Gods & Emperors (Legionary 5)

by Gordon Doherty

  He heeled the mount into a walk from the trees, realising that any time now, Dexion and Gratian would be rising, expecting to see him burn. Defiant and hastened by this, he kicked the beast into a canter then a gallop, away from the camp. The wind furrowed his long, untended locks and beard and honed his every sense. Every breath, every heartbeat from here on was vital. He had to find Emperor Valens, had to find the Claudia. Somehow, from somewhere, he had this chance.

  It was only now he realised he had been clutching something in his hand all throughout the escape. Lying flat in the saddle, he uncoiled his fingers to see the bloodstained, hewn idol there.

  ‘Thank you, Mithras,’ he whispered as he sped for the south.

  A thick crack of knuckles across the Herul legionary’s already bloated face knocked a shower of blood and spit from the man’s lips. The man who had been on sentry duty atop the gates groaned, his head lolling and his body sagging against the stable post to which he was tied. Scaevola the burly speculator stepped back, wiping the blood from his fists. His mean eyes were tinged with yellow like his skin and his scummy teeth.

  Dexion stepped forward to stand before the bound Herul now. ‘You must have seen something,’ he demanded. The bound Herul groaned, a gloop of red-streaked saliva dangling from his lips and dribbling onto the stable floor.

  Dexion swung away and paced before the bound man, going over the rapid unravelling of events since dawn. He had come here to bring Gallus to the prepared spit. Instead, he had found just a pile of shackles where Gallus should have been. A frantic and thorough search of the fort had ensued as dawn broke... but no sign of Gallus. Nobody could have passed outside the fort’s walls – a double watch had been in place at all sections. He swung back to the beaten sentry, looking for clues.

  ‘Shall I encourage him a little more, sir?’ Scaevola said, cracking the knuckles on his fist.

  Dexion was about to nod his assent, when the Herul’s lips moved. He raised a finger to still his eager colleague, then stepped a little closer to the battered Herul.

  ‘Nobody came or went,’ the Herul croaked, ‘just the water cart.’

  Dexion stepped back. A spark of realisation flared in his mind, then burst into an inferno of understanding. He barged past Scaevola, rushed outside and hurried up the stone stairs leading to the fort’s eastern battlements. Up there, the dawn sun was blinding, and the vast sea of tents and waking soldiers outside like an army of stretching shadows. He shielded his eyes and scoured them. Where are you, you dog? He mouthed, until his gaze snagged on the camp’s southern gate. Beyond the gate, he saw a faint set of cart tracks, leading to the stream. His eyes bulged.

  He’s outside.

  He swung to face down into the fort, his fiery glare darting. Someone in here had aided Gallus’ escape. A cold, ruthless desire to find out overcame him, until another thought trampled over it: every one of his words to the tribunus last night stung at him like a swarm of vengeful hornets as he imagined Gallus reaching Emperor Valens. He knows everything.

  His stomach plummeted into his boots. It was a sense of chaos, a lack of control, fear… stark, serrated feelings – running amok, trampling over the battered gates of the prison he had built deep within. He had failed his master, failed his brethren. His heart pounded on his ribs and a film of sweat broke from his pores, a droplet shooting down his forehead. His breath grew short and his hands shook.

  ‘Sir, is something wrong?’ A Herul on the walls nearby asked.

  Dexion barely heard the man’s words. Instead, he flitted back down the steps into the fort and entered the praetorium. Inside, Gratian’s screeching laughter filled the stony hearth room, flecks of pheasant meat spraying in the air as he chewed on this between bouts of hilarity. A pair of naked slave women knelt on the floor before his raised timber chair, hands tied behind their backs, obediently dipping their heads and eating the scraps of meat he threw to them. By his chair rested a gleaming two-headed axe. The laughter stopped when Dexion halted before the throne.

  ‘Domine,’ Dexion said with an unfamiliar tremor in his voice, dipping to one knee and bowing his head. When he looked up, he saw a suspicious glint in Gratian’s eye, the erstwhile mirth gone from his face.

  ‘You seem to be missing something?’ Gratian said, smoothing his purple cloak and looking to either side of Dexion. ‘Or rather, someone. And I cannot smell smoke, nor burning flesh.’

  The words were like hot pins in Dexion’s skin. ‘Forgive me, Domine. Something… unexpected has occurred.’

  Gratian shuffled forward in his throne, intrigued. ‘My, I may be wrong, but I am almost certain that I have never seen sweat on the brow of my most skilled agent. I assume you bring me bad news?’

  Dexion’s throat grew dry. He recalled the only other time a speculator had failed their master and not been killed in the process of the task they had botched. The man was denounced from the brethren, the loyalty was withdrawn and the man – previously confident and unflappable – was cut loose by his comrades. Lost, he had thrown himself from a tower that very same day. Those who had seen him do it said he had been clawing at his face, maddened, as if under attack by a colony of invisible bats. Biting, relentless, feelings. ‘Tribunus Gallus has escaped.’

  Gratian’s face grew pinched. ‘Again? The man is a blight!’ He laughed in incredulity. ‘A bane!’ He knitted his fingers and cracked his knuckles. ‘He has found a way out of his shackles? Then where is he hiding? This fort is hardly a maze.’

  Dexion’s heart felt heavy as lead. He looked around the room as if it might offer answers. He barely noticed Merobaudes, standing vigil just behind Gratian’s throne. ‘He has escaped the fort, Domine,’ he sighed, ‘and slipped from the camp too – via the southern gate.’

  Gratian tossed his scrap of pheasant cartilage across the room angrily and the two slave girls scurried from its path and cowered in the corner. ‘One man,’ he growled, standing to pace on his plinth, wagging his index finger, ‘one man has slipped past thirty thousand?’ The anger faded and he snorted in bemusement. ‘He has fled south? Then he is obviously eager to join my dear Uncle Valens… eager to face the Goths… eager to die.’ He held his hands out to either side. ‘Perhaps we should let him?’

  Dexion struggled to hold the emperor’s questioning glare. ‘Domine, were he to reach Emperor Valens’ camp, it would be… ’ he felt his words falter, ‘disastrous.’

  Gratian said nothing, but the way the boy-emperor stilled and the way his expression turned gull-like, eyes piercing, mouth downturned, confirmed his understanding of what had happened.

  ‘He knows, Domine,’ Dexion said in barely a whisper. ‘He knows.’

  Silence. Fierce, burning silence.

  Dexion dipped his head in shame where he knelt. Shame, loathing, all those long-buried feelings now rapped around him gleefully, stinging, screeching. He saw Dexion toy with the fang-ring on his finger – the one that Pelagius had been forced to use back in Treverorum to open his own throat. Fear pounced upon him like a lion from a cage. ‘Give me a horse, Master. He is most likely on foot so I can ride him down. I can right this wrong.’ He sensed behind him the approach of previously unseen Heruli guards from the shadows at the sides of the praetorium, heard the faint grinding of swords being part-drawn from scabbards. Was it to end here, in shame and abandonment, spurned by his master and his brethren?

  But the footsteps halted. He looked up, seeing that Gratian’s raised finger had stopped them. ‘You have had your chance to bring him before our executioners, and you failed,’ the boy-emperor said. ‘But your fellow agent, Scaevola, is fresh and eager,’ Gratian mused, sitting on one arm of his throne, taking hold of the axe haft resting there and twirling it – the blade grinding on the flagstones as he did so. He clapped his hands, sending one of the Heruli scurrying outside. A moment later the man returned with the mean-eyed, foul-toothed speculator from the stable, knuckles still bloodied. Gratian tossed this man the axe. ‘Ride south. Find Gallus. Be sure he does not reach Emperor
Valens… and when you return to me, be sure to bring with you Gallus’ head.’

  With a bow, Scaevola backed out of the hall. Moments later, the clop of a horse galloping from the fort gates sounded.

  Dexion felt everything, everything he had suppressed over the years. At that moment he longed to weep for the slain pup, that first of so many victims. In there, something else came to the surface: a gnawing, bleak sense of wrong: he thought of the night he slew Gallus’ family and the day he killed Pavo’s woman. Guilt, he realised, and it was overwhelming. Cold sweat spidered from every pore and his stomach grew twisted like a sack of snakes. Unconsciously, he extended his neck in an offer to the Heruli posted just behind him.

  But no death blow came.

  ‘Unfortunately, I still need you. You are integral to the final stages of our plan,’ Gratian said, slumping back onto his throne. ‘So you are to ride at haste for Emperor Valens and his army.’

  Dexion looked up, shaking, his face pale, eyes bloodshot.

  Gratian clicked his fingers. A scribe hurried over to his side with a reed pen, a pot of ink and a leaf of paper on a timber writing board. ‘I received word from my relay riders this morning of his plans: he is to leave his camp at Melanthias and march along the coast road to Perinthus. Soon, he will veer north and inland to seek out Fritigern.’ He stabbed a finger at Dexion. ‘You will take word to him to confirm our current location. Tell him I am planning to march to his aid at haste and will rendezvous with him at Adrianople. We will likely be there by the start of August, maybe even waiting upon him when he arrives there.’ As he said this, then scribe began writing furiously.

  A slave boy hiding in the shadows stepped forward, gulped and spoke gingerly: ‘Shall I summon your generals, Domine?’

  Gratian beheld the scrawny boy for a moment. ‘Whatever for?’

  The boy trembled. ‘To… to prepare for the march.’

  Gratian smiled. ‘We’re going nowhere, boy.’ The slave backed away, confused, then Gratian glowered down at Dexion again. ‘I seldom offer failed agents a second chance. Do not disappoint me this time.’

  Dexion looked up, daring to meet his master’s eye. He felt the whirl of emotions withdrawing like an ebb tide, the mocking voices growing silent. Blessed, sweet, nothing was returning. ‘But… but if he believes you are coming, then surely he might well wait for you – safe under the shelter of Adrianople’s walls?’

  A dark smile played on Gratian’s lips. ‘Indeed. Sometimes a dog needs a kick before it will chase a rabbit.’ He flicked a finger at the scribe, who started scribbling again. ‘Tell him that he should leave his reckless nature to one side and await the guile and wisdom of his nephew. Track the Goths, but do not be so foolish as to engage them. That should raise his hackles. If he needs more of a kick, then do what you must to ensure he marches to face the Goths.’ He chuckled knowingly, then snatched the leaf of paper from the scribe, rolled it up then tipped a candle upon it and pressed his ring into the molten wax to mark it with his seal before handing it to Dexion. ‘Take the relay horses and you should reach him within days. Comes Richomeres will ride with you – he knows nothing of our true intentions, and Valens trusts him.’

  ‘Yes, Domine,’ he said. A moment of silence passed, and he realised his audience with the emperor was over. It was time to return to the eastern ranks, to his brother. He had imprisoned his emotions once more, but he would have to don a mask around the eastern ranks – to smile, laugh and frown with them – and the notion curdled in his belly. Only until my master’s orders have been completed, he thought. He stood, bowed once more and turned to leave.

  ‘And be sure that all goes to plan,’ Gratian added suddenly, halting Dexion in his tracks, ‘else I will have you staked out and let rats dine upon your guts whilst you still breathe.’

  Chapter 15

  Roman horns wailed and the countryside trembled as Emperor Valens’ army marched west along the Via Egnatia – the first stretch of the route to Adrianople. The road ran along the edge of a stretch of coastal cliffs on their left, beyond which the calm azure waters of the Propontis sparkled in the noonday sun, speckled with fishing boats, and a gentle, salty sea breeze brought some respite from the fierce heat. To their right, the inland hills and plains of lower Thracia shimmered in the midday mirage. The cawing of seabirds and the buzz of insects fought with the thunder of boots and hooves for supremacy. It had been this way for three days since the Army of the East had at last left Melanthias behind.

  Pavo, at the head of his Second Cohort, eyed the way ahead, seeing the great grey stripe of the road fork into two separate highways. This was where the Via Militaris began in earnest: the right-hand route leading off inland to the northwest into the beating heart of Thracia. By the left side of the fork, the coastal cliffs ended and the land sloped down towards a natural harbour, around which a walled city clung, sun-bleached and alive with tiny figures on its streets. A steady stream of trade cogs came and went across the waters. The aroma of the fish markets and baking bread swirled in the coastal air.

  ‘Perinthus,’ he mused. This was one of the few well-walled cities that had survived the Gothic invasion like an island in the swell of the roving warbands. As the column slipped fully into view of the city, Pavo heard another sound over the boots and sounds of nature: a raucous cheering, the throngs of ant-like people down inside the walls twisting and pointing up at the cliffside road, waving, hailing the legions. Horns sounded from the walls and the sentries there punched their spears aloft. It sent a frisson of hubris and hope through Pavo. The people believed once more.

  ‘This is probably the first time they’ve seen an imperial army this size for years,’ Pavo said, turning to Sura.

  ‘Funny,’ Sura shook his head, ‘Never stopped here. Always marched right on past.’

  ‘Not this time though,’ Rectus agreed, sniffing the air, basking in the breeze. ‘We’re stopping here for the night, so I hope they’ve got a fair ration of wine in.’

  ‘Not too much, mind,’ Zosimus countered. Nearly every head within earshot swung round with a quizzical look. Zosimus rarely spoke of wine in anything but loving terms. The big Thracian grinned. ‘Because we want clear heads for a nice early start tomorrow. On to Nike… then Adrianople. Sweet, sweet Adrianople. I haven’t been home in over a year. Haven’t seen my wife and my little girl since last spring.’ He chuckled as if recalling some precious memory of them, then turned to Sura. ‘What about you, Unofficial King of Adrianople? At last you can show us around your old stamping ground. You have someone waiting for you? A few hundred women, I’ll bet,’ he said with a wink to the others.

  Sura, never one to shy away from such preposterous notions, seemed to shrink a little. ‘Ach, you know. We’ll see when we get there.’

  Pavo considered mocking him, but noticed a slight look of dejection on his friend’s face. An instant later, the buccinators at the head of the column sounded a series of notes, drawing the marching legions off the road and downhill towards the flat ground outside Perinthus that would serve as the legionary camp that night.

  Zosimus gasped as the march slowed into a walk and the foremost legions spilled downhill toward the city. ‘Maybe just a little wine,’ he reasoned hoarsely, ‘to wash this infernal dust from my throat.’

  ‘It’ll only grow hotter when we move away from the coast tomorrow,’ Pavo mused, squinting up at the sun.

  ‘I’ll make sure all the lads are ready – full water skins or they’ll get a thorough bollocking,’ Sura agreed.

  Just then, all heads turned to some commotion around the emperor’s escort, with the candidati suddenly bracing, facing something coming from the north down the Via Militaris, and a few barking challenges being issued. An approaching force? He wondered, walking on his toes and craning his neck to see, but the jostling shapes and dust obscured any detail. For a moment, his soldier’s instinct had his hand rising, ready to motion to the Claudia’s signifer to wave the banner in alarm, but when the candidati relaxed and he he
ard a cheer erupt from the emperor’s men, he sighed in relief.

  ‘What’s that all about?’ Sura mused.

  Pavo shook his head, equally confused. ‘A messenger of some sort? Relay riders by the looks of it,’ he guessed, seeing the cluster of horses with the new arrivals.

  ‘Word from the West!’ one legionary nearby said, repeating the phrase that was spreading back down the column.

  The words hit Pavo like a stone between the eyes. Now he craned and jostled to see the newcomers.

  ‘A couple of messengers from Gratian,’ another legionary explained, seeing his angst. ‘The Western Army are on their way,’ he added with a grin.

  Pavo’s head spun as the column proceeded down towards the harbour city. By the time the three cohorts of the XI Claudia reached the flat ground outside Perinthus, men from the vanguard had already marked out the limits of camp ramparts. The gates of Perinthus had been opened and already, wagon-loads of water barrels and skins were being ferried out and distributed to the men.

  Pavo gratefully took the skin offered to him. But when a hand slapped on his shoulder, he jolted in alarm. ‘Sir?’ he said, seeing it was Zosimus. The big Thracian said nothing. His eyes were fixed on something: two figures, handing their mounts over to a stable attendant then walking towards the Claudia cohorts. Pavo realised it was this pair who had just ridden in from the north and stirred great cheer in the emperor and his closest regiments.

  ‘By the God of the Light…’ Quadratus whispered.

  ‘Have I been in the sun too long?’ Sura added, his water skin falling and slapping to the ground, his face agape as he beheld the approaching pair.

  Pavo squinted, seeing the two approaching: both tall and armoured, the rightmost with a white horsehair plume and a black, baked leather cuirass. His lips moved, but no sound emerged.

  Dexion? Gallus?

  Then they came close enough to discern. Dexion grinned warmly and Pavo saw his lips move – the sound drowned out by the din of the column and the ramparts being dug, but the word all-too-clear.