Gods & Emperors (Legionary 5)

by Gordon Doherty

  ‘You bring me yesterday’s news again today as if it were fresh?’ Fritigern said with a wry smile. ‘Why, you might be better served buying me one of those talking birds,’ he laughed, tossing away the remainder of his apple and gesturing down to the market in the lower town where the faint squawking of brilliant green, orange and blue parrots could be heard.

  Alatheus’ offered not even a twitch of his thin lips in reply.

  ‘When the reiks call for a gathering, the Iudex must listen,’ said Reiks Saphrax, the short, hairless, slit-eyed man by Alatheus’ side. ‘After all, a Iudex exists only to serve the interests of the Council and the people who elected him.’

  Fritigern eyed the two. Just as he had once led the Thervingi Goths before the Alliance had been formed, so too, this pair had led the Greuthingi. And every moment since the formation of the Alliance, the two had coveted Fritigern’s role as Iudex, master of the united tribes. They had been a bane ever since the crossing of the Danubius. Had they been mere leaders of a warband or two, he could well have had them dealt with. As a young reiks, he had disposed of many of his rivals with alacrity. One had been found in a barn in a brown puddle of dried blood, belly slit and innards gone. Another had gone fishing. When he did not come home that night, a search party went looking for him. They found his hounds howling by the riverbank, then saw him under the water where an iron weight tied to his ankles had secured him to the riverbed. His lifeless face was gawping and his arms were outstretched like reeds, moving with the current, fingertips just a hand’s-width below the surface. A third had simply vanished. Weeks went by and nobody saw sight nor sound of him. It was only when some boys found a skeleton in the woods – staked out by an ant’s nest with not a scrap of flesh on the bones – that the search was called off. But these two were different, for their Greuthingi followers were cavalrymen, fine ones at that and the only sizeable mounted force he could field – ten thousand strong.

  ‘What need is there for a gathering? The situation has not changed,’ Fritigern said evenly, sweeping a hand around the lower town and its well-garrisoned walls. ‘Here and in the sister camp in the north we maintain two strongholds and house good-sized armies. Four thousand spears and a thousand riders at each location guarding well-stocked grain silos.’ Next, he extended a hand to the east, the west and then the south. Dotted across the green, shimmering countryside were distant dust clouds. ‘Out there, the Thervingi warbands roam, gathering up forage, demanding tribute and extra grain from the few Roman cities whose gates remained barred to us. It is like this all the way to Deultum on the coast of the Pontus Euxinus, to Trimontium in the west and the suburbs of Constantinople far to the south – thirty warbands, all of whom continue to reap the fare required to keep our families’ bellies full.’ And divided like this, have had no thoughts of indulging in tribal squabbles, he thought, recalling the momentous rift that had seen Reiks Farnobius and his followers break away from the horde the last time they marched united.

  They both groaned in disgust.

  ‘That is enough for you?’ Alatheus said, his eyes pitying.

  ‘Timid leaders seldom inspire their subjects,’ Saphrax sneered.

  Fritigern smiled thinly. The comment reminded him of a recurring dream. A dream of winter where he found himself wandering along a high, narrow mountain ledge between two spurs of rock. Every wayward footstep sent rocks tumbling into the crevasse. Gusts of chill wind threatened to cast him down there too. At first he had tried to scramble bravely along the path to reach the other side, only to stumble or slide on ice and plummet into the black void. On those nights he would wake, screaming. Only when he employed caution and care did he survive the walk and wake peacefully. ‘Reckless leaders seldom grow old.’

  The pair shook their heads in tandem. They had rarely if ever agreed with anything he said. In fact, he was sure that if he pointed at the sky and claimed it was blue, they would doubtless scoff and insist it was red.

  ‘You cannot continue to ignore the reports,’ Alatheus sighed. ‘The imperial armies edge closer. Every passing week, day… hour.’

  Fritigern laughed without mirth. ‘I know well that the imperial armies are on the move, and I know well they converge on this land. But they are still some way off.’

  ‘Then perhaps you can share your plans with your Council?’ Saphrax said with a triumphant grin, gesturing down to the paved acropolis floor.

  Fritigern noticed movement down there, behind him. The Council of Reiks had come together, as if in defiance of his wishes. They stood in their fine robes, some in polished iron breastplates and others in leather armour crested with bright plumes. With them came many lesser men and mere tribesmen along with some of the Alani and Huns who had joined the horde. All looked up to the walls, looked to him in expectation. Suddenly, he felt a tight hand of doubt clasp his throat.

  ‘The Iudex has agreed to outline his strategy,’ Alatheus announced gleefully.

  Fritigern sought somewhere devoid of demanding eyes, eventually finding it on the southern horizon and the sweltering air trapped in the Tonsus valley. How had it come to this? They had entered the empire in a truce. It had been agreed that his armies would serve as imperial regiments and enjoy Thracian soil as their own. Through it all, he had clung to this hope: first, when the truce was shattered and the bloody clash at Ad Salices claimed thousands of Roman and Gothic lives; even afterwards, when he and his armies had forged through the staunch mountain passes to claim the Thracian countryside as their own.

  Truce, he thought again. Parley.

  The possibility had haunted him. The truce could live again, could it not? He wondered just how far south Alwin, the messenger he had despatched secretly, had ridden by now. The man was on the lithest of mounts – selected from his own stable – and would surely be well on his way towards Constantinople by now. The letter was simple, offering talks – the starting point and possibly the salvation of his people.

  Ride swiftly, man, he mouthed, before these hounds devour me.

  He glanced around the gathered Council, knowing he had little hope of convincing them to wait for the messenger’s return.

  ‘Well?’ Saphrax purred.

  Fritigern felt an angry heat spread over him, and was on the verge of spitting some caustic reply, when a commotion at the acropolis gates broke the tension.

  ‘Iudex!’ a voice called from over there. A murmur of confusion broke out as the gathered crowd turned to the voice. A rider – not Alwin, but a young Greuthingi horseman – staggered in through the gates. He was bathed in sweat and his face, his blonde topknot of hair and his brown tunic and trousers were coated in some dark red filth. Dried blood, Fritigern realised. The lad rummaged in a hemp sack then withdrew a grey mass, lifting it by matted, dark hair. The white, dried-out eyes of the severed head pinned him, and the gawping mouth seemed to scream at him. The clotted tendrils and sinew dangling from the hewn neck were quickly surrounded by a cloud of buzzing flies.

  Fritigern gazed down upon him sternly. Choose your words carefully lad, for a wretched one might end many thousands of lives.

  All eyes were upon the young rider now and he seemed hesitant. Only after a furtive glance to Alatheus and Saphrax, his tribal leaders, did he continue. ‘A Roman horseman,’ the rider said, holding the head aloft. ‘Before he died, we made him talk. He confirmed what we expected: Emperor Valens has not only arrived in Constantinople from the east, but he has now left the city and is marching across Thracian soil as we speak.’

  Fritigern’s eyes closed as a mixed refrain of panic and hubris erupted.

  ‘The eagles have gathered. Iudex, we must react!’

  ‘It is time – our warriors must be brought together!’

  ‘What of the western legions? Are they almost upon us too?’

  The voices pierced Fritigern’s thoughts from every direction as he sought a strategy in the darkness behind his eyelids. To bring the horde back together would be to risk everything: The imperial forces would have just one ta
rget to seek out. It would offer a pitched battle – something the Romans excelled at. And as a single horde, famine would not be slow to seek them out either. But worst of all, the ambitious reiks’ within the Gothic ranks would prey upon ancient tribal rivalries and once more take to rallying and gathering support from the assembled horde – seeking to slice him from his role as Iudex… and no doubt his head from his shoulders too. He opened his eyes and found that he was staring at Alatheus and Saphrax. He turned from them and looked down over the assembled crowd, seeking some inspiring yet amiable words to quell his people’s discontent.

  ‘Look into the past,’ Saphrax said suddenly before Fritigern could speak, his voice booming. ‘Think of the tales we have been told around fires by our elders: tales of our ancestors’ great journey from the old lands of Scandza and Thule, hundreds of years ago. Back then, we were known as the bold ones as we strode forth into driving snow, hunted fierce animals and followed Allfather Wodin’s guiding hand. The Gepids, our cousins who made the journey with us, dithered and deliberated on every step of the journey. They reached the lands north of the Danubius long after we had got there to claim them as our own. We were kings of our own destiny then. That spirit has not faded, has it?’

  A moment of silence, then a chorus of: never!

  The unanimous cry bit into Fritigern’s pride like a gnashing wolf cub. Above, he heard the unmistakable shriek of that carefree vulture. Its shadow passed over him as if he was the carrion it sought.

  ‘So let us be the bold ones once more,’ Saphrax continued. ‘Let the splintered horde gather together once again. As a scattered group, we cannot hope to defeat Rome’s armies. As one, as forty thousand warriors, if we fall upon each emperor’s column before it can ready for battle… we cannot fail to crush them!’

  An uproarious cry met this proclamation, sending a wave of dread across Fritigern’s skin. He shot a look to his loyal Thervingi spearmen along the acropolis’ battlements. Each of them read his look and rushed to his side and bashed the blades of their spears upon their circular shields. The din and the sight of these colossal fighters – each still wearing the ancient dark red leather armour of days past, the skin on their faces and arms laced with blue tattoos and their already considerable height added to by their jutting topknots – partially quietened the crowd.

  ‘Enough!’ Fritigern roared. It had been a long time since he had mustered such a cry, and it utterly silenced all. Even the babble from the lower town and the squawking parrots down there seemed to cease in shock. ‘If the horde gathers once more, we commit ourselves to one future and one alone: to face the imperial armies head to head.’ He jabbed a finger in Saphrax’s direction. ‘Some talk of times past? Well most will recall Ad Salices, and even our clashes with the empire’s legions in Valens’ early days as emperor. Neither side knew victory… but the gravediggers had bounteous employ.’ The silence was won with this last statement. Many faces – moments ago agape and eager, grew long. Heads were bowed and many nodded. ‘If we remain as a collection of smaller groups then we give the fine, serried ranks that march from Constantinople and from the West no flesh to gnash upon. For have you ever seen a field army of Rome move in formation? It waddles like a pregnant horse!’

  This stoked a babble of wry laughter.

  ‘Dispersed, we can evade the imperial armies as long as we wish, and remain kings of the Thracian countryside. Should they choose to fall upon Kabyle’s walls or our camp in the north, then we gather and fall upon their backs. For we should only unite the warbands only when we have a clear advantage.’ He saw his kinsmen nodding in approval. They believed in him, still. He fished a Roman coin from his purse and tossed it down to the young Greuthingi rider. ‘As long as we stay abreast of the Roman movements, then we have the upper hand. This land can be ours… but only if we play this great game with cool heads. Now return to your duties and we will gather again soon.’ The congregated people shouted words of support and cheered him, before gradually melting away.

  As the space atop the acropolis emptied, Alatheus and Saphrax remained nearby him on the walls. Fritigern noticed Saphrax’ nose twitch as if he had smelt something foul, Alatheus whispering something in his crony’s ear.

  Curse you. Curse you both to the pits, Fritigern thought. As he turned away from the pair, his eyes swept past the discarded Roman head. He noticed something he had missed before: the face was delicate, effeminate, even. And young too – more boy than man. And was that some form of paint on his face too? Kohl around the eyes and lead on the cheeks?

  ‘There is something wrong, Iudex?’ Saphrax said.

  Fritigern looked at the pair, a chill smile spreading across his face. ‘Where did the riders capture this Roman?’

  Alatheus adopted a stony glower. ‘Our riders risked their lives to bring you this important news, yet you question them?’

  ‘Can’t you just be thankful that there is one less Roman eques to deal with?’ Saphrax grunted.

  An angry heat spread across Fritigern’s chest and face. ‘That one is no eques, he is a slave boy. A well-kept slave boy at that. He’s the type kept in urban villas and palaces. I decreed that we should control the countryside, keep the Romans penned within their cities, demand grain. If we cross paths with legionaries then fight them and fight them well, aye, but plundering towns and spilling civilian blood will only rile the legions to fight with fire in their blood. Where did the horsemen ride to? Where did they claim this slave’s head?’

  Alatheus gazed past Fritigern’s shoulder as if to show how unruffled he was. ‘We sent our riders to a place where they could make themselves heard. A place where they would leave Emperor Valens in no doubt as to what the horde is capable of… of what our riders are capable of. Perhaps you should leave it at that, Iudex,’ he dipped his head, like a hawk sighting its prey, ‘if you wish to retain those capabilities.’

  Fritigern’s shoulders trembled with rage. But the pair were right. The Greuthingi were indispensable – the cavalry hammer to his Thervingi infantry anvil.

  The two offered a perfunctory bow.

  ‘Until the next gathering, Iudex,’ Alatheus said quietly before turning to leave. He and Saphrax wore a matching smirk as they left the acropolis and headed for the lower town.

  Alwin the bald, blonde-bearded Gothic messenger halted his mount by a small tarn ringed with reeds and dismounted. His steed was lathered in sweat and foaming at the mouth, such haste had he demanded of the stallion under the hot sun. He stroked its silken red hide, the muscles taut underneath, the beast’s wide nostrils flaring in exertion, then led it to the water’s edge.

  ‘Drink, boy, you’ve earned it.’ He chuckled wryly, eyeing the southerly track past Mons Asticus that would take him towards the Roman capital. ‘You’ll need it for the rest of the ride too,’ he said, patting the haircloth bag on the saddle holding the message Fritigern had given him. ‘Any Roman tries to harm my wife and my girls, I’ll slice open his guts. But if we can keep our swords sheathed, ensure our families go unharmed and talk instead… that’ll do me,’ he muttered to himself, wiping sweat from his beard and moustache.

  He crouched by the pool, cupping his hands in the mercifully cool water and scooping it to his lips. One mouthful after another, gradually slaking his thirst. When he was replete, the water settled again, becoming glass-like. He saw the reflection of sky, sun and wisps of white cloud overhead. There was his own reflection, his mount’s and… ‘What the?’ he swung round to face the extra figure looming behind him. He saw just the glint of a silvery tooth on the sneering face before the bronze-winged crossbow hovering under his nose spat forth an iron-tipped bolt that crunched through his face. He was dead before his haemorrhaging body splashed into the pool.

  Chapter 7

  The rolling green and golden lands of Thracia’s southeastern peninsula were deserted. Pollen, dust motes and flies swarmed in the drowsy heat to the tune of buzzing bees and croaking cicadas. The Via Egnatia – the imperial highway that emerged from the
eastern horizon between two gentle hills and ran all the way to the west – lay empty, the well-worn flagstones devoid of boots, hooves or cartwheels – as it had been for some time since the Goths had come.

  Suddenly, as if fleeing a predator, a small cluster of exploratores burst from the east and hared along the highway, lying flat and hugging their mounts’ necks. These swift riders were the emperor’s eyes, trained to spot the slightest hint of danger from miles away. They were laden with minimal burden to aid their speed, clad in dark brown tunics overlaid with padded linen vests and simple felt caps.

  Agilo the swarthy, green-eyed lead rider called out to them and at once the cluster broke apart, each rider sharply veering off from the road in different directions like the fingers of a hand suddenly splayed, their eyes scouring every dell and thicket, every rabbit hole and hummock. After a while, Agilo slowed then lifted his red foxskin cap and brushed the sweat from his forehead. He cast his eyes around the plain again: nothing. No raiders, bandits or potential ambush points. Emperor Valens’ cataphracti had done a fine job in driving the raiding Gothic bands back, away from Constantinople and out of the peninsula. Just fifty miles of lost land had been reclaimed, but it was an auspicious start.

  ‘Ride on,’ he called to his comrades, waving them ahead while he peeled away, circling back whence he had come. As he approached the twin hills in the east, he saw a tall pillar of red dust beyond, heard a fierce rumble like a faraway but rapidly approaching summer storm. The thunder intensified as he rode to meet it, taking on a sharp, rhythmic edge.

  Crunch-crunch-crunch-crunch.

  A band of blinding, silvery light spilled over the horizon, filling the breadth of the Via Egnatia at once, and Agilo shaded his eyes from the sight. He saw the sea of eagle and draco standards and vivid banners bobbing above the light, then made out the dense ranks clad in mail and scale that marched at the head of this broad column. The Scutarii and Gentiles cavalry led the way as a vanguard, glistening in the sun, cloaks and plumes fluttering in their wake. The ironclad Nervii and Hiberi palace regiments along with the XI Claudia and V Macedonica limitanei legions marched closely behind, two regiments abreast, serving as an armoured front. Behind them came the body of the column: the Fortenses, the Herculiani, the Joviani, the Lancearii, the Mattiarii, the Batavians and the Cornuti and many more – these regiments screened by outriders and spared the burden of armour. Soon, the bulk of the column had poured into view between the twin hills and wound towards Agilo like a great silver river.