Gods & Emperors (Legionary 5)

by Gordon Doherty

  He took a piece of smoked fish from the sack and chewed on it absently – irked at his hunger but knowing he had to eat something to stay alert. He took a handful of barley from the sack too and held it for the gelding to eat from his palm, all the while his eyes were combing the dark land. Suddenly, they locked onto faint, white wisps of smoke, just over the brow of the next hill. Instantly, he dropped into a crouch. Checking the horse was well tethered, he stalked from the shadow of the oak and crept across the moonlit land and up the hill. The hilltop was thickly forested in younger oaks, but he saw, through the woods, a glade. A small campfire crackled within this clearing, and a single horse was nearby: a black mare. Scaevola! Gallus realised at once. His eyes dropped to the slumbering form by the fire. The cur tires at long last!

  He stole through the trees, cat-soft on his feet, instinctively reaching for his absent swordbelt then whispering a curse that Merobaudes had given him no weapon.

  A faint, muffled snort sounded from behind him, down under the old spreading oak. Gallus swung round, but saw nothing in the blackness there. The gelding was no doubt skittish at being left alone so suddenly.

  He turned back to the glade, emerging into the clearing and edging towards the campfire. I can take his horse and speed away from him at last. I can lead my gelding too and relay the beasts. But another, darker voice added: You have to kill him. He’s one of them.

  He halted, looking down on the sleeping form, wrapped in a black cloak and hood.

  He picked up a fist-sized rock and beheld the sleeping agent. Just a man, he thought, helpless and heedless of the killer standing over him. He saw the two doors in the darkness. Tartarus or Elysium?

  ‘Not another step,’ a cold voice split the night air, bringing with it a pungent waft of stale breath.

  Gallus froze, hearing the faint zing of a blade being drawn from its sheath and then feeling it between his shoulder blades.

  ‘I expected better from you,’ Scaevola said, reaching a leg round to kick the hooded cloak – stuffed with blankets – away from the fire. ‘Like a moth to a candle, you were. I watched you sneak up on me. I stole down in your wake and cut your horse’s throat, just to be sure you wouldn’t get away this time.’

  Gallus thought of the stifled snort he had heard. The poor creature had deserved better. He fell to his knees before the fire, dropping the rock, and bowed his head.

  ‘I knew I would be the one to break you,’ Scaevola chuckled behind him, positioning the blade over the nape of his neck.

  ‘Do as you will, Speculator,’ Gallus spat.

  ‘As you wish,’ Scaevola purred.

  Gallus heard the intake of breath behind him as, for a trice, the tip of the blade lifted for the death blow. Like striking asps, he shot his hands into the fire, snatching up handfuls of the searing coals and glowing ash, then scooped them up over his shoulder and into Scaevola’s face, before rolling clear.

  Scaevola’s screams were shrill and sickening, but the agent was stunned for the briefest of moments. Within a heartbeat, he was lurching for Gallus, face furiously red and bubbling where the coals had struck, his sword lifted for a death strike. Gallus leapt clear of the sword tip as it drove into the dirt floor of the glade, then bounded over to the speculator’s horse. He sprang for the saddle, but a small javelin beat him to it, whizzing into the horse’s chest. The beast reared in agony, hooves flailing.

  ‘You’re not getting away on my horse, dog,’ the speculator growled.

  Gallus staggered back, seeing Scaevola stalking forward again.

  ‘On horseback, on foot, I will not stop until I have this blade between your ribs,’ he grinned, then lunged.

  Gallus spun clear of the strike, then stumbled to the treeline. A moment later he found himself loping through the woods, hearing the armed speculator just paces behind him, feeling Scaevola’s blade hack and slice through his wake.

  He burst clear of the woods and tumbled down the hillside, before righting himself and breaking into a feverish run. The wind of the chase struck up again. He ran and ran, Scaevola in close pursuit. His legs became heavy and his lungs grew fiery. Every fibre of his body willed him to stop. Every beat of his heart willed him on.

  On, until I see the standards of my emperor and the sweet, red banner of my legion.

  Chapter 18

  Crunch-crunch-crunch.

  The Army of the East marched ever northwards. It was a slow, steady march that had lasted two weeks, no faster than the thick train of ox and mule-drawn wagons shielded in the centre of the procession allowed. More, it was a cautious advance: every night a steep and sturdy earth embankment and timber wall was erected with a double watch; every morning they rose at dawn, eating a light breakfast of hard tack biscuit and wheat porridge before setting off again.

  Each passing day seemed hotter and dryer than the last, and most days their water skins were hanging flat by mid-afternoon. By the seventh day of August, Pavo lifted his head, sweat dripping from his face and pattering onto his tunic. He was sure there was not a drop of moisture left in him bar the bead of perspiration dangling from his nose. The heat haze licked and rippled all around them. ‘Empty, golden, burning infinity,’ he mused, spitting the dust from his lips. Apart from the blue outline of the hills to the north, the land was largely featureless. The lush pasture of lower Thracia was but a memory, with green meadows and brown earth now replaced by golden dust and shrubs. Just scant, wispy clouds offered passing moments of semi-shade.

  They had enjoyed a stop by the stoutly-walled supply station of Nike the previous night, and this had offered them the respite of fresh, cool water and bread baked in the ovens there. The interior of the fort was heaped with grain sacks – a precious commodity, enough to fuel the army and the Roman-held cities of Thracia for a month at least.

  Now, any mouths not too dry to talk spoke of one thing: their next destination.

  Adrianople.

  Every pair of eyes scoured the countryside, looking northwest, knowing the great city was but a handful of miles away, but also flicking to the north, knowing that Kabyle lay beyond the hills and that the Goths lurked there.

  By mid-afternoon, they came to a broad, baked plain carpeted in golden grass. It was interrupted only by the glittering blue intersection of the lower River Tonsus, running north to south, and the River Hebrus, west to east. Nestled on the northern banks of the confluence was an imperious city, ringed with a silvery curtain wall of immense limestone blocks, studded with high towers. Within, marble facades and lofty insulae jutted high enough to watch the column’s approach.

  A paean of horns sounded from the majestic city walls, and the column’s trumpeters replied in kind, like the meeting of two colossal creatures across the plain.

  Adrianople, Pavo mouthed in admiration. By his side, he noticed Zosimus behold the city with a warm smile. And then there was Sura, wearing that odd look of trepidation. Quadratus wore a troubled look also, but Pavo saw him clutching a hand to his belly and realised this was probably down to a digestive issue. Then there was Dexion: his brother wore the most placid of looks. So serene – like a man unburdened with the ponderings of a soldier in the days before battle: no fear, no doubt... nothing?

  ‘Now the heat might be playing tricks with my eyes,’ Trupo said, scattering his thoughts. The young legionary was eyeing the grounds around Adrianople – bare apart from a scabby vicus near the gates, ‘but I can’t see any signs of Emperor Gratian and the Western Army.’

  ‘He’ll get here,’ Dexion replied before Pavo could, ‘when the time is right.’ He then signalled to the aquilifer, who hoisted the Claudia eagle standard high, ushering a croaky chorus of cheering.

  Pavo swept his gaze around the sweltering plains and hills to the north. On this soil, the war ends. The ambiguity of his own thought brought a cold grip of doubt to his guts. He thought of the foul dream. The burning farmhouse, the dying white eagle, the brave wolf and the shadow-man. He looked off to the side of the column to rid himself of the images,
only for his eyes to fall on something: a lone figure standing in the brush. The crone stared back at him. His gaze met with her milky, sightless eyes.

  The war has yet to reach its blackest phase, she mouthed, just as she had in the dream.

  A stark chill assailed him as the heat haze rippled and she was gone.

  By late afternoon, the immense Roman camp outside Adrianople’s northern wall was almost complete, with soldiers working in the deep orange light to finish the ditch as the blistering sun slipped towards the horizon and a dark band gradually spread over the eastern sky.

  Pavo stooped to heave another load of desert-dry earth from his digging basket over his shoulder, throwing it up onto the scarp. His fingernails were packed with dirt, his mouth and throat were coated in dust and his shoulders ached.

  ‘That’s it, lads,’ Dexion shouted along the ditch, ‘another hundred paces of digging and we’re done. Stew, wine and sleep tonight!’

  A rumble of approval sounded from the Claudia legionaries and the many others working on the ditch nearby. Pavo knew it would take his brother some time to truly win the hearts of Zosimus and Quadratus… and probably Sura too, but the newer recruits had showed him instant respect and seemed buoyed to have a single man at the helm of their unit.

  ‘Stew, wine and sleep?’ Zosimus cooed. ‘Not for me. I’ll be spending the night with my lovely Lupia and little Rufina.’

  Pavo chuckled: rarely had he seen such a contented look on the big man’s face.

  ‘What about you lot?’ Zosimus added quickly, realising all eyes were upon him and adopting his usual scowl. ‘You’ll be going into the city tonight as well I imagine,’ he jabbed a thumb towards Sura, ‘with this one? He’ll no doubt show you the forum they named after him. And the tavern where he drank a team of gladiators under the table, eh… eh?’

  For once, Sura did not bite back. Pavo watched as his friend kept on digging, pretending not to have heard. He and Zosimus shared a quizzical look. Must be tired? Pavo mouthed, sure there was more to it.

  ‘Maybe save it for tomorrow then, eh? And I might join you,’ the big Thracian suggested before wandering off towards the latrines.

  They dug on until the last section of the rectangular ditch was excavated. A cornua wailed and the many legionaries at work in the ditch climbed out to stand outwith the camp perimeter. Another blast of the horn brought a shuddering crack of timber from the direction of the setting sun. Pavo looked on as men there hacked with axes at a sturdy timber dam blocking a narrow sluice that connected the River Tonsus to the camp ditch which ran all the way round the perimeter to join with the banks of the Hebrus. The timbers bucked and gave way, unleashing a foaming wall of water that swept around the ditch, filling it, converting it into a moat and ensuring that no Gothic army could steal or force their way into the camp. The smell of damp soil was a rare thing after so many days of marching through arid, dusty countryside. The tall timber towers and palisade walls atop the inner scarp mound added the secondary layer of defence, with timber walkways allowing access across the moat and into the camp interior via a northern gate and an eastern gate.

  Pavo noticed that Quadratus, resting his weight on a pick-axe, seemed withdrawn just like Sura. The big Gaul had been like this since Perinthus, ever since Dexion had returned.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ he said to the Gaul, ‘we’ll visit the taverns in the city, aye? Just as Zosimus suggested. We’ll drink to Gallus’ memory. The veterans who knew him should have their chance to wish his spirit well.’

  ‘Eh?’ the big Gaul said, turning to Pavo, his face caked in dirt. ‘Gallus? Aye, he deserves that at least.’

  ‘I can’t believe he’s gone either,’ Pavo added quietly.

  ‘Hmm,’ Quadratus replied as if politely keeping his qualms to himself. Pavo noticed the big man’s eyes were every so often turning towards Dexion. It was an appraising look, the one a man might use to judge a dark glade that might house either ripe fruit or bandits.

  ‘He’s somewhat skipped over us in the ranks and in the cohorts, eh?’ Pavo reasoned, taking a guess at the big Gaul’s troubles.

  Quadratus turned to him again, looking a little grumpy at the further interruption to his thoughts. ‘Hmm? Well, I suppose. But he was Primus Pilus – Gallus’ appointment. I’ve no quibble with his rank.’

  ‘Then what’s wrong? I’ve known you since my first days in the legion. Happy as a boar in shit when you’re marching or drinking. You’re not the type to be sullen like this.’

  Quadratus adopted a weak smile like a mask, stood up straight, cradling his bundle of pick-axe, hammer and earth basket, cricked his neck and laughed guardedly. ‘Ach, you’re right. A good sleep tonight then ale, meat and a couple of whores in the city tomorrow’ll sort me out. Though I imagine turd-for-brains there will have them all after him,’ Quadratus nodded towards Sura.

  Again, Sura did not take the bait.

  Pavo chuckled and was about to speak to his friend, but was interrupted by a thunder of hooves. He looked round and saw a lone explorator emerging from the darkening northern horizon and riding in at haste: a young man with a glinting, silver tooth, a splash of freckles across his face and a crossbow strapped to his back. He yelped out a password to the sentries on the camp’s gate towers, then clattered across the timber bridge and inside the camp to hare towards the emperor’s nearly constructed principia area.

  ‘One of Agilo’s lot?’ Zosimus asked Dexion.

  ‘It seems so,’ Dexion said, swinging to his veterans.

  ‘Word of Gratian’s army?’ Rectus suggested.

  ‘No, wrong direction. Something’s going on with the Goths,’ Cornix replied.

  ‘What in Hades is happening out there?’ Sura sighed.

  As the horns sounded to bring the legionaries inside the camp for the night, Pavo and Sura remained for a moment, gazing to the north. Dark, silent and empty.

  Valens, seated, twisted a cherry stalk between thumb and forefinger, his lips pursed and his eyes narrowed in judgement. A hot, dry breeze swirled in every so often, laced with dust from the camp works outside, rippling the riding cloak of the tall, freckle-faced explorator standing before him.

  ‘The Gothic horde has left Kabyle, Domine,’ Hosidius repeated. ‘They move towards us only as fast as the fat cattle and lumbering wagons they bring, but by tomorrow they will reach the southern stretches of the Tonsus valley and spill into the plains, north of this city.’

  ‘They would not dare approach my camp here,’ Valens muttered, thinking of the stout defensive moat, ditch and palisades, all overlooked by Adrianople’s towering, grey walls and artillery mounted platforms. He imagined the lie of central Thracia like a great board. His army was but one piece near the southerly end. He saw the lumbering horde like a stain, sweeping southwards. Where are you headed, Fritigern? he mused.

  ‘I would bargain that he seeks to skirt northeast around Adrianople and seize Nike,’ Hosidius said as if reading Valens’ thoughts.

  And I cannot stop him, Valens realised immediately. To march from Adrianople in an effort to intercept the horde would be to strip himself of the defences offered by Adrianople and to pitch himself against a host of greater number. Unless…

  ‘Tell me again what you saw, rider,’ he asked calmly. The young explorator had explained twice already, but Valens still couldn’t quite accept the news.

  The young man’s eyes grew distant, as if picturing the scene. ‘The horde travels south, but without the Greuthingi riders. The Alliance has shattered, it seems, just as we hoped it might. Fritigern marches with just spearmen and archers, totalling no more than thirty thousand. Agilo and I rode at great speed as soon as we were sure of this. Too great, unfortunately, for Agilo,’ he said, his face lengthening, ‘for my mentor’s horse stumbled as we rode along the edge of a ravine. He and the beast stood no chance.’ He took a moment to compose himself. ‘But he would be proud to know that I hastened on to bring this news to you: the horde marches without its cavalry.’

 
There it was again, Valens thought, that flash of hope: without the support of the Greuthingi riders, Fritigern’s horde was no longer an invincible beast. He rested his chin on steepled fingers, trying to remain calm. He saw the young rider look at him expectantly, anticipating some order to prepare to march out and meet the Goths. He smiled at the youthful exuberance, then waved a hand in dismissal. ‘That will be all.’

  ‘Domine,’ the young one said through tight lips, then left.

  Valens turned to his attendant. ‘Bring in the wolves,’ he said with a wry grin.

  Many hours passed as the debate in the planning tent raged one way and the other, well into the night. Soon it would be dawn, Valens realised. His tunic was still damp with sweat from the day despite the cool night air, and his eyes felt dry and itchy from a lack of sleep. A decision had to be reached and soon. He beat a fist against the map table to quell the bickering voices.

  ‘Each of you, say your piece in turn. Then, I will make my decision,’ he said, meeting the equally bloodshot eyes of his consistorium.

  ‘The horde is already at the southern stretches of the Tonsus valley,’ Bastianus said first, casting a spray of spittle across the map of Thracia, hastily hitching himself then reaching over to tap the area just north of Adrianople. ‘They no doubt turn towards Nike as we speak,’ the gnarled, bald and puce-faced general added, one finger tracing an arc a short way east of Adrianople towards the fortified supply station.