Gods & Emperors (Legionary 5)

by Gordon Doherty

  Dexion seemed to hear Gallus’ thoughts. ‘You seem buoyed by this?’

  ‘The Western Army is here, just a handful of miles from the edge of Thracia. The Goths can be vanquished. Is that not the purpose of the journey east?’ Gallus said.

  Dexion sighed and examined his fingernails. ‘When a hunting cat sees a jackal and a hyena fighting, bloodied and weakening with every passing moment, it knows to lie in wait. To let the fight end. After all, then it will need to tackle only one creature – and an exhausted one at that.’ He looked up from his nails to Gallus. ‘You think that the Western Army means deliverance – salvation for this land, for my half-brother and the oafs of your legion?’ he said, pacing before Gallus. ‘Well, that is partly true. Emperor Gratian has marched his armies here to save this land… but he has no intention of using them to prop up the reign of his feckless uncle. We will wait here until,’ he tilted his head one way and then the other as if picking the right words, ‘until events have played out as we anticipate. I have comrades littered throughout Valens’ ranks to help facilitate this, you see. Brethren march in his every regiment. We have been planning this for a long time. Valens might think he chooses his path through this conflict but he does not: every move, every stretch of road he has marched and every turn he has taken so far has been down to us.’

  Gallus felt the blood drain from his face. Gratian’s dilatory journey east had demonstrated his tepid regard for his uncle; but Western agents in the Eastern ranks plotting against Valens? That cast a far graver light on affairs. ‘This is no time to play games with the empire’s future. Do not underestimate the power of the Goths.’

  ‘Oh, no. On the contrary, we are relying upon their strength. Valens will have to face them soon, without my master’s support. When he does, he will fail.’ Dexion said as if explaining simple arithmetic to a boy.

  A cold stone fell into Gallus’ gut. ‘If Valens faces the Goths alone and outnumbered… they will all die… Pavo will die.’

  Dexion’s face grew taut for just a moment, as if Gallus’ words had registered like a pebble being tossed into his tranquil pool of self-belief. ‘But my master will be pleased. That… that is what matters,’ he said, his voice tightening.

  Gallus’ eyes darted across the hay floor of the stable and he shook his head. ‘But your designs will crumble, Speculator. Valens will not engage the horde if he knows he is outnumbered. You will have a stalemate. An awkward and embarrassing stalemate, with every mouth in the empire whispering about Gratian and his army lingering here when they should be on the road to central Thracia to rendezvous with the Army of the East.’

  ‘Valens will not engage the horde if he believes he is outnumbered? Very true,’ Dexion replied, arching an eyebrow. ‘But beliefs can be manipulated. My brethren are adept at doing just that.’

  Gallus’ eyes narrowed as he tried to read Dexion’s meaning.

  ‘Tomorrow, after your execution, I will be despatched to Emperor Valens’ camp,’ the speculator continued. ‘I will see to it that he marches to war… and your precious legion will march with him.’

  ‘To their doom?’ Gallus said, then thumped his head back against the stable wall, sure he was hearing the chatterings of a madman. But the assured, glacial glint in Dexion’s golden eyes told him that it was all too true. ‘You will let this happen? You will let Pavo die, let thousands of legionaries perish, let hundreds of thousands of Roman citizens fall under the Gothic yoke?’

  Dexion placed a hand across his chest, fingers splayed. ‘I will be there too. I will be leading the Claudia when the emperor marches to face Fritigern.’ He said this with such conviction, then shrugged. ‘But I’ll be there just long enough… long enough to do what must be done.’

  ‘To do what must be done?’ Gallus repeated in disbelief, the vagueness of the statement filling him with dread. He saw again that earnest sparkle in Dexion’s eyes. Such conviction, such deep-seated belief that he was doing the right thing. ‘To what end? To set up a chance – just a chance, mind – for Gratian to harvest the Eastern throne? The boy-emperor is insane. Surely you can see this?’

  Dexion barely flinched. ‘Yet still he is my master. I was born to obey my master and honour my brethren.’ The speculator crouched before him and met his gaze. ‘You loathe me for what I am, for what I do, yet you are not so different from me. You are paid to kill as your generals demand.’

  Gallus laughed without a grain of mirth. ‘You slay women, children and old men. I do none of these things.’

  Dexion’s gaze grew distant. ‘Because you are not strong enough. You are a slave to your feelings and emotions. Remember, I’ve seen you thrash in torment as you try to sleep.’

  ‘Feelings, emotions?’ Gallus said, his eyes narrowing and his head moving towards Dexion’s. ‘Like those your brother felt for you – most probably still does?’

  ‘You insist on mentioning my half-brother, why?’ Dexion scoffed, refusing to meet Gallus’ eye. ‘If he feels anything for me… then he is weak too.’

  ‘When Pavo first heard of your existence, he wept. He thought he was alone in the barracks that night, but I saw him. Were it my place I would have tried to comfort him… then I realised I did not need to, for they were tears of unbridled joy. The lad has been given little in this world, and finding you was the greatest gift. He loves you, Dexion.’

  For a moment, Dexion was silent. The empty, soulless look in his eyes faded. Faint lines appeared across his forehead and the eyes darted a little. ‘Love?’ he said. ‘Love is the greatest weakness. It pulls and tangles a man’s thoughts. When I was a boy, I thought I loved my Father. He abandoned us. I thought I loved my Mother, she died in my arms. Why would I want to endure the torment of love again?’

  ‘Pavo saw his father die, and his mother was lost giving birth to him,’ Gallus replied, ‘yet still he chose to love and trust you.’

  ‘Then he is a fool,’ Dexion said with an unconvincing chuckle, dipping his head as if to hide his face. ‘And I have made my choice.’

  Gallus saw the veins in Dexion’s neck throbbing – almost within arm’s reach – and imagined lunging, pressing his thumbs into the cur’s airway and choking the life from him. But now he realised something – all this time, he had been seeking two things: revenge for Olivia and Marcus, and salvation for his brothers in the Claudia and their fellow regiments. Every twist in his road east seemed to snatch away or dangle before him just one of those two possibilities at a time. Perhaps it was fate that he could have only one? ‘Dexion,’ he said gently. ‘A man is defined by his choices, and no man is ever finished making them until his heart ceases to beat. Before the Alani ambush, I would have given everything to see you slain, yet when they sprang upon us, I chose to save you. You can still choose to save Pavo… and the Army of the East.’

  Dexion looked up. Those cold, lifeless eyes were red-rimmed now, the tawny-gold irises glassy. His face bent in a tortured smile and moisture hovered on the lower lid of one eye. ‘You truly think I can make things right with my brother?’

  ‘You can at least make some form of amends,’ Gallus said. ‘Break this foul bond with your so-called brethren. Take a horse tonight and ride for Emperor Valens, tell him everything.’

  For just a moment, Dexion’s eyes lit up. It was an innocent look of hope, but it lasted only moments. ‘I… I cut his woman’s throat,’ he stammered, a look of disgust dropping over his face. ‘I’ve killed… so many… so much blood on my hands.’

  ‘Then wash some of it away,’ Gallus pressed. ‘Ride, tonight… now!’

  But Dexion had fallen silent. The wrinkled, tortured look had vanished from his face and the cold veil had returned. His eyes were once more a deep pit of inky emptiness. ‘I cut his woman’s throat, as my master wished,’ he said in a toneless drawl.

  ‘Dexion,’ Gallus tried to meet his eye.

  ‘You will die at dawn… as my master wishes,’ Dexion said, rising from his haunches, his eyes failing to meet Gallus.

  Gallu
s’ heart fell into his boots. He hated himself for even having tried – for having considered bartering. ‘Then nothing has changed, Speculator. You will pay for what you have done. To me, to Pavo…’

  ‘Dawn is but hours away,’ the speculator cut him off, then swung round and stalked off. Gallus remained, staring at the spot where the speculator had been. His heart pounded against his ribs and his last sliver of hope disappeared. With his death, Olivia and Marcus would go unavenged, and now it seemed that Emperor Valens and his Eastern Praesental Army would be abandoned to face Fritigern’s Goths alone – with Gratian’s army perched here in Dacia awaiting Valens’ defeat before they would act.

  Someone had to take word to Emperor Valens and the Claudia. There had to be a way.

  His senses leaving him, he wrenched at his shackles but they were thick and well-made and mocked his efforts with their steadfastness. Those who had helped him get this far – Evike and Dagr – were long dead. He wondered if Carus and the auxiliaries might free him. Gratian’s men would cut you down if you even looked towards this stable, he realised. Through the open doorway of the stables, he saw the Heruli on the walls. He saw Merobaudes, the towering, drawn general, striding past, a handful of his Petulantes accompanying him, and he felt that constant rumble in the ground – no doubt the rest of Merobaudes’ lot setting up camp outside the fort. His head lolled. I am alone, surrounded by enemies.

  The air grew thick with woodsmoke and the tang of spiced meat and rich broths. The noise of laughter, chatter and clacking cups came and went. How many of those regiments out there knew of the dark game their emperor was playing? Well into the night, he heard the muffled homilies of Gratian from somewhere up on the walls, addressing those within and outside. The boy-emperor praised them for reaching the soil of Dacia and beseeched them to be ready to march southeast into Thracia and to Emperor Valens’ aid upon his command. The Western Army cheered their approval at this, ignorant of Gratian’s true designs. Gallus hung his head where he sat, and the noises outside faded to nothing as the army retired to their tents.

  He fished the small, blunt, wooden idol of Mithras from his purse and turned it over in his hand. The dark stain of Trogus’ blood from the dungeons of Treverorum was still visible. ‘What purpose is there in my journey?’ he asked the deity as a shard of silvery moonlight stretched in across the floor from the door, illuminating the idol. ‘I have travelled across the empire and back, only to fail. Is this a cruel jest because I spurned our oath?’ He recalled the stormy words he had cast at the altar in the Mithraeum in Constantinople before setting off on the journey that ended with his incarceration. ‘I do not ask for fame or glory, gold nor station. I do not even ask for my life, for I would gladly give it to at least right one of these great wrongs. My wife and boy are gone and I cannot bring them back. I can only hope to join them in the world beyond the Styx. But the men of the eastern armies stand in the jaws of death, not yet there but surely soon if they wander blindly ahead to face Fritigern’s Goths alone. You are the light, Mithras, the protector in battle… how can a god of such repute stand idly by while his devoted legions’ lives are at stake? Give me hope, Mithras, give me just a crumb of hope.’ He gazed at the idol until the silence threatened to deafen him. Eventually, his face fell and he closed his fingers over the idol.

  Looking through the open doorway, he saw a section of sky outside, still dark but tinged with deep-blue near the east. There could only be another hour at best before sunrise, he realised. Dexion’s words rang in his thoughts. You will die at dawn.

  ‘Then let it be done.’

  As he said this, he heard crunching footsteps approaching.

  It is time? Gallus guessed, wondering how swift his death would be. He almost snorted in dry mirth at the notion that it would be anything other than slow and excruciating.

  The footsteps grew closer. He heard the Heruli outside mutter something to the approaching figure. ‘Sir?’ one voice said. ‘Go back to your quarters, I’ll deal with this,’ another, baritone voice replied curtly. A moment later, a shadow filled the doorway. This time it was far broader and taller than Dexion’s.

  Gallus looked up, recognising the straggly, long hair and the bulging leather and iron strapped shoulders. Merobaudes stalked towards him, crouched, and eyed him. This close, Gallus saw every scar and welt from some fire-wound on the Frankish Magister Equitum’s tired, sombre face.

  ‘You are Gallus?’ he said with a sneer. ‘The one who is to die?’

  ‘Are not all men fated to die one day?’ Gallus said flatly, seeing the misty twin gateways in his mind’s eye.

  Merobaudes snorted dryly. ‘Aye, but not in the manner you will. There is a spit outside and a pile of kindling under it. You are to roast like a pig.’

  ‘Then get it over with,’ Gallus insisted. ‘I’ve already had Gratian’s agent in here, talking about my impending death. In truth, I’m bored of waiting.’

  Merobaudes chuckled a little. ‘Ah, the bluff and bluster of an officer. You once led a legion of these lands, aye?’

  Gallus gave the colossal general an appraising look. ‘The XI Claudia. The Pride of Thracia.’

  ‘Then you would have enjoyed my Emperor’s twin homily tonight. From the walls, he spoke of marching south to meet with Valens’ army.’

  ‘I heard his homily,’ Gallus cut in, ‘and I know it is nothing but horseshit. The agent I spoke of told me of Gratian’s true designs. Rather loose-lipped, I thought. But I suppose he has that luxury when talking to a man who has hours to live…’ he looked outside, seeing the faintest of golden glows above the fort walls – campfires or the first light of dawn?

  Merobaudes grinned. It was a grin that could have been that of a predator readying to feast. He unlocked Gallus’ shackles, clamped a hand around his forearm and hoisted him to his feet. ‘It’s time.’

  Gallus shuffled outside first, casting an eye around the fort interior. Sentries walked the walls, unaware of the goings-on down at the stable. The slight glow in the sky was indeed campfires on the plain outside, he realised – not dawn yet. The fort floor was dotted with slaves and attendants sleeping on the ground and the tents of Merobaudes’ Petulantes were pitched at the north end. He spotted the spit and the pile of kindling, then, seeing there was nobody waiting there, he cast a mean eye at the praetorium – the least ramshackle of the structures within the stronghold with dim orange lamplight flickering within. Gratian and Dexion surely dwelled inside. ‘I expect we will have to wait upon my audience?’

  ‘Move,’ Merobaudes jabbed the dagger into Gallus back, urging him forwards.

  He stumbled towards the firewood and spit and then… on past it. ‘Where-’

  ‘Not a word,’ Merobaudes hissed.

  Gallus noticed the big Frank’s eyes watching the sentries on the walls. Finally, they came to a hand-pulled cart, resting beside the fort cistern. On it were two barrels. ‘The cistern is dry, so we need water,’ he said, patting one barrel, a quiet echo confirming it was empty. ‘My men are taking these outside to fill them.’

  Gallus’ eyes widened as the Frankish general quietly lifted the lid from the barrel and gestured for him to climb inside. ‘Get in, and don’t move until the cart stops.’

  Gallus hesitated, sure this was some cruel ploy.

  ‘You would rather wait for dawn and the spit?’ Merobaudes asked.

  ‘Not particularly,’ Gallus replied. ‘But why are you helping me?’

  Merobaudes bristled a little at this. ‘Why? Because the whelp on the Western throne needs to be kept in check. If Valens is defeated at the hands of the Goths and Gratian steps in to save the East and seize it as his own, then the boy will become all but invincible. That doesn’t suit me. Not at all,’ he said, a dark look spreading across his haggard face.

  ‘Then rally the legions loyal to you,’ Gallus whispered, gesturing towards the outside of the fort, where the many thousands Merobaudes had led here on foot were camped. ‘Take them to fight by Valens’ side.’


  Merobaudes smiled. It was a wintry smile that failed to echo in his pale eyes. ‘Neither does that suit me, you see. Not for what I have planned. I will spare Valens just one man – you. Take word to him. Be sure he knows Gratian is not coming in support… and tell him to be wary… for the boy-emperor will not stop at merely withholding reinforcements.’

  Gallus thought of Dexion’s vague words just a short while ago.

  I have comrades littered throughout Valens’ ranks… and I’ll be there just long enough… long enough to do what must be done.

  ‘Now go, and waste not a moment,’ Merobaudes said.

  Gallus nodded, looked all around him, then climbed into the barrel before crouching and replacing the lid. For a moment, nothing happened, and he wondered if this was some dramatic trick and that the barrel would then be tossed onto the fire. At last, he heard muted orders being given and a pair of footsteps trudging over and hoisting the cart level, ready to move.

  What followed was a jarring ride as the cart set off. He heard muffled dialogue between the cart-pullers and the sentries, then the gentle groan of the fort gates opening, then a long, constant rumble as the cart made its way through the camp. He risked lifting the lid just a fraction, and saw that two of Merobaudes iron-vested Celtae were pulling the cart. All around him were legionary tents set up across a camp that dominated the plain, with just a few early risers stretching and yawning. Up ahead, he saw the southern edge of the camp: a basic earth rampart with a pair of timber watchtowers flanking the thin path that led out into the plain. Dawn finally arrived just as the cart reached the stream outside the camp. The vehicle stopped by an ash thicket, and the two men pulling it opened Gallus’ barrel and helped him out. Not saying a word, they showed him to a grey gelding snorting and pawing the ground, tied within the trees. Hanging from the saddle was a small haircloth sack of rations and two water skins. He swung up and astride the beast, turning to thank the pair who had helped him escape, but already they were scuttling away, heads down, to collect water upstream.