Gods & Emperors (Legionary 5)

by Gordon Doherty

  Near the front of the XI Claudia ranks, Pavo shot a final glance over his shoulder to Adrianople. The camp had been left in place, complete with a garrison of a comitatenses legion and a cohort of foot archers. All tents had been left in place too, along with Valens’ imperial treasury – guarded zealously by a century of the Hiberi. It was a confident gesture, suggesting the emperor fully expected to return to the camp, victorious, by nightfall. All around him he heard men of different regiments whispering: some talked eagerly of the Goths and their absent cavalry, others muttered about the lack of the Western Army they had been promised in support. ‘Gratian will rendezvous with us before we make battle,’ one said hopefully.

  Pavo looked at the empty western horizon on the column’s left flank and thought of Emperor Valens’ fears about his nephew. Then he heard Bastianus’ words echo in his mind. What are we and our comrades, but pawns of Gods and Emperors? He moved closer to Dexion and spoke quietly: ‘You have been to the court in Treverorum, you have met Gratian. Do you think there is any hope?’

  Dexion smiled. ‘There is always hope, Brother. But one must be confident in oneself. I feel assured that, Gratian or no Gratian, things will work out… as planned.’

  Chapter 21

  The breath rasped in Scaevola’s throat as he ran like a hyena scenting open bowels, his mean eyes trained on the brow of a dusty hillock just ahead. Gallus had slipped over there just moments ago. He flexed his grip on his semispatha, his nostrils flaring as if he had scented his prey and his lips curled back from his scummy teeth. The angry red welts on his face from the fire embers, still raw, stung like a swarm of wasps. His quarry would pay for inflicting those wounds.

  He bounded over the brow and tensed his legs to sprint down the other side, sure he could catch up and leap upon the back of the cur, but he saw just desiccated, green-gold countryside, devoid of life. He slowed for a moment, confused. Then, like a flash, something lunged for him from the gorse bushes, something feral, eyes alive with hate. The heel of a hand cracked against his jaw and sent his head twisting back. Vertebrae ground and sinews stretched and tore. An other-worldly pain shot down his spine as he fell on his back, half-blinded and disorientated.

  ‘What the-’ he started, but a head-sized rock came crashing down upon his face and with a wet crunch, his skull crumpled.

  Gallus staggered back from Scaevola’s twitching body. The gruesome puddle of grey and red matter that had exploded from under the rock was growing, trickling off in a hundred different directions. He spat on the dusty ground, his breath coming and going in wheezes, his face bending into a snarl in between lungfuls.

  ‘If time was my friend, I would have made it a lot slower, believe me,’ he growled.

  He stooped to take up the speculator’s knife and small ration pack. He took one look to the north, back over the hill’s brow, to be sure there were no others, then trudged down the southern hillside to a small brook – one of the few in this baked tract of land – and crouched by its side, drinking deeply to slake his burning thirst. Swiftly and silently, he ate the dead agent’s rations of salted mutton and bread, then drank again, sure he would drain the brook dry. He only stopped when he caught sight of himself in the surface: haggard, gaunter than ever, with his grey-black hair and beard long and straggly. Without finesse, he drew the dead agent’s knife, soaked his jaw and scalp then scraped the beard off and cut away his lengthy locks. What next? He mouthed into the ether, slicking back his shortened hair with a handful of water. With the knife, he traced out in the dirt the rough route he had taken since escaping the Fort of Mars, squinted up at the early-morning sky and tried as best he could to work out where he was and just how long he had taken to get here. He had criss-crossed over the Via Militaris three times, but was it twice south to north or twice north to south? His mind began taunting him with memories of both possibilities until he tossed the knife away in anger. What hope was there, he reckoned, for one man – on foot, without provision and with little idea of where he was – to find Emperor Valens let alone save the eastern ranks from disaster? He looked in the direction he could best discern as southeast and clutched the Mithras idol, bringing it from his purse and thumbing it. ‘You did not aid me all this way simply for it to end here.’

  Silence. His head lolled.

  It was a simple sound that stirred him: clopping hooves.

  He blinked and peered into the fierce sunlight, seeing a few shapes in the east, approaching across a golden stretch of plain, melting away and returning with every flicker of the heat haze. Memories of his many months of torture and then this brutal journey east gripped him. He thought of Lurco, Trogus, Kuno, Dexion, Sorio and Scaevola, the bastard he had just slain. In an instant he was up, crouched, snatching up the discarded knife once more, ready to fight.

  An old man emerged from the sweltering mirage, walking with the aid of a crook. With him came a young fellow – his son going by their similar features – towing a hand-cart. The rumble of hooves came from the small herd of sheep and three horses they led. The old shepherd waved an arm in greeting. Gallus’ alarm ebbed and he tucked the knife away, hailing the old fellow in return.

  ‘By the gods I thought I was having a bad run of it,’ the old man remarked as they came to him. ‘We’ve been trailing along like this in the dust for weeks since we abandoned our shack,’ he jabbed a thumb over his shoulder in the direction whence he had come. ‘My home since I was a lad. My boy here has finally convinced me to travel to Bourdepa. A cage of stone walls and repugnant cityfolk, if you ask me, but there you go. Anyway, to look at you soothes my distress just a little. I’ve never seen a man look so haggard or defeated.’ He motioned to his son, and the boy handed Gallus a water skin from the hand cart.

  Gallus took it, realising he was still thirsty, and drank deeply once more. ‘Thank you, old man. But I’m not defeated, not if you can tell me where in Thracia I am.’

  The shepherd arched an eyebrow. ‘You must be the only soul on this soil who does not know where he is.’

  Gallus squinted at the old fellow, confused, then looked up into the sky, following the shepherd’s pointing finger. For a moment, he saw nothing, sun-blinded. Then, he saw the tall, faint golden stain hanging in the sky. It was not a cloud, but a pillar, rising from somewhere beyond the horizon.

  ‘The Goths descended from the north yesterday. Now Emperor Valens has marched from Adrianople to face them,’ the boy said.

  Gallus thought of Dexion’s words in the Fort of Mars. I’ll be there long enough… long enough to do what must be done.

  His heart struck against his ribs: the dust cloud was but a short ride away. He looked to the horses. ‘Old man, will you do something for me? Give me a horse. I must – must – reach Emperor Valens before he engages with the horde.’ Fumbling, he drew out his meagre belongings. ‘I’ll give you all I have and I’ll be sure to see you receive proper payment afterwards.’

  ‘That’s a lot to ask of a man you’ve just met,’ the old fellow said, eyeing Gallus sideways. ‘Who are you?’

  He looked the farmer in the eye. ‘Manius Atius Gallus, Tribunus of the XI Claudia Pia Fidelis.’

  The boy gasped. The farmer’s fear vanished and he laughed hoarsely.

  ‘Bring him a horse, lad,’ he said, then turned to eye the dust plume, stroking his chin. ‘And if he’s heading in that direction, then you’d best bring him my old gear too.’

  The boy brought a chunky parcel from the hand cart and handed it to Gallus. The weight and the distinctive clink of iron identified it even before he had opened it. ‘You were a legionary once?’ Gallus asked.

  ‘I served under the ruby red banner,’ he said, saluting as best he could. ‘I fought for the Claudia for twenty five years.’

  Gallus slipped on the mail shirt then buckled on the swordbelt and spatha the boy handed him too, then drew a musty-smelling red cloak round his shoulders. Only a helm was missing, but that aside, the weighty kit and the scent of oiled steel brought a sense of long-lost co
mfort. It had been some time, he thought, after all. ‘You made it to honourable discharge? I thought every man who served in these parts concluded their service on the end of a Gothic sword!’

  The old fellow erupted in laughter again. ‘Aye, it sometimes felt like that in my day too. Men fell all too often, but some of us made it. The lads who march in your legion these days looked strong too.’

  ‘You saw the Claudia?’

  ‘I did – I spoke with a young lad, Centurion Pavo. It was he who mentioned you.’

  ‘Pavo? He is well?’ Gallus said, his spirits lifting.

  ‘Well enough – he’ll be all the better if you return though.’

  Gallus’ eyes darted back to the dust pillar. He imagined Pavo and his veterans marching there. Then he imagined Dexion at the head of the Claudia. He barely felt the boy push an ancient-looking ruby red shield onto his arm. He took the reins of the white gelding the boy handed him and vaulted onto the saddle. ‘Thank you farmer,’ he said, then corrected himself, ‘thank you, legionary.’

  The old fellow nodded and smiled wryly.

  Gallus coaxed the mount into a canter, then a breakneck gallop. The wind brought a welcome relief from the fierce heat of the morning, ruffling his hair as he lay flat, eyes trained on the pillar of dust.

  Chapter 22

  It was an hour before noon, and the imperial army marched northeast, sweltering in a ferocious heat that lent the legions an argentine lustre. The land either side of the column was a patchwork of vast golden crop fields and endless parched, dusty plains dotted with patches of grass, shrubs and streaked with shallow, dried-up ravines. The flat ground was interrupted by the occasional rise, atop some of which were fig orchards offering patches of leafy and tempting shade. The air was dotted with flies, pollen and dust motes, swirling against the deep azure sky, and the horizon was a white-hot mirage where sky met scorched earth.

  Pavo stared at the heels of the man in front as he advanced. Dipping his head like this afforded him a visor of shade. He was well-versed in marching and marching hard, but this was a cauldron of a day: the dog days, as they called the hottest spells in August, when Sirius rose with the sun each morning, when the sea boiled, when the wine turned sour and hounds grew mad. Days that most men spent in shade or in the frigidarium at the baths. Sweat coated his face and had soaked the linen padding around his neck and inside his helm, and drenched his tunic. They had marched for ten miles, but it felt like twice that. The burning hot-metal of his mail shirt seared against his skin whenever it made contact, and he was sure that if they stopped for a moment he could remove his helm and bake bread in it. The intensity of the heat even seemed to be besting the invisible army of cicadas: their usual shrill song more like a chorus of croaking. He ran his tongue – dry as sand – across his lips – even dryer. The hearty breakfast and lashings of chilled water they had enjoyed that morning seemed like weeks ago, and he found his thoughts always returning to the water skin on his back – but it hung nearly flat with only a few mouthfuls remaining and it had to be used wisely. He looked up, his eyes narrowing to slits as the white-heat of the sun swept across his face. Through the cloud of dust he saw the column snaking on ahead. Beyond, the wall of shimmering heat offered no sign of the Gothic horde. He noticed Sura, by his side, was distinctly pale and drawn-looking, and from behind him, he heard the wheezing, desperate breaths of some of the younger lads. To them, this surely felt like the edge of death.

  ‘Keep time, keep your thoughts focused,’ he croaked. ‘Soon we will stop, drink and rest. It’s just like all the training marches – every one of you made it through them.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ came a hoarse and gasping series of replies.

  ‘This is not bloody normal,’ Sura rasped, drawing a little closer so only Pavo could hear. ‘The gods decide to throw the hottest day of the year upon us the moment we march into the field in full kit?’ He shook his head, scowling as they passed another desiccated stream-bed. ‘The gods are bastards,’ he added, then shrunk a little and looked up as if doubting the wisdom of his curse.

  Pavo swept away the sweat dangling from the end of his nose and tried to concentrate. His befuddled mind had still not managed to fathom the odd behaviour of Zosimus. The big man, his face still fixed in a scowl, seemed to have inherited Quadratus’ sudden distaste for Dexion. His brother marched at the head of the Claudia with the aquilifer, and Zosimus was just a few strides to Pavo’s right, so he shuffled over as they marched, trying to formulate the right question that would coax the big Thracian to explain without angering him.

  ‘Sir,’ Pavo asked.

  ‘Centurion,’ Zosimus replied.

  ‘Something isn’t right,’ Pavo said.

  Zosimus stifled a gasp. ‘Too right. The Claudia are marching to war and the senior centurion of the Third Cohort is missing.’ The big man wiped a hand across his mouth as if snatching away the rest of what he wanted to say.

  Pavo saw that furtive and steely glance again, Zosimus’ eyes coldly regarding Dexion for just a moment. ‘Sir, tell me, what is this?’

  ‘Back to your position, Centurion, we can’t waste breath on a march like this,’ Zosimus snapped.

  ‘Zosimus,’ Pavo said again, this time quietly. The big man seemed momentarily disarmed by the personal address. ‘Quadratus is like an elder brother to me, and I know he means even more to you. I’m trying not to think too much about what has happened to him. There’s not a chance he would desert.’

  ‘Not a chance,’ Zosimus agreed swiftly, his lips pursing in resolution.

  ‘But if he hasn’t deserted then what-’ there it was again, the steely glance at Dexion.

  Pavo pounced on this. ‘What does Dexion have to do with it?’

  Zosimus flinched. He tried his best to pretend he had been staring hard at the countryside ahead instead, but when Pavo continued to gaze at him awaiting a response, he sighed. ‘Pavo, last night, Quadratus told me something, and you’re not going to like it,’ he whispered.

  Pavo briefly forgot about the arduous march, his ears lifting.

  ‘It was about Gallus and Dexion, on their journey west and the tale of how the tribunus fell… ’

  Pavo’s skin crawled, part of him dreading what he was about to hear and part sure he had to know. But the big man fell silent as Dexion dropped back.

  ‘Seems there’s some commotion up front,’ Dexion said, prodding a finger to the left side of the dirt track up ahead. All heads seemed to be turning to the latest dried-up stream bed there. A chorus of gentle cheering sounded, passing back through the column towards them. Pavo frowned then craned his neck until he saw it too: this stream bed was not dry at all – a shallow, sparkling blue vein of water babbled through it, cool and wet.

  ‘Mithras, thank you,’ Libo said, close behind, detaching his nearly-empty water skin from his belt in anticipation.

  ‘Give the order to halt,’ Rectus said through gritted teeth, looking ahead, wondering why the horns hadn’t sounded to let the men take advantage of the stream. The horns did sound, but it was a short, shrill blast to keep moving.

  ‘What?’ Sura gasped, licking his dry lips as they ploughed on along the side of the stream, leaving the water untouched.

  Pavo shared their ire and confusion, but only until he noticed on the dusty ground nearby the indents of many thousands of boots and wagon wheels. The Goths have recently been past this stream? Through the swirling heat haze up ahead, he saw that a small party of six Nervii had broken off from the column and were standing in the stream’s ankle-deep waters, their red-starred shields strapped to their backs.

  ‘Hold on, if they’re getting their fill, then why aren’t we?’ Trupo complained.

  Pavo eyed the Nervii, seeing that they were not stooping to fill water skins, but standing around a dark shape in the water. At once, his senses were pummelled by the stench of open bowels, and the sight of red-brown streaks in the blue stream.

  ‘Mithras, I take it back,’ Libo said, cupping a hand over his no
se and mouth, the others doing likewise.

  Pavo now realised what the shape in the water was: a grey-haired explorator, stripped of his clothes and staked to the streamside. The Goths had been through here indeed, they had torn open the Roman scout’s belly by the water’s edge, letting his guts – swiftly putrefying in the ardent heat – seep into the brook. Tendrils of bloody entrails danced in the stream’s gentle current, and the Nervii stood around the decaying corpse, shaking their heads.

  ‘The Goths are near,’ Pavo said absently, an odd chill passing over him, briefly penetrating the heat as he surveyed the scorched plain ahead, carpeted in broken, golden wheat stalks. ‘They’ve filled their water barrels from this stream then polluted it.’

  ‘Near? By all the gods, they are,’ Zosimus replied flatly, his eyes fixed on the horizon.

  There, the heat haze rippled and a broad, high and golden ridge slipped into view a few miles ahead, dominating the northern horizon and framed in the pastel-blue summer sky. Atop the ridge sat a wall of Gothic wagons, drawn up end-to-end in several small, tight, abutting circles like squat watchtowers fortifying the lip of the high ground and protecting what looked like a plateau behind. The countryside ahead of the Roman lines gradually sloped up towards this ridge.

  A buccina blared to give the order to halt. The Roman army ground to a halt and every pair of eyes was fixed on the ridge. A trio of distant Gothic war horns moaned from somewhere upon the ridge then, silently, like a molten silvery ore, figures emerged from the wagon stockade – hundreds of them, then thousands. Soon, Fritigern’s infantry was arrayed almost in its entirety, nearly thirty thousand warriors in a dense line before their wagons, looking down on the silent and stunned Roman column of the same number.