Pavo followed the old man’s finger as he pointed over to the side of the brook on the hill’s crest. The green grass here was spoiled by a rectangular patch of charred earth, outlined by blackened timber stumps – like bad teeth in a foul mouth open wide. He wandered over to it. ‘This is… was Narco?’ he muttered absently.
‘Until a few weeks ago, it was,’ the old fellow rested both hands and his chin on his crook and eyed the ruin with disdain. ‘Abandoned since the Goths broke through the mountains, mind you. But even before then it was best avoided: they used to sell vile ale and filthy food – only the imperial messengers were treated to the fresh stuff. And the donkey they kept here was mean too – bit my hand once when I tried to feed it.’
Pavo brushed a foot through the ash. ‘Why did the Goths burn it if it was deserted anyway?
The old man looked up at Pavo, one eyebrow arched. ‘The Goths did not burn it: A Roman did. I saw him: a rider of some sort with a crossbow. He came here and put a torch to the place.’
‘That makes even less sense.’ He unfolded the paper and held it up. Narco holds the truth. ‘Nothing survived the blaze?’
One side of the shepherd’s mouth flicked up subtly as he read it. ‘Come with me.’
The old man shuffled away, beckoning Pavo. Pavo switched his gaze from the shepherd to the camp works down at the foot of the hill, guiltily realising he was neglecting his duty in setting up the camp for the night.
‘Latrines!’ Bastianus howled. ‘We need volunteers to dig out a latrine pit.’
Mind made up, Pavo followed the old fellow, who led him into a poplar grove, telling him tales of his youth, chuckling cheerfully as he recalled them. A shack stood in a small dell in the middle. He invited Pavo in and put a pan of water on the fire. As the water boiled, he brought out an armful of scrolls, dumping them on the small table and inviting Pavo to sit.
‘The place was abandoned at haste when the mountain passes fell, and so all this was left behind,’ the shepherd said, pouring the now boiling water into two cups and dipping a small muslin bag of herbs and roots into each, colouring the water a dark green. ‘Private letters, military inventories, bills… threats!’ he laughed.
Pavo took a sip of the herbal brew – hot but deliciously sweet and earthy. He peeled open each scroll to glance at the contents. Dull and detailed.
‘I took these scrolls thinking they would be safer with me than in the empty waystation. Seems I was right – for nothing would have survived that blaze, nothing!’ the old man said, laughing again.
Pavo sighed as he scanned the bland texts, one after the other. ‘These could be of great use to a light sleeper,’ he joked.
‘This one might be of great use to you, Centurion.’ The shepherd handed him one scroll.
Pavo looked up, noticing the man’s cheerful chuckling had stopped.
The shepherd wore a wry look on his weathered face. ‘Your brother’s name is Dexion, you said. You want to know the truth about him?’ the shepherd said. ‘Then this might well be what you were looking for.’
Pavo eyed the scroll, his mouth growing dry. He took it and unfurled it, an odd sense of foreboding coming over him. The staring eye emblem struck him first.
‘The eye – like your note,’ the old man said eagerly. ‘And… ’
Pavo combed over the text. It was nondescript – a vague message. But there was one line that smacked him between the eyes:
…Dexion has reached Treverorum. He will return in time to ensure the emperor’s victory…
‘What is this?’ Pavo gasped.
The old shepherd shrugged. ‘This paper was not kept in Narco’s storage room, but hidden in a locked box in the attic. Whatever it is, it was not meant to be seen by just any eyes… and then I dropped the box, breaking it, and, well, I let curiosity get the better of me. I read it, though it made no sense to me – but I knew it would mean something to you – what with that unforgettable eye and your brother’s name. So what does it mean – good news or bad?’
Pavo realised he was smiling. ‘It means… he made it. Dexion and Gallus made it to the West,’ he whispered. ‘And if they made it there then… then they’ll be coming back with Gratian’s army, surely.’ He shot to his feet, grasped the old man by the shoulders and embraced him. ‘Thank you,’ he said, making for the door, eager to tell his comrades. He halted in the doorway though, turning round, realising he should give the old man something in return. He patted his purse – coinless, then realised it was not money the fellow needed, but advice. He remembered the old crone’s words in the foul dream.
The war has yet to reach its blackest phase.
‘We will do all we can to rid this land of war,’ he said, ‘but you should listen to your boy. Go to Bourdepa and take shelter within its walls.’
The shepherd sipped his brew and smiled gently. ‘Perhaps,’ he said after a time, then smiled, ‘after all, who am I to disobey a centurion’s order?’ Then he waved a hand at the door. ‘Now go, share your news with your comrades,’ he said, chuckling.
Pavo gave him a warm nod then left, hurrying back out of the grove and over the hilltop towards the camp works. As he came back down the hillside to the camp by the Via Militaris, Bastianus’ war horn voice split the air. The trenches and tents were in place and the men were slaking their thirsts while Bastianus walked his nickering roan amongst them. ‘You served me well today, men. Fritigern will know of our exploits and of his vanquished warbands,’ he raised and shook one clenched fist, turning to meet every eye. ‘Most have fled lower Thracia, but still some remain! So let’s get the tents up, fill your bellies, slake your thirst and get to sleep.’ Bastianus’ neck stretched as he scanned the sea of faces. ‘And whoever the farter is, keep the noise down. I didn’t get a wink of sleep last night. Not-a-bloody-wink!’
Quadratus didn’t seem to notice the many sets of scornful eyes that turned towards him, instead he just continued to chew upon a rather iffy-looking stick of salt mutton.
Pavo slowed down by Quadratus’ side, breathless, waving Zosimus and Sura to him as well. He unravelled the scroll and held it up so they could read it. All eyes combed the letter blankly for a moment.
Sura laughed and slapped Pavo’s back. ‘Thank you, Mithras,’ he grinned.
‘You have heard our prayers,’ Quadratus added, his face lighting up. ‘Now what – we wait?’
‘Maybe,’ Pavo mused. ‘Or we could finish the job we started here… chase the rest of the Goths from this land – clear a path for their return.’
Big Zosimus scooped his arms around the others and shook them, his face split with a beaming grin. ‘They’re coming back… they’re coming back!’
A welcome breeze blew across the hot plains as Suerdias the Goth halted for a moment to eye the land ahead: open grassland for miles, just a cluster of foothills ahead smudging the flat southern horizon. He glanced to either side of him. Three clusters of tall, fair-haired Thervingi warriors were massed to his right and another three to his left. Six warbands. Almost six thousand men, clad in baked red leather armour and mail. A small army. Fritigern had insisted that the warbands should move alone, each group of one thousand distinct and swift. But the stinging attacks from this wraith legion – a legion that had seemingly been everywhere in southern Thracia at once – had been telling. Many warbands had fled north, abandoning the regions they had been tasked with holding. The five who remained in southeastern Thracia had flocked to his group, seeking direction. Some talked of withdrawing north together. Suerdias smiled at the notion, for there would be no such retreat.
This track would lead them down to the southern coast of Thracia, where the port towns of the empire had so far held out, stubbornly refusing to pay tribute. ‘Because they have only ever been threatened by a single warband… so far,’ he mused. ‘They will pay tribute… or they will burn,’ he whispered, then raised and scooped a hand overhead. ‘Forward!’
As they moved off again at a jog, he wondered where his old comrade, Colias,
was right now. Rumour had it that he had meekly surrendered to this cursed wraith legion. ‘What happened to your famed courage, Brother?’ he said quietly, recalling the Roman citizens’ brutal attack on his and Colias’ century that day in Adrianople. ‘How could you forgive them?’ His face hardened. ‘I most certainly will not.’
His eyes sharpened on the foothills a mile away: the coast was still some way off, but maybe from up on those hummocks he and his men might sight the sparkling waters and the silver-walled cities that would be their prize. Perhaps the sight might stir their hearts and rid them of their doubts and thoughts of retreat? Perinthus, the port-city, would be their first target. With this much manpower the place could be stormed and taken. He imagined himself within the Roman halls there, draped in silk like a king, feasting on meat and wine while his warbands patrolled the walls and struck out at the other towns and cities nearby. He visualised the grain ships that might sit in the harbour there and wondered at what power he might gain by his custody of them. Perhaps Fritigern would finally pay him due respect and offer him a place on the Council?
A spearman slowed by his side. ‘Dust!’ he gasped.
Suerdias raised a hand to slow the six thousand. He followed the man’s outstretched, pointing finger. There, from the foothills on the horizon, a slender wisp of golden dust spiralled into the air. One edge of his mouth lifted. The wraith legion? I will enjoy this. ‘Spread out!’ he bawled. The six warbands were quick to widen their marching line into a broad, pincer-like line. The groups at each end moved ahead a little, knowing this manoeuvre well – it would be their job to race around the flanks and rear of this Roman band. ‘Forward,’ he hissed.
‘We move like lions,’ he bawled as they progressed, ‘our spears like claws.’ As he spoke, he saw the wisp of dust from the foothills thicken. His brow furrowed a little. ‘We have heard tales of this wraith legion taking our brothers captive. We will offer no such mercy.’ He sought more rousing words, but felt his throat tighten as the golden dust cloud grew so thick it became brown then almost black. ‘We… we…’ he stammered, his eyes staring as the dust cloud swiftly broadened, billowing out for a half mile or more – almost as wide as the foothills themselves. He slowed and his men slowed with him. As the thumping of their footsteps ebbed, they heard just the whispering breeze and some six thousand panting breaths. Then the ground shivered under them, and a dull, distant rumble sounded. Suddenly, a wall of men spilled up onto the tops of the nearest foothills in a halo of sunlight. Bright shields and iron speartips. Romans.
‘The wraith legion?’ the spearman by Suerdias’ side croaked.
But the wall of men grew broader and broader as more crested the hills. A front, half a mile wide. Suerdias’ eyes bulged. ‘No,’ he rasped in barely a whisper, realising just how many regiments must be coming behind this one for them to kick up that colossal, churning dust cloud, ‘that is no mere legion. That is the Army of the East.’
Wails of panic sounded all around him as the wall of legionaries marched solemnly down from the crest of the nearest foothill. Crunch-crunch-crunch. ‘Flee!’ one spearman cried. It was enough to shatter their collective courage and they turned and raced to the north. Suerdias fled with them, lamenting and cursing himself as he went.
‘Halt!’ Bastianus cried.
The Claudia ranks stopped dead.
‘They’re running,’ Sura whispered in disbelief, seeing the six warbands breaking back to the north.
‘It worked?’ Pavo gasped. He dug his spearbutt into the hilltop then looked each way along their front – just one rank deep, stretched out over half a mile. He then looked over his shoulder: on the floor of the shallow valley behind the line, Agilo and his equites were still charging back and forth along the valley floor, from one end of the legionary line to the other. Each rider had branches tied to their mounts’ tails, the dried wood and leaves trailing behind them and still throwing up the dense and broad screen of dust.
‘Enough!’ Bastianus roared down into the valley, then broke down in a coughing fit as the dust wafted over him, momentarily engulfing him. The riders slowed and the giant dust cloud faded.
‘It worked,’ Pavo affirmed, looking north again and seeing the warbands now fading into the horizon.
All along the line there was a moment of doubt, then they erupted in a chorus of cheering. Men sent prayers to their gods and others laughed and punched the air in delight.
Later that afternoon, Pavo sat with Bastianus, Zosimus, Quadratus, Sura and Rectus at a small fire near the foot of the Rhodope Mountains, the rest of the ensemble spread out near them around fires of their own. The deception to drive off six whole warbands had worked brilliantly, and Bastianus had allowed the men to celebrate. Watered wine had gradually become less watered, and the archers had hunted a few mountain goats which now cooked over spits. Pavo chewed at the meat – tough but rich and tasty – gulping at his wineskin, feeding the warm glow within. He could not control the smile that spread across his face as he thought of the Narco scroll again.
…Dexion has reached Treverorum. He will return in time to ensure the emperor’s victory…
But Bastianus’ sigh reigned in his thoughts. The Magister Peditum was still mulling over their mission, even after a hearty dose of wine. Pavo chewed the last of the meat from his bone and tossed it into the fire, then stoked at the coals with a twig and eyed the latest dirt map, by Bastianus’ feet. They had liberated the southern sector of Thracia from the Gothic warbands. But the stretch of lands to the north was vast, and still firmly in Gothic hands.
‘We’ve herded these damned warbands like sheep,’ Bastianus muttered to himself, pausing to saw at a joint of juicy mutton with his teeth, ‘but Fritigern will be content to keep them roaming further north. He needs a stiffer jolt,’ he pushed his palms towards one another in the air, as if compressing an invisible cushion, ‘to force him to bring the horde together. That was our brief and we must find a way to achieve it. Yet every time I draw my damned maps in the soil to devise a plan, it always comes back to... ’ he stopped and sighed.
‘To the secondary camp?’ Pavo guessed, sitting alongside the Magister Peditum.
Bastianus looked up, nodding, tapping a twig on the vast, unmarked tract of the map that marked out northern Thracia. ‘Aye, to that damned secondary camp. The one possession of Fritigern’s we might be able to get at.’
Pavo thought of the mountains, forests, plains and rivers in the north. Countless hidden valleys, abandoned Roman towns and defensible hills. He sighed and gazed into the fire. ‘There are many sites he might have chosen. I could mark the best of them for you – if only we had the time and means to scout each of them.’
Just then, the sound of hooves startled them. They turned from the fire to see Agilo riding in. The poor explorator had been denied the chance to savour the success of the morning – instead being despatched by Bastianus to scout the retreat of the six warbands.
‘Agilo?’ Pavo said, rising with the others, his gaze flicking to the north, at once fearing the six thousand Goths had regained their nerve and turned around to face the phantom Roman army they had ‘sighted’ that morning. But the land was deserted.
‘They’re gone – running like deer, headed to the plain around Kabyle as far as I could tell,’ Agilo said, panting, sliding from the saddle of his sweat-lathered mount.
Bastianus punched a fist into his palm in satisfaction and the others around the fire and those nearby shouted in delight.
‘But on my way back, I saw something else,’ Agilo added, stilling the chorus of celebration, ‘There is another party still in these parts. Not spearmen, but riders. The wing that attacked and razed Melanthias – two thousand strong. Swift, strong and well-armoured.’
Bastianus’ face bent into a sneer. ‘Greuthingi,’ he hissed through his yellow teeth, as if the word was poisoned. And that one word was enough to rile the gathered men. Not all Greuthingi were savage, Pavo thought, but those who rode in the Gothic Alliance – Alatheu
s and Saphrax’s men – were swiftly gaining such a reputation.
Agilo nodded. ‘Those very same bastards who cut the throats of women and children at the imperial manor. I crossed paths with a frightened merchant: it seems these riders struck Beroea two days ago, rushing the city gates while the wagon train of grain supplies tried to enter. They did to the people within what they did to the residents of Melanthias.’ A dark murmur rose from the men. ‘I watched them ride. They seem to be sweeping an area within a days’ ride from the River Hebrus. They must be moving along its banks.’
‘Fancy paying them a visit?’ Bastianus cut in, a dark smile spreading across his features. ‘For the slain of Melanthias, for the dead of Beroea. Let us send the riders scuttling north just as we did with the many warbands. It is time to twist the knife!’ He rotated his wrist sharply as he said this, conjuring a visceral cheer.
Three days passed. Pavo woke in the darkness to a chorus of whispers and a balmy night air. With a flurry of rustling, grumbling, whispering, spitting and coughing, he and the rest of the XI Claudia emerged from their tents – pitched in the floor of a sheltered vale. The midnight sky was veiled in roiling, angry clouds. Pavo and Sura gathered the Second Cohort with hushed orders, Zosimus and Quadratus doing likewise, and the single centuries of Lancearii, slingers, archers, crossbowmen and two hundred riders assembled next to them. They were almost as dark as the night itself, for every man wore a felt cap and dark cloak over their tunic, a shield strapped to their back – covered in brown hide to disguise its vivid colours. Every Claudia legionary was armed with his spatha and a spear.
Bastianus strode before them, his scarred face puffy from a lack of sleep and coated in a light sweat. It had been this way for the last three days, camped and resting during daylight hours, then when darkness fell and no enemy eyes could spot them or their dust cloud, they would rise, like nocturnal hunters. On the first night, Agilo had ridden west and sighted the Greuthingi cavalry camp on the Hebrus’ northern banks. On the second night, the legion had marched in darkness to come within two miles of the place. Tonight, it was time to strike.
Gods & Emperors (Legionary 5) Page 18
