘Hakon?’
‘The emperor’s arse-scratcher has returned?’ the other said, hitching at the crotch of his thick, brown trousers and spitting into the mud.
Hakon gasped for breath, wagging a finger between the pair. ‘Let me in. I must speak to King Priarius.’
The two looked at one another. Clearly they were keen to make life difficult. Hakon sighed, then realised both of these men were amongst the many who oft talked of a return to the old ways.
‘Emperor Gratian and his army are set to head east. The Rhenus frontier will soon lie sparsely defended. I come to petition the king to act upon this rare opportunity.’ He looked each guard in the eye. ‘There is glory to be had, for those brave enough to seize it.’
The two guards’ eyes widened. Without a further word, they parted their spears and opened the acropolis gates.
Chapter 3
It was the end of May when the populace of Constantinople woke to the news they had been anxiously awaiting: Emperor Valens and his fleet were to arrive in the city that day. By noon, virtually every soul within the walls had gathered near the fortified Julian Harbour on the city’s southern coastline. Bright flower petals drifted lazily through the hot summer breeze, the air was tinged with the aroma of cooking meats, baking fish and bread, and alive with a keen babble. Adults chattered, dogs barked and howled and children clambered up statues, pillars and even the walls of the fortified wharf itself to get a better look at the tiny approaching patch of colour out there on the hazy turquoise waters of the Propontis. Even the storks nesting atop trees and palace rooftops stood proud, looking south.
Pavo sat in the shade of a palm tree near the arched gallery that supported the Hippodrome’s curved southern end, looking downhill towards the harbour and the clamour there. He shielded his eyes from the bright midday sun and eyed the flotilla. Now the blur of colour was discernible as a number of galleys, purple, red and white square sails billowing gently in the sea breeze. He supped at his cup of goat broth and almost retched – it was thin and sour. Sura had bought four portions of the stuff from a dubious trader, claiming he’d tasted it and verified it as ‘rich and hearty with a fine balance of herbs.’
He set down his cup and wiped away the tears it had brought to his eyes. It took only a moment of tapping his foot restlessly for his hands to reach for his purse. He drew out the tattered square of paper and unfolded it, seeing in his mind’s eye the dying features of the centurion outside the walls as he did so.
I found this on the corpse of a man… a comrade of Dexion’s. Brethren…
It conjured that odd mix of ice and fire across his skin again. He eyed the faded leaf of paper once more, as if this thousandth review might shed some light on its meaning: that single, staring eye, and the one line of neatly-written text.
Narco holds the truth.
That was it. He smiled wryly and folded it up again. Who in Hades is Narco? He looked up and around, seeing the thousands of nameless faces nearby as some unsolvable puzzle. What kind of torment is this? He wondered what Dexion’s connection to this Narco was – perhaps a veteran from the I Italica – Dexion’s old legion?
‘Have you ever seen so many galleys? There must be hundreds of them,’ Zosimus cooed, gulping at his own broth then flinching.
Pavo looked up, tucking the paper away.
Quadratus supped at his soup and shuddered. ‘Thirty thousand fighting men when you add our lot to the mix,’ he muttered absently.
‘Thirty thousand men… and the one man who brings them to save us all,’ Pavo mused, eyeing the quinquereme – the ship with the tallest mast of the fleet. Valens’ flagship.
‘What has taken him so long?’ a weathered fellow nearby snapped in response, hearing Pavo’s words. ‘The Goths have been roving these lands unpunished for months!’
Pavo thought of correcting him – armies could not be extracted from one front and brought to another in days or weeks – but he thought better of it, seeing an appetite for trouble in the man’s eyes. Though the cantankerous man was right about one thing: the Goths had utterly wrung any vestiges of Roman control from the lands beyond the walls of the major cities. Farmlands had been plundered and villages razed. More, the Gothic raid he and Sura had been caught up in outside the walls was just the first of many, with each one since becoming bolder as they ransacked the ramshackle strip of vicus out there, just paces from the gates of the imperial capital. The thin wall guard were all-too-often caught unawares and unprepared. It was the lowest ebb in living memory. All around him, the crowds were muttering, then grousing, and he could almost feel the air of joviality harden as their whispers adopted a steely edge.
‘I don’t know why we’re celebrating,’ one slurred. ‘Valens will doubtless only close down more of the temples or enforce the priests to preach his beloved Arian doctrine.’
‘He wouldn’t dare. He has much to answer for and any meddling with the true Christian faith will not help his cause.’
Pavo shot a sideways look at the red-faced pair saying these things. Under the hot sun and with heads full of wine, they were doubtless braver than they might normally be, but the sense of foreboding was rife.
Sura barged through the crowd and hurried over to join his comrades, cradling four small loaves of bread, throwing one to each of the officers then taking up his own portion of broth. ‘How’s the soup?’
Pavo, Zosimus and Quadratus looked round in unison. ‘Disgusting.’
‘Yep, next time we’ll let Cornix find us some decent grub,’ Quadratus added.
Crestfallen, Sura shrugged and took a sip of his, pretending he liked it but barely disguising a gag. When Quadratus tipped out his cup on the ground, a fat grey ca
t sauntered along to claim the meal, but only managed a single lick before recoiling and throwing up.
The murmur of the crowd grew as the flotilla came towards the harbour, and the voices of disquiet intensified. Indeed, when the first few triremes docked and the quinquereme followed, some men, having climbed to the tops of trees for a good view, began whistling shrilly. Almost as if to disguise this, the cluster of twelve horn-blowers atop each of the fortified harbour’s gate towers sounded a chorus of triumphant notes, as if heralding a god.
A short while later, the wide harbour gates swung open and the first of the Praesental regiments marched from the wharf: the thousand javelin throwers of the Lanciarii, distinguished by their bronze scale vests and golden sun shields. This legion was classed as one of the Auxilia Palatina – the palace legions, Valens’ elite infantry. They progressed into the city, ascending the gently rising avenue towards the Hippodrome. There was some cheering and some new handfuls of petals were thrown. But when a wall of some forty white-robed men bearing white, gold-etched shields and spears followed, the whistling struck up again.
Candidati, Pavo realised, Valens’ personal guards.
Pavo shared a look with Zosimus, Quadratus and Sura. ‘This is going to be… interesting,’ Zosimus muttered. Off duty, the group were without weapons, and Pavo knew only too well how volatile the city’s masses could be.
When Valens emerged, riding a chestnut stallion, he was dressed in white steel armour, a purple cloak edged with gold and he wore a wreath of leaves around his head. He sat proud on the saddle, head held high, jaw firm, his cobalt eyes gazing to some unseen point in the distance. He looked every inch the Emperor of the East. The reception the people of Constantinople gave him was barely befitting of a beggar.
Gods & Emperors (Legionary 5) Page 6
