An angry chorus of boos joined the whistling. Some brave onlookers even dared to throw crusts of bread, though these fell well short of Valens, riding at the centre of the broad avenue formed by the Lancearii. Almost in parody, the plump grey cat, as if utterly opposed to Valens’ regime, arched its back and ran at the foremost ranks, side-on, hissing, before darting away through the legs of the crowds. One bearded, bald and crazed-looking old man hurled abuse at Valens, then took leave of his senses and surged forward, trying to break through the wall of Lancearii. A zing of sword grating on scabbard and a flash of steel later and the man disappeared from view.
The procession continued as if the ill-feeling was not there. Valens headed up the hill towards Pavo and the Hippodrome, more of his celebrated Auxilia Palatina regiments following behind him carrying a panoply of bright banners. Some bore silver eagle standards, others carried Chi-Rho staffs, and a few marched under draco standards – menacing bronze dragon heads with savage and rapacious fang-filled mouths mounted on the end of poles. The heads made an eerie droning sound whenever there was the slightest breeze, and the vibrant-coloured cloth ‘tails’ attached to the backs of them lifted and danced too as if giving life to these mythical creatures. Pavo looked over them, spotting units he had only heard of: there were the Batavians, a famed Auxilium Palatinum division one thousand strong, each marching man bearing a striking white jagged plume on their golden helm and carrying a pale green shield sporting a fierce, spiked boss; and then came the Mattiarii, red-plumed infantrymen with wolf-shields who carried a stock of javelins like the Lancearii. They were followed by the Joviani in their pale blue cloaks and shields and the Herculiani in black and red, each wearing bronze scale vests. On and on the cream of the imperial infantry came in serried ranks. He saw a vexillatio of some two hundred bronze-helmed ballistarii, men carrying small manuballista crossbows over their shoulders, with the more conventional archers of the Sagittarii Gallicani and the emperor’s own Sagittarii Valentis regiment marching behind, some with noseguard helms and scale shirts, others with broad-brimmed felt hats and mail. A thousand dedicated marksmen, whose hail would be supplemented by that from the many legionaries who carried bows too. A unit of funditores, more than four hundred strong, marched with them: these men wore no armour nor helms, their slings the only sign that they were soldiers. More Auxilia Palatina legions came next: the Hiberi with their sky blue shields emblazoned with golden lions, then the Nervii and the Fortenses with their red and sapphire star shields and then the Cornuti, each man’s helm decorated with two white-feathers, one above each ear.
Next, with a chorus of clopping hooves, came the Scholae Palatinae divisions – the emperor’s crack cavalry. The Scutarii Pavo had seen before, having encountered vexillationes of them during the troubles so far. They wore helms with trailing horsetail plumes, scale vests and oiled black cloaks, and carried blood-red shields. Following closely were the Gentiles, cavalry armed and dressed like the Scutarii but with glittering, silvery shields. Next came the Promoti, not classed as Scholae but still esteemed horsemen with blue and white checked shields and haughty looks on their faces to match their reputations. Two thick wings of scout equites followed and finally came the Cataphracti horsemen, the native riders from the Persian frontier. Fully-garbed for the parade, these men wore iron on every part of their body: scale and plate iron vests, rings of iron on their limbs and even their tall, muscular steeds wore iron masks and coats. Most of them were dark-skinned and many sported black moustaches and beards. At Ad Salices, riders like these had been crucial to the Roman effort – would they prove to be once again in what was to come? On and on the fleet unloaded, scale-clad comitatenses legions marched from the wharf in tidy squares – less prestigious than the palace regiments but still the cream of the regional field armies. Each of these blocks of one thousand men wore the same armour: scale vests and fine, studded ridge-helms that part-shielded their faces with cheek and nose guards. A sea of mules and wagons came with them, bearing tents, weapons and rations.
It was as fine an army as had ever graced the city in Pavo’s lifetime. Despite the chorus of discontent, he felt a frisson of hope. The Goths had so far been faced with only patchwork Roman armies. He could only imagine what this force could achieve against Fritigern and his horde.
Suddenly, a trio of cornua blared through the air behind him. Pavo swung to look up at the curved, southern end of the Hippodrome, jutting from the first hill like the rounded prow of a huge warship. Up there on the edge of the arena walls outlined against the cornflower-blue sky, the three trumpeters blew again and another figure hoisted a purple and gold standard, planting it in some fixture so it caught the hot breeze and billowed there. This was the belon, the banner that was raised to summon all within Constantinople’s walls to the great racetrack when important news was to be disseminated. Indeed, Valens column was now veering towards the Hippodrome’s eastern side where the arena met with the imperial palace complex, and the emperor himself was preparing to enter the arena’s imperial gate and ascend the stairs that led to the kathisma – the imperial box.
‘Let’s hear what he has to say,’ Zosimus said through tight lips, his wary eyes scanning the crowd for trouble. ‘Any bother and we do what we can to help the lads on garrison duty, agreed?’ he added, nodding up to the pitiful few legionaries of the V Macedonica stationed around the high outer lip of the arena where the banners and flags were mounted.
‘Agreed,’ Pavo said in unison with Sura and Quadratus.
Zosimus led the way as the gathered crowd surged towards the Hippodrome, bypassing the sweating, screaming merchants in the southern arches and coming round to the western, public entrances. They entered the arena through an airless, dark, low tunnel that was a riot of echoes and clattering feet, then climbed a set of stone stairs before emerging once more into the bright sunlight on the arena’s western marble terracing. All around the stadium, nearly forty thousand others poured in, spilling out to take a seat, and as many again squeezed onto the racetrack to stand. Water boys milled amongst the crowd, their amphorae quickly being drained. There were also men handing out cushions and rugs for sitting on.
It was mid-afternoon by the time the crowd had settled, but the jugglers and dancers on the arena floor trying to entertain the onlookers had not served to quell the discontent – not even a fraction. Insults were thrown at the still-empty kathisma at the top of the eastern stand, in anticipation of Valens’ appearance there. When he did emerge into that shaded imperial box, the howls of derision grew fierce. Dutifully, Valens came to the edge of the box and out of the shade offered by its purple silk awning. He raised a hand and turned slowly, as if greeting each part of the crowd. A crescendo of mocking and insults were thrown back at him in response.
‘Do these people know he is here to fight for them?’ Sura whispered.
Pavo shook his head. ‘They want someone to blame for all that has happened since the Goths entered Thracia,’ he replied, looking over his shoulder and around the crowd, seeing faces puckered with hunger, etched with sadness and anger or scarred by steel.
‘It’s like a pack of wolves turning on their leader,’ Zosimus muttered, his eyes narrowed on the most vociferous protestors.
‘The sooner we’re out of this city and marching into Thracia as an army, the better,’ Quadratus remarked.
The cornua sang again, as if to drown out the bitter refrain from the crowd, and it worked to an extent as the voices fell away. Pavo, like every other in the arena, looked to Valens. He had been in the emperor’s presence before, and found Valens to be a stern figure: direct and sometimes abrupt. Oddly, he realised, he had never seen the emperor address the people like this – on such a huge scale. And as he watched Valens, he could see that the man was clearly struggling to begin, his lips moving as if to find his first words.
‘My people,’ he said at last. As if he had spat instead of spoken, the crowd erupted into a clamour of protest once more.
‘My people,’ Valens re
iterated, this time nearly shouting to be heard, both arms raised as if to placate. ‘The last two years have been troubling for us all. The Goths crossed the River Danubius under a banner of truce – and they might have served us as a fine army of foederati had things played out as planned.’
‘You brought them into our lands,’ one gruff onlooker screamed. ‘You brought this darkness upon us!’ The man turned and waved his arms up as if trying to fan the flames. ‘While Thracia tumbled into Fritigern’s hands, while my farm near Deultum was reduced to ash, this bow-legged fool was no doubt reclining in his palace in Antioch.’
A chorus of contrived, cutting laughter broke out in response to this.
‘Procopius would not have let this happen to the empire,’ another cried, referring to the usurping general who had nearly claimed Valens’ throne years ago.
‘God has judged the Arian heretic!’ a woman shrieked.
Even from across the arena, Pavo could see the torment on Valens’ face.
‘The Goths will be faced… and they will be beaten,’ the emperor exclaimed, punching a fist into his palm. ‘You have witnessed the armies I have summoned to make this happen, have you not?’
‘Then what are you still doing here? Get out there, win this war!’ someone roared from the southern curve
A bald, slight fellow agreed, bellowing: ‘Quite! Why so many delays? If you are afraid to fight then arm us and we will march out into Thracia and deal with Fritigern and his Goths ourselves!’
Zosimus chuckled mirthlessly at this. ‘I’d like to see you try, you sack of shit,’ he muttered. ‘I doubt you could even lift a spatha.’
Valens cleared his throat and continued, his knuckles white as he gripped the kathisma balustrade. ‘Raising and preparing an army for a conflict like this takes time, my people. Not a moment has been wasted since I first heard of the troubles in these lands, I can assure you. And in the meantime I have been sure to do what I could for the cities to which the refugees from the countryside have fled.’ He extended a hand, pointing out over the western edge of the Hippodrome. Many heads turned to look. There, in the gentle heat haze, the grey stone arches of the great aqueduct stood proudly between the hills. ‘I saw to it that we would not run short of water.’
‘And what of grain?’ A protestor howled. ‘If we’re still cooped up like this until autumn then starvation will kill us faster than Fritigern and his horde.’
‘The Goths will not hold Thracia come autumn,’ Valens insisted.
‘How can you be so sure? Spare us your empty words and march into the country at once. You are failing us with every moment that passes.’
A huge cheer broke out in support of this.
‘I… we… ’ Valens stuttered. His next words died in his throat and then his head lolled forward, his face turned pale and his eyes closed tight.
A gasp of derision escaped from thousands of mouths. ‘He cannot even control his own tongue!’ one guffawed.
‘Have you ever seen an emperor look so lost?’ Sura whispered to Pavo, his brow furrowed.
Pavo nodded absently, his eyes never leaving the lonely, purple-cloaked man in the imperial box. ‘Once.’
Sura blinked in surprise.
‘When I was a boy… and a slave,’ Pavo continued. ‘I was paddling in the shallows of the Propontis – collecting mussels for Senator Tarquitius. It was a perfect summer’s day; the sky was clear and the sea utterly still, like a sheet of turquoise silk. Emperor Valens was in the second year of his reign, and he chose that day to tour the new fortifications at the southern end of the city’s land wall with his courtiers. I saw him up there, gazing across his dominion. He walked tall and proud; this was before his troubles with the Goths and the anti-Arian Christians, you see. I watched him and wondered what it must be like to hold the empire in your palm – me, a slave, with cracked fingernails and callused fingers, ankle-deep in water searching for food for a rich and fat man. Then something happened. Even with such a distance between us, I could see his posture change suddenly – he grasped the wall parapet and craned his neck to look south, over my head. Around my feet, I felt the floor of the bay trembling, then the waters began to bubble and suddenly they were drawn away, leaving me ankle-deep in silt.’ The jeering crescendo shook the arena now. ‘I turned, fearing what I might see. And I was right to, for there, a few miles out there on the water, was a silvery, foaming wall of water.’
‘The day of the great tremor in Crete?’ Sura whispered.
Pavo nodded. Every man in the empire knew of the unsparing earth tremor that had shaken that island mercilessly and sent ruinous tidal surges thundering across the seas in every direction. ‘I don’t remember much about what happened next. I prized my feet from the silt and ran, slipping and sliding over blade-sharp stones. Fishermen and traders came with me, screaming, all of us barging through the narrow gate on the sea walls. I dropped to my hands and knees and scrambled through the forest of legs else I would not have made it inside. Uphill I ran, to the listing insulae on the slopes of the seventh hill. When I next glanced back, the wall of water was but a stadia from the shore. It had diminished, but only a little, and now it roared like a titan. When it crashed against the sea walls, I heard the sound of many screams outside suddenly cut short. Bricks and huge blocks of marble were tossed into the city or up into the sky like child’s wooden blocks, and sentries who thought they could take shelter by ducking behind the parapets were cast back into the streets like toys, dashed on the flagstones. The iron-strapped sea gate I had fled through just moments before was shredded into kindling as the water swatted it aside. The water surged uphill after me, flooding over the many people climbing the streets and steps lower down. Insulae down there crumpled in moments. I felt spray on my heels and turned, then scrambled back on all fours as it grasped out to take me. But it licked to within a pace of my toes… and then withdrew.’
‘The wards around the southern sea walls were ruined. Columns of dust and smoke rose from the piles of rubble that had once been homes and halls to stain the sky. Silvery-scaled fish in their thousands flipped and thrashed on the streets where they had been left by the wave – even fishing boats lay upturned on the avenues or on top of ruined buildings. The sea walls gaped with ragged edges and gaps like the teeth in a beggar’s mouth.’ Pavo looked to the beset Valens once more. ‘Then I saw him, still atop the southern-most tower of the land walls. The waves had battered the new construction, but failed to topple it. He was still fixed in that posture, eyes wide, mouth agape. His face was ashen as he took in what had just happened. I saw his courtiers’ lips flap, urging him for some order, some direction. And that same day, a messenger rode into the city to bring him word that his great rival, Procopius, had risen in revolt against his rule. A truly foul day, and one that some claim brought him close to abdication.’
Suddenly, a stone thwacked off of the edge of the kathisma, ending Pavo’s story and snapping Valens out of his spell of silence. A moment later, a half-rotten cabbage followed, bashing against a pillar at the side of the imperial box. Suddenly, the jeering faltered as some citizens railed against this. The air became thick with curses as the protestors began to quarrel amongst themselves. Pavo saw the thin dotting of V Macedonica sentries up on the arena lip backing away, knowing that their limited numbers could not possibly break up the restless thousands.
‘Right, forget what I said. Let’s get out of here – this is about to turn ugly,’ Zosimus growled.
As two candidati rushed to flank Valens and escort him safely from the box, punches were thrown in the row just behind Pavo. Then he heard a pained gurgle that instantly brought flashing memories of battle, he swung round to see one man, face clenched in agony, blood spurting from his lips as another rammed some concealed blade into his gut again and again.
‘The Blues and the Greens,’ Quadratus hissed, recognising a few of the faces of the aggressors. ‘Move!’
Pavo and his comrades hastened for the exit tunnel as scraps erupted all around t
hem, knives and cudgels staining the marble terraces with blood.
The riot at the Hippodrome had threatened to spill into the city streets too, until Valens sent in his Cornuti. These feather-helmed infantrymen were ruthless, and had to cut down only a few of the weapon-bearing rioters before the crowd dispersed, their pluck suddenly gone. By nightfall, the city was at peace once more. A tense, awkward peace, but peace nonetheless. To ensure it, Valens had posted the regiments of his Praesental Army around the city’s wards. More, he had summoned the officers of all his legions to the great palace complex that sat astride the city’s first hill.
Pavo and the officers of the XI Claudia paced through a wide, vaulted corridor and out into the gardens of the Imperial Palace, dressed in their glaringly-white parade tunics and boots. Here, the air was pleasantly cool. The summer blooms were gently illuminated by the pale, waning moon and the speckling of stars in the inky night sky. Most of all it was quiet, with just the babbling of fountains and the lilting of flutes somewhere up ahead – a stark contrast to the madness that afternoon.
They rounded a wall of rhododendron bushes and came to a peristyle garden attached to the towering, domed Magnaura basilica. A troupe of painted and overly-enthusiastic male dancers leapt and spun on the grass before them, trailing sheets of spiralling silk in their wake, while attendants carried platters of pheasant, bowls of pistachios and jugs of spiced wine to and fro. Scented torches in the sconces attached to the marble pillars blended with the aroma of the blooms and orchard fruits. The flutes whistled in an increasing cadence, conjuring ever more exaggerated moves and cries of delight from the dancers.
Pavo arched an eyebrow at one who leapt past them with a terrifying smile-cum-grimace on his face, then looked over the cluster of gathered officers who were watching the show. On a marble plinth across from the small crowd, Emperor Valens sat on a gilded throne, his shoulders draped in the purple cloak and with a wreath on his head. Still, his shoulders were slumped, and he gazed past the entertainment as if it was not there. His sacrum consistorium of advisors – just three men – sat alongside him.
Gods & Emperors (Legionary 5) Page 7
