Gods & Emperors (Legionary 5)

by Gordon Doherty

  ‘Then it is simple: ignore Nike, let it fall,’ Victor, the whip-thin Magister Equitum interrupted in a measured, even tone. Valens sensed the circular argument coming round once again. He eyed Victor: the officer had the poise and calm of an all-knowing parent, but Valens knew only too well that the man had been wrong before – sometimes to the cost of many thousands of legionary lives.

  ‘Cah!’ Bastianus uttered throwing both hands up in the air in exasperation, his lone eye almost popping from his head. ‘Simple? It would be damned well disastrous! The horde moves without its cavalry. We can face them, match them spear for spear.’

  ‘But if we wait,’ Victor countered, ‘then Emperor Gratian and his western army will arrive. Do this and we will have two spears for every one of Fritigern’s. Surely a rational general would favour those odds?’

  ‘As the letter I brought to you stated, Domine, your nephew will be here soon,’ Richomeres spoke up in support.

  Valens looked up like a hawk sighting prey, pinning Victor and Richomeres. ‘Soon?’ he said bitterly. ‘You expect me to base a decision on so fine an estimate as… soon?’ He glowered at his gathered men: ‘Gratian first advised that he would arrive in early July. I heard nothing for weeks until I received a scrap of paper boasting of his victories over barbarians in the west, with a mere footnote informing that he would not reach Thracia until the end of July. The new moon of August came and still my army waited, alone,’ he stabbed a finger at Richomeres, ‘and then you brought word to me. You counselled that Gratian would be here – at this very city – in the first days of August. Yet it is the eighth day of that moon and not one of my scouts has even sighted them. Not one!’ he hammered a fist into the table, sending a cup spinning. In Valens’ mind, the barbed lines from Gratian’s letter replayed over and over.

  Await my arrival. I will bring with me guile and wisdom. Track the Goths, but do not be so rash and foolish as to engage them without me.

  Richomeres blanched and seemed lost for words. Victor took a moment to clear his throat before replying. ‘Given the last correspondence from your nephew, I would estimate that he and his legions are now at or are approaching the Succi Pass. It might take him a week or more to arrive here but waiting is the correct thing to do. Gratian’s army is the key.’

  Valens could not refute the logic, but resented the implication. His nephew would no doubt be sure to take the title Gothicus Maximus were he to arrive and be the saviour. He worked hard to stow those selfish, nagging thoughts.

  Saturninus was next to speak, and his reasoning answered Valens’ question. ‘When… if Gratian’s army and ours unite, our numbers might be fearsome, but so too would be the hunger in our bellies were we to sacrifice Nike and its supplies. We have provender enough here to feed the thirty thousand gathered for another fortnight, but sixty thousand? At half-rations, we would have a week within which to operate and to bring the horde to heel via treaty or on the edge of the sword.’ The quietly-spoken Magister Equitum gazed down on the map and eyed the distance between Adrianople and Nike, some fifteen miles east, back along the Via Militaris. ‘Perhaps we should not have based ourselves here and instead set up a moated camp around Nike,’ he mused. ‘Is it too late to consider moving the army back there? If we do so at haste we can secure it before Fritigern and the horde can fall upon it.’

  ‘Folly!’ Traianus scoffed, swiping a hand through the air, his hooked nose flaring in disgust. ‘To react so drastically smacks of panic, and tell me, what more appetising a target could we present to the horde than the flanks of our entire army, hurrying back along the military road on a whim? Were they to catch us on the march and fall upon us from whatever countryside they traverse, or even at Nike if we were too slow in constructing a well-fortified camp there, it would be a disaster.’

  Valens saw all too clearly in his mind’s eye the scenario playing out just as Traianus had described. His judgement was swinging in agreement.

  ‘Respectfully, Domine,’ Traianus said, lowering his voice, ‘once before I tried to sway you, albeit on non-secular matters: when your persecution of the Nicene churches began to stoke unrest amongst the people. You ignored me then, and the disquiet of the Nicenes has plagued you ever since. I urge you to heed me on this military matter.’

  Valens felt his top lip tremble in ire. That some still referred only to his removal of troublesome Nicene senators – and failed to mention his expulsion of a particularly devious Arian Bishop by the name of Evagrius – as persecutions was a vile slur. He looked Traianus in the eye and hissed: ‘And you have never been wrong in military matters? What of the dire stalemate at Ad Salices? You were in command of the armies there, were you not? Do not lecture me about poor decisions.’

  Traianus’ nose wrinkled and he recoiled, clearly catching some fiery response behind his lips.

  Valens dropped and shook his head again. Traianus was flawed. They all were. Yet none of them bore the burden of making the final decision, the one upon which the fate of thirty thousand soldiers and many hundreds of thousands more souls all across Thracia, rested. A faint sound crept from the recesses of his mind.

  Hiss.

  Water, coming for him. It grew from a hiss to a growl… then a thundering roar. He saw the foaming, silvery tide, surging towards him. His eyes grew wide and cold beads of sweat broke across his face.

  ‘We should wait, Domine,’ Victor reiterated, snapping him from the grim trance. ‘Let Gratian join us and then we can be safe in the knowledge of victory. Let us not march under the dog-day heat – and it is particularly fierce this year.’

  ‘Ha!’ Bastianus scoffed. ‘A Sarmatian urging caution? Which god is playing this cruel trick upon my ears?’ He pounded a fist into the map table. ‘Seize the initiative, Domine. You have adequate forces to take this war into your own hands. March forth and confront Fritigern!’

  ‘We might never have a better chance, Domine. Fritigern’s horde without the Greuthingi riders are like a scorpion without its sting,’ Saturninus agreed. ‘Whether we move back to Nike or march to engage Fritigern, action of some sort would be best.’

  Victor leaned a little closer to Valens. ‘Opt for safety, Domine. Stay here.’

  ‘Stay and let Fritigern pluck Nike and its grain stores from our grasp and seize control of the route between us and Constantinople? Stay and invite starvation? Never – march!’ Bastianus pleaded.

  The cacophony of yelling struck up again, deafening this time.

  Valens gazed through the forest of flailing, gesticulating arms and roaring mouths. The crashing silvery tide strived to freeze him as it had done so many times before, but he fought it and fixed his eyes on the map: poring over the short stretch of land between Fritigern’s current position, somewhere in the valley that would lead him onto the plains around Adrianople, and the Gothic Iudex’s likely target of Nike.

  Stay or march? He thought, surveying the map for features upon the terrain. Ignominy or glory?

  He realised that there was no real choice. To remain here would be to cement the opinion of the hostile public: that he was weak and indecisive. To wait upon Gratian, his young nephew, would be to admit as much. And if Gratian’s absence continued, it might even break this campaign and condemn the army and the cities to famine. He had faced the Goths before in his reign, outmanoeuvred them, driven them back when they invaded and commanded the obedience of their leaders. ‘And so it will be again,’ he muttered.

  The yelling continued.

  ‘And so it will be… again!’ he cried over the others.

  Instantly, the tent fell silent. He met the eyes of each man, then spoke in a low, steady voice: ‘It is dawn. Spend the coming day resting and having your men prepare themselves. Come dawn tomorrow, the Eastern Army will march from this city and face Fritigern.

  After they left, Valens slumped in his chair. Palming at his eyes and rubbing his temples. He enjoyed a moment of peace in the blackness behind his closed eyes until that rushing wall of water came for him in the darkn
ess and jolted him upright. Outside he could hear the blare of buccinae for morning roll call along with cries of the news spreading.

  ‘Tomorrow, we go to war!’ the cry went, in many different accents.

  He looked across his spacious tent to the wooden stand holding his white steel armour, the polished helm with the magnificent purple plume and his jewel-hilted sword and white, Chi-Rho shield. His war-shell would be worn tomorrow. He wondered then what Fritigern was doing at this very moment. Rallying his forces? Whetting his sword? Eager… or perhaps regretful?

  He was so tired and absorbed in his thoughts, that he almost did not notice the three figures slipping into his tent. Two white-robed candidati and another figure in the middle.

  ‘Domine,’ one candidatus said gently.

  Valens turned to them with a start. ‘I am finished with talks,’ he scowled and swept a hand through the air. ‘I need to find a few hours of sleep before I lose my mind and-’ his words halted in his throat as he saw the man the candidati escorted: a gaunt, pale man with a shaved head. A Goth, but not a warrior… a priest. The fellow wore a brown, ankle-length robe that bore a crude but striking embroidered Chi-Rho on the breast.

  ‘He came in at first light, Domine. He brings word from Fritigern and asks to speak with you urgently.’

  Valens gestured silently to the chair opposite him, pouring two cups of water and pushing one before the man when he sat. ‘I have sought parley with Fritigern for months. Why only now does he respond?’

  The priest cocked his head to one side and smiled faintly.

  ‘Something amuses you?’ Valens snapped.

  ‘Iudex Fritigern said much the same before he despatched me. He has lost several riders attempting to contact you.’ His voice was weak and creaky like an old wagon wheel

  Valens’ brow furrowed. Suspicion swirled in his belly like an eel. ‘That is unfortunate. But now is not the time to ruminate over what has been. My legions clamour for war – you must have heard them on your way in. So waste not a heartbeat more. Speak.’

  The priest nodded dutifully. ‘Iudex Fritigern understands that his armies and yours seem set to meet. He wonders if, perhaps, our shared faith might yet steer us from a clash of swords?’

  Valens’ eyes darted over the priest’s, then he whispered: ‘As God will testify, priest, that is what I have sought with every despatch to your leader. But it is too late, my armies prepare to march into the field tomorrow.’

  The priest leant a little closer, whispering also. ‘Iudex Fritigern also finds himself carried south when he would ideally prefer to have remained in Kabyle.’

  ‘He is headed for Nike, is he not? He is in need of grain?’

  The priest gave a guarded nod as a response.

  ‘And that is why my army must march, for I cannot allow him to have it,’ Valens said flatly. ‘It belongs to the thirty thousand men in this camp and the souls of the few imperial towns and cities who have resisted your plundering and raids. There is no other source that can be drawn upon nearby.’

  ‘Likewise, Fritigern finds himself saddled upon a colossal, boisterous creature – a creature with ninety thousand hungry mouths. You must understand that he has no choice but to seize Nike. And the people, they clamour for a victory against the armies of the empire that they have long been told marches to vanquish them.’

  ‘Then it is too late,’ Valens said flatly.

  The priest tilted his head to one side in reluctant agreement. ‘Too late to draw up some treaty in private like this, perhaps. But not too late altogether.’

  Valens leaned in a little closer. ‘How so?’

  ‘Fritigern pleads with you this: bring your armies before his – the horde is brave enough when talking of fighting the empire’s legions, but many have yet to behold those iron ranks across a battlefield. He beseeches you to bring your army into the field and parade your regiments before his forces – to strike fear into them. Only then, he believes, might his people see sense in parley. He will talk with you once our armies come face to face like this. An agreement can be reached and a public declaration can be made – one that the horde will abide by.’

  Valens’ mouth turned up at one edge. ‘Will they indeed? Tell me then – what terms might Fritigern propose were this to happen?’

  The priest seemed unruffled by Valens’ scepticism. ‘My Iudex wants only a portion of Thracia upon which he can settle his people… and your recognition of him as sole and undisputed leader of the Gothic tribes. Give him this, and he could become your ally – the horde your army.’ He tapped a finger on the table. ‘An Arian army… bar those who still cling to Wodin and the old gods.’

  Valens’ thoughts writhed like a bag of worms. The notion was at once a truly enticing elixir… and a cup of bubbling poison. So many voices. So much doubt. Then the doubt held sway: just how much stock could he place in the word of a lowly priest?

  ‘As allies, the grain at Nike could be shared until more was brought in from afar,’ the priest pressed him. ‘It was supposed to be this way when first we crossed the Danubius and still it can be so.’

  Valens nodded very slowly. ‘Ride back to your Iudex, Priest, and may God speed your return.’

  The priest stood. ‘And what is your answer, Imperator?’

  Valens stood with him. ‘You can assure him of this much at least: the legions will march tomorrow and I will bring them before your horde. What happens after that rests upon the will of God.’

  Chapter 19

  The men of the legions worked all morning like ants to polish their armour, sharpen their weapons and mend their kit. A great cheer rose up when word of the Greuthingi desertion broke out, and men redoubled their efforts, chattering nervously about the chances of victory. At midday, Valens decreed that they should take leave from their duties for the afternoon. So, Adrianople’s streets were almost instantly flooded as swathes of legionaries poured into the city, eager to spend their purses and wet their dry throats.

  Shorn of their armour and kit and wearing just their faded legionary tunics, Pavo, Sura, Zosimus, Quadratus, Libo, Rectus, Trupo and Cornix strolled through Adrianople’s market district. The broad street was lined with silver birch trees and packed with stalls and bright silk awnings as merchants howled to the passing mobs. Yapping dogs, chirruping birds and raucous laughter seemed to spill all around them. The legionaries stopped at one vendor to buy small wooden bowls of wild onion stew, then carried on, munching on the hearty, rich meal.

  Pavo looked over his cadre. There were wide grins, sparkling eyes winking at passing women and outbreaks of banter and filthy jokes. Big Zosimus ambled with the air of a man who had spent a night in paradise, his eyes hooded as if still reliving the previous evening spent with his wife and daughter. Never had he seen the men so buoyant. And what a time for their hearts to soar: on the eve before they were to march into the field and face the Goths. He wondered then if it was the realisation that for some, this day might well be the last, which summoned such elation. It irked him that Dexion was not here with them. His brother had cited some business he had to attend to, but Pavo wondered if it was some attempt to distance himself from the troops in imitation of Gallus.

  A massive, terrifyingly loud, watery belch sounded just behind him. For a moment, it stilled the babble of the throng. Even the birdsong and barking dogs ceased. Pavo swung round to find the culprit.

  ‘Right,’ Quadratus said, wiping his lips with the back of his hand, squinting up at the sun, his face lobster-red and running with sweat from the heat of the day compounded with the hot meal. ‘I’m roasting. Utterly roasting. I need a cold ale or the like. Take us to one of your drinking haunts, Sura.’

  Sura, mid-mouthful of stew, froze. ‘Eh, oh… aye,’ he said with that odd air of trepidation. It only lasted a moment though as he brightened up suddenly, tossing his half-finished stew into a rubbish crate and standing tall, beckoning the others. ‘This way.’

  They turned a corner to head down a street hemmed on one side by
the city fabrica. Kilns glowed and a hot wind wafted from within the arms factory, carrying with it the acrid stink of freshly smelted, cast and wrought iron. The tink-tink of smith’s hammers was incessant as they worked on helms, armour vests, spearheads, spatha blades, plumbata tips and weights.

  ‘So this place,’ Sura said, turning to walk backwards in front of the group, pointing the index fingers of both hands like arrows to the huge, smoke-blackened building, ‘was my idea.’ He blew air through his teeth to make a whizzing sound as if having loosed the two ‘arrows’, then tapped a finger to his temple. ‘Think, I told them. We rely on Constantinople for armour and weapons. But what happens if Constantinople falls, or if the road is blockaded? I left them with that and as you can see, they took my advice.’

  Pavo nodded, eyebrows raised, deciding not to point out the marble plaque on the wall that commemorated the construction of the arms factory over a century ago.

  ‘Can you smell something,’ Rectus said, scratching his lantern jaw and theatrically sniffing the air. ‘Prime horseshi-’

  Pavo jabbed him with an elbow and cast a semi-reproachful smile at Libo, Trupo and Cornix.

  Sura swung round to face front again, waving a hand to beckon them on towards another square dotted with lemon trees with a gurgling, tall fountain sporting a blue-green, algae-coated statue of Poseidon at its centre, spewing water from three fish heads into a sparkling pool. ‘Sanitation, I told them next,’ he said, running a finger over the edge of the fountain as if inspecting it for cleanliness, then sucking air through his teeth as if disappointed by his findings. ‘Well, they built the fountain at least… ’