One of the auxiliaries slammed a cup of foaming ale down before him, giving him a respectful if drunken salute. Gallus tipped his head in gratitude, waited until the soldier was gone then handed the cup to one of the locals who gleefully accepted. The auxiliaries were in no mood to shirk the chance to numb their brains, however. They sang, arm in arm, regaling each other with their heroics at Rauberg and reciting the victory cries. Watching this group, he could not help but think of the veterans of the Claudia. They had been through a hundred Raubergs and worse – much worse. Brothers and sons, he thought. Those men were all he had since his family had been struck from this life. Struck from this life by that bastard of a speculator. His fists clenched and his teeth ground.
Dexion.
‘It’ll be a quiet voyage tomorrow, sir,’ Sorio slurred, flopping down on the bench next to him, his cheeks ruddy.
Gallus arched an eyebrow. ‘The hortator’s drums will be sounding in every man’s head, whether we are under oars or not,’ he replied dryly.
‘It takes a certain sort of man to refuse the oblivion of wine and ale,’ Sorio sipped on his drink and sighed contentedly. ‘Dagr wondered who you really were,’ he said, smacking his lips together. ‘I did too. We all did. Some reckoned you were a mercenary of sorts – maybe a brigand – who knew how to organise fighting men.’
‘Hmm,’ Gallus replied, pretending to be disinterested but willing the well-meaning soldier to leave him be or pass out from inebriation.
‘But now,’ Sorio continued, ‘now I know who you are.’
Gallus noticed the slur in the man’s voice was gone, and saw that the cup he carried contained neither wine nor ale, but water.
‘You know what gave it away?’ Sorio grinned. ‘When you refused to take my acclaim and insisted I become centurion before you.’ He said, his eyes growing hooded. ‘That tells me you are a man who values the shadows.’
Gallus said nothing, his blood growing cold.
‘And who could blame you, given all you have been through?’ Sorio said.
Gallus pinned Sorio with his cold blue eyes. ‘Say your piece, Optio.’
‘Master Dexion told me to be watchful. He said there may be a man in the army – an officer perhaps in disguise. It is you, isn’t it, Tribunus Gallus?’
‘You are a speculator?’ Gallus scoffed. ‘But you are as clumsy as a pregnant cow. What covert agent announces himself to his target?’
Sorio smiled. ‘An ambitious one, perhaps?’
Gallus felt a sharp prod just under his ribcage. He glanced down to see that Sorio had pressed a short dagger – hidden under a fold of cloak – against his side. Gallus offered him a tight-lipped reply: ‘You think you stand a chance of taking me to him? Do you know what I did to Lurco and his pigs in the dungeon? And that grey-eyed fool who tried to capture me on the crest of the Rauberg, in King Priarius’ hall – tell me, how is he these days?’
A sparkle appeared in Sorio’s eyes, as if Gallus’ challenge had excited the man more. The speculator pressed the dagger in until it split Gallus’ tunic and pricked his skin. Hot blood trickled down his waist underneath his tunic. ‘I’ve thought about how I might get you to Master Dexion,’ Sorio mused. ‘I agree I won’t be able to – too many dark streets between here and his tent in the camp further along the riverside. I thought about sharing my suspicions with him before I came here tonight,’ he glanced to the tavern doorway.
Gallus’ heart missed several beats as he tried to train his peripheral vision on the entrance. Nobody was there save the drunks slumped nearby.
‘But then I knew what would happen: he would arrest you here and take the acclaim from Gratian. I would be forgotten. Brethren, they call us… but there is always a place for sibling rivalry, is there not?’ he said with a grin. ‘So here’s what I propose. I will leave now. You will follow shortly after. There is a nook just behind this place – black as night. We’ll go in there and I’ll open your neck. It’ll be quick, I promise you – no pain,’ he said with wide, earnest eyes. ‘I’ll see to it that you get a decent burial… I’ll even pay for a stone to mark your grave. I’ll say there was a struggle and I had no option but to kill you. I’ll get praise for doing so, along with a reward and maybe a rise in station too. A fine plan, don’t you think?’ he said this as he dug the knife in a little deeper, grinding through cartilage. ‘Come on, don’t make me rip your guts out in this place – you don’t deserve to die in a hole like this.’
Gallus winced, feeling the cold steel explore the space under his ribs. Another inch and it would surely pierce an organ. He nodded.
Suddenly, Sorio was a drunken auxiliary again. ‘Tomorrow!’ he slurred as he swung away and stood, waving a hand to the auxiliaries, who mockingly booed his early retirement and then cheered him out of the door.
Gallus waited for a short while, gazing into Sorio’s abandoned cup of water. He saw in the surface the drawn, bearded and ascetic scowl of the man he had become. A man running with his enemies, deluded with ambitions of justice. Justice, he mused, seeing Olivia and Marcus, calling on him: justice will not bring them back. They cannot return to me. I can only go to them. He thought of the moment in the dungeons when the torturer had taken him to the cusp of death. The twin gateways. If I am strong enough, then perhaps I can forge a path to Elysium? He thought of Sorio’s offer. Tonight, now, I can go to them…
He stood and left, barely hearing the chorus of well-wishers.
Outside, the air was hot and fetid with the stench of other nearby taverns mixing with long-lying dung and waste at the sides of the paved alley. An over-painted whore tried to barter with him, but stopped and stepped back in fright when she saw the expression on his face. He walked on until he saw the nook.
‘There we are,’ Sorio whispered behind him, a hand wrapping round his neck, holding the blade to his throat and drawing him deeper into the shadows. Gallus did not resist, simply gazing into the blackness.
‘So, where shall it be: your throat, your heart… your eye?’ he said walking round in front of Gallus, carefully moving the dagger tip, pointing to each location in turn like a butcher. ‘Though I did say I would make it quick… and it has to look like a struggle,’ he mused. ‘But once you’re dead, I can have horses trample your corpse to make it look like an accident,’ he said, pointing with the dagger to the street where the distant noise of clopping market horses sounded.
Gallus felt not an ounce of fear at the man’s gleeful words. In truth, he barely comprehended them, for his mind was elsewhere, wandering, seeking out the image of the twin gateways in the mist again, desperate to see the faces of his family in the entrance to paradise. For a moment, he almost craved the cold steel of the dagger in his neck. Almost. Then he saw them. Olivia with little Marcus by her side. Just as had happened in the dungeon, here, too, she shook her head, backing away from the gateway, which closed over like an eye. Olivia? he mouthed as the vision crumbled.
It is not yet time, her sweet, sweet voice sounded, distant and fading.
‘Yes, the neck,’ Sorio decided. ‘It is always a fine thing to watch a man try to cry out as his lifeblood gushes from his throat and mouth.’
Gallus gazed into the space where the vision had been. In its place he saw the stocky agent’s eyes glinting in the darkness, the man’s arm tensing and felt the cold steel of the blade piercing the skin of his throat.
In a blur, Gallus’ hand shot out, clamping onto Sorio’s wrist. He grabbed the man’s bicep with his other hand, then swung his knee up and into the elbow. A dull crack saw Sorio stumble back, wailing, the dagger falling from his dangling, shattered arm. Gallus caught the blade as it fell, then strode towards him.
Sorio’s eyes flashed with fear. ‘Stop, I can help you. I can get you what you wan-gggaaaahhhhh!’ he ended with a pained grunt as Gallus brought the dagger flashing up and into his gut. The blade delved deep. Blood lunged up from Sorio’s belly and burst from his lips and nostrils. Gallus wrenched the blade to one side then tore it free, Sorio c
lutched at the wound with his good hand, only to feel the blue-grey, asp-like coil of steaming intestines spill between his fingers, slipping over his legs and plummeting down onto the filth underfoot, ripping away the flesh of his abdomen with it. Now his trembling hand felt around the cavity where his belly had once been, lips trembling in shock.
Gallus, panting through clenched teeth, grabbed Sorio by the hair then leaned in to whisper in the speculator’s ear. ‘Rabid dogs will chew on your corpse tonight. Nobody will grieve for you tomorrow. No stone will mark your grave as you walk alone in the eternal fires. But rejoice, for soon you will be joined by your master.’
As he turned away, a thick, wet thud sounded behind him as Sorio fell to his knees then toppled forward onto his face. He strode from the nook without looking back, seeing the glinting eyes of the rats and hounds in the darkness already scenting the meal that would last them all night. He strode at haste for the camp near the wharf, his mind ablaze with what had just happened. When Sorio’s body was found – and even if it wasn’t and people assumed he had deserted – Dexion would know the truth. The noose was tightening.
Come on then you godless bastard.
Chapter 13
A weary band of just over a thousand men snaked along a farm track flanked on either side by bright sunflower fields. Bastianus, leading them, swiped a hand through the mid-July morning air, sweat lashing from his gleaming, bald head. ‘Melanthias is but hours away. Come on, full step,’ he cried.
The column broke into a swift march, despite their weary legs and few hours of rest.
‘One more burst,’ Pavo encouraged the Second Cohort. It had been a gruelling trek since the ten who had infiltrated Durostorum had docked the trireme at the rural jetty south of Deultum and reunited with the rest of Bastianus’ small taskforce. All around him, he saw filthy and drawn faces, eyes reddened from lack of sleep but trained on the south, eager to sight the imperial camp.
‘Hmmm, you’re all too damned quiet. How’s about another marching song, aye?’ Bastianus added.
Pavo smiled: it was a welcome distraction for most – though Agilo’s head fell at the prospect – and he saw a few devious eyes, recalling words to no doubt foul verses. But it was Bastianus who stole in before them.
‘It iiiiiisssss….’ he trilled, sitting bolt upright on the saddle, straightening his eyepatch then placing one hand on his chest, the other extended as if singing to an audience.
‘…longer than the grand old River Tiber,’
Longer than the grand old River Tiber, the column repeated.
‘Harder than Alpes mountain roooock,’ Bastianus continued.
Harder than Alpes mountain rock,
‘Thicker than the trunk of a juniperrrrrrr,’
Thicker than the trunk of a juniper,
‘That’s what the ladies say about my cooooock!’ he finished, clasping his genitals and hitching them robustly.
The men of the column half-repeated this line and half roared with laughter.
They marched like this – in short bursts of speed to the tune of increasingly vulgar songs – each of them imagining what awaited them back at Melanthias: food, rest and, crucially, hope. The Eastern Army and – by all reckoning – Gratian’s Western Army too would be united and readying for the decisive march north to retake Thracia and face the Goths. Pavo thought again of the scroll from Narco.
…Dexion has reached Treverorum. He will return in time to ensure the emperor’s victory…
Suddenly he felt the weariness of the march evaporate and his heart soared.
By the first hour after noon, they came over a fold of land and erupted in a hoarse, vibrant cheer at the sight before them: the teal waters of the Melanthias lagoon sparkled like a bed of jewels, casting a shimmering light across the great camp by its eastern shore, walled with a tall earth ditch and a palisade studded with timber towers. Amongst the sea of tents and men within, the countless banners of every legion fluttered in a welcome sea breeze from the Propontis, the sea like a silky veil of iridescent blue on the southern horizon.
Pavo noticed how the stone walls and northern wings of the emperor’s ruined manor had been rebuilt and now resembled an inner citadel of sorts within the camp. More, a vast training and parade field had been established, just outside the camp’s eastern perimeter. It seemed that they had returned just in time to see the entire Eastern Army on display: some thirty thousand legionaries, palace regiments and cavalry arrayed in serried ranks with a broad front yet a seemingly endless depth too, plumes jutting proudly into the air, speartips vertical and glinting. The distant, howling voice of some campidoctor pealed through the air, and the blocks of steely soldiers quickly adopted a combat stance, a din of iron and clacking shields echoing across the lagoon. Another order and they transformed back into their parade stance. The campidoctor’s next order was futile, for when the watchtower sentries at the great camp’s northern perimeter cried out, heralding Bastianus’ approaching force, every head turned to look that way. A crescendo of chanting broke out, thirty thousand fists, swords and spears were pumped skywards in greeting. A pair of exploratores galloped over to escort them in, both saluting the Magister Peditum vigorously.
‘Magister Peditum,’ one said breathlessly. ‘Is it true? The warbands have fled to Kabyle?’
When the other rider questioned him excitedly too, Bastianus held up a hand. ‘All in good time,’ he said with a chuckle, then twisted on his saddle to address his force. ‘You see that, lads?’ Bastianus said through a yellow-toothed grin, sitting bolt upright on his saddle, pointing to the sea of wagons by the camp’s northern gate, laden with provisions: the Eastern Army was set to break camp and march imminently. ‘They’re ready to go – just waiting for us!’
He rode to and fro before the head of the column, meeting the eye of every archer, slinger, horseman and Claudia legionary in his cobbled-together, heterogeneous force. ‘When we enter the camp, our time as a unit will be over – each of you will go back to your parent regiments and your old commanders. But damn, I can assure you it’s been a pleasure berating you for this past month. I for one cannot wait to harangue you once again when the army as a whole marches from this place.’
Pavo laughed with the others, cheering and mock-jeering the haggard general. His heart was swollen with pride. The air was thick with enthusiasm and impending triumph. The army was ready to march, Thracia could be saved. But, like a billowing sail suddenly falling limp, his moment of rapture fell away as he scanned the camp once more. The Eastern Army was a fine spectacle, but now he could see clearly that it was alone: where was Emperor Gratian and his legions?
Exhausted, Pavo and the Claudia men had set up their tents under the noon sun, then ate ravenously – devouring sweet, fatty lamb joints and draining skins of watered wine. They were granted leave from the ongoing preparations for the imminent march, and he and the others gratefully collapsed in their tents, the hot afternoon air swirling around him and taking only heartbeats to seduce him into a deep, unbroken and blessedly dreamless sleep.
When he woke, he realised he hadn’t stirred or moved once and felt a tremendous sense of wellbeing at the long-overdue rest. He wondered: was that pleasant slumber the first he had enjoyed, free of the dreams of the shadow-man in weeks… months even? Thick-headed, he sat up and looked around, scratching his scalp. It was pitch black outside, and he heard the muted mutters of soldiers enjoying their evening meals. He looked down and realised that – apart from kicking off his boots – he had neglected to undress, still clad in his filthy marching tunic. Sura’s rhythmic snoring from the far side of the tent came and went, as if coaxing him back to sleep, and he was about to lie down again, when he noticed the tent flap moving. He palmed his eyes, sure he was imagining it. Then the flap was swept back, and a black outline of a man – a shadow-man – gazed down at him. Panic seized his breast momentarily, until the figure spoke.
‘Centurion,’ the figure said solemnly, ‘come with me.’
‘Agilo
,’ Pavo said, sighing in relief as a pale finger of moonlight from outside illuminated the explorator’s features and foxskin cap. He rose, stretched and pulled on his boots then followed the swarthy scout. The likeable man clearly had not enjoyed the opportunity to rest like the others – still bearing dark-ringed and bloodshot eyes.
‘I’ve been in debriefing with the emperor all afternoon,’ he explained, leading Pavo through the vast camp towards the centre. ‘Now it’s your turn.’
‘Me?’ Pavo frowned. ‘Why?’
Agilo gave him a tired half-smile. ‘The emperor is troubled. He shooed his consistorium from the tent earlier – called them a brood of clucking hens – and demanded an audience of straight-talking men. He asked for Gallus of the Claudia at first, until I reminded him he was… absent. So he asked for one of the senior officers instead.’
‘Zosimus, surely, he is the highest ranking officer in the legion,’ Pavo said. ‘Master of the First Cohort – Primus Pilus in all but title.’
Agilo gave him a sly look with a weary smile. ‘Zosimus? I didn’t get a chance to ask him. I stuck my head inside his tent and he didn’t even open his eyes: just told me in no uncertain terms he would store his boots within the lower half of my person if I didn’t leave him be.’
‘Then Quadratus?’ Pavo argued.
Agilo’s face wrinkled in some horrific half-memory. ‘By all the gods, no. I had to sleep near that man and his noxious gases when we were out in the field, remember? I’d rather stick my head in a week-old latrine pit than poke it into his tent in the middle of the night.’
‘Understandable,’ Pavo shrugged.
‘Now I’m afraid I must hurry you,’ Agilo said, straightening his red fur cap, ‘for my time is short. The emperor has already tasked me with my next mission: to ride north and scout the area around Kabyle and monitor the gathering of Fritigern’s horde. The life of an explorator: horse sweat, saddle sores and very little sleep,’ he smiled wearily.
Gods & Emperors (Legionary 5) Page 25
