Gods & Emperors (Legionary 5)

by Gordon Doherty

  ‘He has responded?’ Pavo heard Valens ask him like a hopeful child.

  The man replied with a solemn shake of the head.

  Valens’ took to rubbing his temples. ‘Then let God ride with the next messenger.’

  ‘No need, Domine,’ the portly one said. ‘For I have despatched Erasinus this time. God would only slow him down!’

  Erasinus had once been a meek boy – the kind of lad who would apologise to another who had insulted him and be glad if that was the end of the matter; the type of boy who preferred to look at his own shoes instead of the eyes of his equals. Such diffidence was like a sponge for his wool-trading father’s cruel words:

  You’re weak and scrawny. Why did the gods curse me with a runt like you? Why couldn’t you have been tall and strapping like your brothers?

  Or, as he had oft wondered, perhaps it was his father’s thoughtless jibes that had bred his timid nature? Not a day of his boyhood passed when he did not wish he could shed his shyness, but it clung to him like a limpet, feeding on his low self-esteem. Most days were spent alone or in the company of his mare – a piebald carthorse with strong, thick fetlocks and wide nostrils. She could gallop for hours. She wasn’t fast, but he learned how to coax her with gentle jabs of his heels or knees, and by lying flat in the saddle, as if to blend in with her rough hide. He even found that whispering words of encouragement in her ear as they rode brought an extra burst of pace from her. Some days, as they wheeled and raced over the Rhodope foothills, he forgot his troubles. Never had he felt as free or light as during those precious moments, and the mare seemed to relish these rides too – living otherwise only to serve as a beast of burden.

  He woke one morning in his sixteenth summer to find Father by the hearth, whetting a knife. ‘You’re trouble of one sort and then another, lad,’ he said without looking up. ‘Ruined that beast’s hooves with your senseless riding, you have.’

  ‘It’s not senseless, it helps me-’

  ‘It’s all about you, isn’t it, Father had cut him off. ‘Well perhaps you can tell me how I will tow the cart to market now?’

  Erasinus had gazed numbly at the russet stains on Father’s jerkin. ‘What have you done?’

  ‘I’m not paying to keep a lame horse,’ Father scoffed as Erasinus walked numbly outside into the morning sunlight. Out there, flies buzzed over the dead mare, clouding around the ugly, crimson gash across her neck. That moment signalled the end of his poisonous relationship with the bastard who had sired him.

  The very next day, he had gone along with his brothers to enlist in the legions. While his siblings had stood tall, saluted and been welcomed into the ranks, his shyness had devoured him: he had crumbled at the sound of the recruiting campidoctor’s chisel-voice, then slipped out of the queue and fled.

  In the days that followed, he was sure that every eye that met his saw his inner shame. He had spent the next year wandering the streets of Constantinople as an inebriate – the wine a fine way to rid his mind of shyness and almost everything else – hope included. It was just by chance that one day he was almost trampled by a runaway stallion. The beast circled the Forum of the Ox, maddened, knocking over stalls and thundering through crowds. Erasinus’ intoxication had fallen away as the stallion came charging towards him again. While others parted in fright, he met the creature’s eye and stood his ground. He held out a hand, clicked his tongue and whistled. The stallion slowed. It came to a halt before him and he stroked its muzzle, seeing the fright in its eyes fading just a fraction. ‘Easy, boy,’ he whispered. When its owner appeared, sweating like a spit of meat, he noticed the man was clad in messenger’s robes and realised that the horse must have escaped from the imperial stables. A beast of the Cursus Publicus.

  ‘Thank you,’ the messenger had panted. ‘You are?’

  ‘Erasinus,’ he had replied, realising that something was missing. No shame, no shyness. His place in life had found him. ‘Erasinus the rider.’

  Now a veteran of the Cursus Publicus, he had been entrusted with what was probably the most crucial message he had ever carried. One message, he thought. So vital. The Master of Letters had implored him to be fast. You’re not the first I have entrusted to do this. But you can be the first to succeed – the emperor will laud you as a hero! And he was almost there: beyond the northern hills lay Kabyle, Fritigern’s headquarters.

  The warm night wind whipped through his mount’s mane and his long, curled locks. He felt the weight of the scroll in his satchel and grinned. An offer to make treaty instead of war, surely. The emperor had not said as much, but he knew it had to be. His two brothers were in the legions readying to march from Constantinople, and it killed him to think of their fate should it come to a clash of steel with the Gothic horde. A battle to end all others, surely. A battle that would rob him of his siblings. A battle this message might avert.

  He raced through the wooded foothills, the only sounds were the hooting of owls and the crunching of bracken as he went. Then… something else? Creaking… and the sharp snap of an iron latch.

  With a hum and then a wet thud, something whacked into his side, threw him from the saddle and sent him tumbling through the foliage. He rasped, clutching at the short bolt jutting from his ribs, feeling something hot and wet soak his hands in an instant. Blood and air hissed from his lungs. Up on the hillside, he saw something illuminated in the weak moonlight: a man in a black cloak, featureless apart from a faint glint of silver somewhere on his face, and the outline of a crossbow resting against his shoulder.

  He clutched the message scroll, thinking of his brothers. Not one flicker of fear or meekness came to him as he judged the short stretch towards Kabyle. It could still be done. He struggled to his knees, whistling until his horse circled back towards him, its reigns dangling. He reached out. So close… until another bolt thumped into his chest. He met the darkness with his head held high.

  The assassin wrenched the bolt from the rider’s neck, wiping it first on the grass then on a rag, before returning it to his quiver. He took the message from the corpse’s bag then struck a flint hook near one end of the scroll, holding it until it caught light.

  Once it was reduced to ash, he spat on the ground and unfurled a map, then grunted in loathing at the long ride ahead of him: two and a half days at least, he reckoned it would take to get to his next destination. But a comrade had been careless in his handling of sensitive documents, and they would have to be dealt with like this one, he mused, glancing southeast then at the map to plot his route to the Narco waystation.

  Chapter 4

  A ham-like fist cracked across Gallus’ cheek. White sparks flooded his vision and he slumped back against the cell wall. ‘How did you get it?’ Lurco snarled again as the jutting-browed Trogus rubbed his knuckles in preparation for another punch. The ring on the brute’s middle finger – silver with a staring eye motif – was coated in blood.

  Gallus’ spinning head slowed long enough to allow him to focus on the semispatha blade Lurco held up in accusation. It was still encrusted with dirt from where Gallus had buried it in his cell. Nobody had noticed, until this morning – or what Gallus could only guess was morning, given the starvation of light down in these dungeons. Lurco had scuffed his heel on the slightly raised patch of dirt by Gallus’ side and frowned, then, to Gallus’ horror, had burrowed with his bare hands like vermin until finding the blade. One day, Gallus almost wept, one day from the change of the guard Evike had alerted him to.

  ‘I lost this over a month ago,’ Lurco’s eyes turned to slits. ‘You stole it, then kept it all this time but did not use it… why?’ He drew the blade from the sheath and twisted it this way and that so it caught the dull torchlight, eyeing the chewed edge with a momentary suspicion. Gallus had long since disposed of the paper fragment it once held, dissolving it in his briny water ration. All he had needed to do was to count the days to the new moon, to the day when just one guard would be posted in this cursed hole.

  ‘And if I say nothing,
what will you do: torture me?’ Gallus scoffed, then winced at the pain in his battered ribs.

  Lurco’s top lip twitched and the dark hole where his nose should have been widened in indignation. A moment later, his ire faded and he slid the short sword back in its sheath. ‘Oh, but you have not experienced the full range of my capabilities… not yet.’ With a chill laugh, he and his waddling henchman slammed the cell gate shut and left.

  Gallus crumpled forward onto all fours. Emaciated and wracked with pain, he had harboured an ember of hope that he might find a way to break free of this dungeon. With just one sentry to beat and a short sword to arm himself with. But now… he gazed at the hole in the dirt where the blade had been… now he had to fall back on his backup plan. A good general thinks ahead, not just of tomorrow, but of the day after…

  He moved over towards the hole and set about burrowing frantically, deeper than Lurco had. A good few hand widths further down his chapped and bloodied fingers struck upon something hard – the one possession he had somehow managed to keep hold of when they first dragged him down here and threw him in this cell. He plucked the wooden idol from the earth and wiped the filth from it, then beheld the image of Mithras being born from the rock.

  And I come to you again, God of the Light.

  It barely filled his palm. One end of it was lighter than the rest – having been hewn to a small, sharp point with the semispatha. In the hole lay the wood shavings… and four small, thick iron bolts, chewed around the edges.

  Mithras, at last you can fulfil your part of our oath, he mouthed. One sentry, he repeated in his head. One sentry between me and the world above.

  Between me and vengeance.

  In the small mess antechamber to one side of the torture chamber, Lurco swayed back in his chair, feet on the table and a cup of wine in his hand. He patted the sheathed semispatha and chuckled. ‘By the gods, I will make you pay for that,’ he muttered, still incensed that Gallus had somehow bettered him by stealing the weapon. ‘But that can begin tomorrow,’ he mused. He swilled at the wine again, then, noticing the grid of weak evening light on the floor, he looked up at the iron ceiling grating and sighed in contentment. This part of the dungeon lay under the busy street just outside the palace grounds. He could hear clopping hooves and the mutterings of Treverorum’s populace up above. For a thrilling moment, he even caught sight of a woman walking by one edge of the grating, and leant forward to catch a glimpse under her robes. But she was gone in a flash, and a sense of sadness overcame him. For down here was both his kingdom and his prison. Nobody could tell him what to do within these vaults – only the emperor’s lot from the palace above, like Dexion, dared give him orders. Yet he could not step beyond the dungeon’s upper door – the thick, iron-studded entrance atop the stone staircase at the upper corner of this chamber. He gazed at the doorway. It had been twenty three years since he had last been above ground and felt sunlight directly on his face. He closed his eyes to recall the last summer’s day he had enjoyed: the playful barking of dogs and the aroma from the city bakery was still there in the halls of his memory, if a little faded from the passage of time. He smiled as he remembered the sense of wellbeing when he looked up at the pastel blue sky. Then he heard the mocking of the cart driver who had passed him. Get out of my way you ugly whoreson! Then another. Urgh, what have you done to your nose? He remembered spinning away from these two, only to hear the shrill shriek of a young woman as she clapped eyes upon his disfigurement and glimpsed the look on her face as she backed away from him. The memory crumbled, and a fiery mix of self-pity and fury overcame him. He gulped at the wine. It helped. It always did. Ever since that brawl in the inn, all those years ago. A few punches had been thrown before they had called a truce, and he had thought nothing more of it, but when his foes had pounced upon him outside in the darkness, they had shown not a speck of mercy as they sawed his nose off with a blunt knife, laughing as he cried out for help.

  He downed the remainder of his wine and noticed that the light above had faded. It was night now. Tomorrow was the new moon – the first of June – a month that would take him into his twenty-fourth year as lord of the dungeon. He raised his empty cup in a lonely salute to himself. A shuffling from the staircase leading up and out of the chamber drew his attention. He twisted round to see Kuno, the towering, strapping sentry – a mountain of a man. ‘Where’re you going?’ he grunted, halting Kuno halfway up the stairs.

  ‘Leave, as well you know,’ Kuno shrugged.

  Lurco gurned. Kuno had petitioned for a day away from his post and it had been granted. A day above. A day rutting with whores, no doubt. A day under the sun, in the fresh air of the world outside.

  ‘Your leave is cancelled,’ Lurco snapped.

  ‘What?’ Kuno gasped. ‘The emperor’s men gave me permission to-’

  ‘I revoke that permission,’ Lurco countered, jabbing a thumb into his chest, ‘as well you know I can. Now get back to your post.’

  Gallus sat in the shadows of his cell. His head lolled back against the wall as if fatigue had overcome him, but his eyes were trained on the door, keen as a wolf’s. It was surely dawn by now? Then, footsteps. All his senses pricked up. This would be the sentry coming to take him up to the torture chamber. But there was more than one set of footsteps. A furrow appeared on his filthy brow. More than one sentry? The door to the cell chamber creaked open and in came Trogus, the mastiff-like sentry. Gallus eyed the doorway until the second form entered.

  ‘Move, bitch!’ Trogus snarled, pushing Evike forward.

  You’re not meant to be here, Gallus mouthed, catching her eye. She had not been to tend to him for over a week, and then as always it was at the end of the day – after Lurco had finished torturing him. The girl stumbled and staggered, crashing against the cell bars then righting herself. The guard fumbled out a set of keys and opened the cell gate. The girl entered and stooped before Gallus, setting down a cup of water and some filthy-looking bread.

  ‘Lurco wants you well fed before we start today,’ the guard grunted. ‘Says you passed out too quickly the last time and you’d need more energy this time round,’ the man finished with a chuckle.

  The Hun girl, back turned on the sentry, looked up at Gallus as she handed him the cup. It is today, she mouthed. The new moon.

  He flashed her the whites of his eyes in acknowledgement.

  The blade? she mouthed, searching Gallus’ person for some clue as to where it might be.

  He gave her the faintest shake of his head. She understood what it meant, if not how it had happened. He glanced almost imperceptibly to his right hand. It was clasped around something. She frowned as his gaze lifted to the open cell gate and Trogus, chewing on an apple core and barely paying attention.

  Back away, he mouthed to the Hun girl.

  She stood, gingerly, and stepped away.

  ‘What’re you doing? Get back to it,’ Trogus bawled, stabbing a finger to the dirt floor by Gallus’ side. ‘What were you told? Feed him, make sure he eats everything.’ The man sneered, pacing along the semi-circular threshold line in the dirt around Gallus. ‘The wretch needs every scrap of energy he can get,’ he chuckled, ‘because upstairs, Lurco has brands, blades, ropes and weights.’ He shook his head and sucked air through his teeth as he stopped to regard Gallus. ‘You’re going to feel pain today like never before.’ He kicked dirt at Gallus. ‘How does it feel, eh?’ he goaded, then flicked more dirt. ‘To be helpless, utterly helpless.’ He extended his neck almost across the line in the dirt, eyes wide with glee. ‘Imagine what it would feel like to strike me, then choke the air from my throat. It would be so sweet, wouldn’t it?’

  Gallus did not move.

  Trogus smiled with a glint in his eye. ‘I was there, you know, with Master Dexion, the night he slashed your wife’s throat and then your boy’s.’

  The words were like a hot blade across Gallus’ soul. Like a sudden thunderstorm, he lunged up and forward, his left hand shooting out for Trogus’ neck, but hal
ting, just a finger-width shy, the chains clanking taut.

  ‘Infuriating, isn’t it?’ Trogus smiled.

  Silence.

  Gallus dipped his head, casting his face in shade. ‘I once knew a man who lived on a hill,’ he said in a low voice.

  ‘What’s that? A story? Well, I do love a good story,’ Trogus cooed, cupping a hand to his ear.

  ‘He used to take bread to an old hermit who lived in the nearby dale. He’d leave it outside the hermit’s shack, wrapped in cloth. Every day, he’d return with a fresh loaf to find yesterday’s bread eaten and a few bronze coins left in recompense. He considered the hermit a friend, even though they had not met, face to face, for many years. One day he approached the shack to find the door open. Inside was bare apart from a bed. On it lay the hermit’s skeleton, and a note of gratitude from the brigand who had killed him and harvested the daily bread for many years.’

  Trogus’ nose wrinkled. ‘And your point is?’

  ‘The point, Speculator,’ Gallus raised his head, the torchlight throwing his savage grimace into sharp relief, ‘is that, sometimes, all is not as it seems…’

  His shoulders bulged, drawing the already taut chains even tighter. A thick clunk of iron sounded behind Gallus as the plate of metal securing the chains to the wall came free and toppled onto the floor, the chains falling slack.

  A hiatus.

  Trogus’ face fell.

  Gallus’ eyes ignited and he hammered the sharpened Mithras idol in his right palm into Trogus’ jugular. The sentry staggered back and swung his spear round in fright. The leaf-shaped iron spearhead swept around wildly, scoring across the cell bars and the walls, sending a shower of sparks through the gloom. But that was the extent of his riposte. There was no screaming or struggling: Trogus merely dropped his spear, gurgled and clutched at the deep wound in his neck, sheets of dark blood pumping from the ruptured artery. Within a few rasps, the sentry greyed and crumpled in a heap. Panting, Gallus took the keys from Trogus’ belt and unlocked the shackles on his wrists, glancing round to the fallen anchor plate as he did so: before it was confiscated, Lurco’s semispatha had been a crude but effective tool for working the bolts free. Evike had saved his life after all by bringing the blade to him. Now, he could save hers and free her.