‘Stop,’ Fritigern said, raising his hands to his own men, then turning to pin Valens with his stare. ‘Domine,’ he panted, offering a curt bow of the head.
‘Iudex,’ Valens replied, wheezing, returning the gesture.
‘This,’ he waved a hand around the chaos that surrounded them: smoke, screaming men, spraying blood and clashing steel, ‘was not my design. I never wanted our armies to clash today. The arrival of my cavalry is as much a surprise to me as I am sure it is to you.’
Valens chuckled bitterly. ‘And yet it has worked out so favourably for you. Now unleash your jackals upon me. End this.’
‘Favourably?’ Fritigern laughed through taut lips, then nodded to the thrashing mass of horsemen and Roman javelin-throwers locked in combat just a short stretch away amidst the smoke behind the breached defensive circle. ‘The two who lead the Greuthingi riders will steal their way into legend for the events of today. They stole and fled with the grain that might have kept my armies in Kabyle. Then they turned up just when it seemed your legions and your Scutarii might break my spearmen against my wagons. They will have the glory and they will be sure to use it to depose me.’
‘I would offer you my sympathies,’ Valens replied, his top lip trembling, ‘but what need for sympathy has a man with a heart of rock?’
Fritigern seemed lost for words of reply.
‘Your men shattered my boy’s tomb,’ Valens hissed.
Fritigern’s eyes closed in despair for a moment. ‘It was the riders,’ he said sombrely, looking past Valens’ shoulder at the fighting Greuthingi. ‘On the orders of the same two bastards who lead them. Orders designed to contradict those I gave. I instructed the horde to slay soldiers, not citizens... and certainly not to break graves.’
Valens’ ire lessened. The pair shared a moment of affinity in this cage of smoke and steel. ‘But then surely you should take my head, Iudex. Prove to your people that you in fact won this day,’ he said, his voice thick with emotion. ‘Diminish the repute of your challengers.’
But Fritigern shook his head. ‘To what end? To have another Roman Emperor take your place and swear to avenge the Gothic stain on imperial history? No, best there be an emperor who knows the truth of my words,’ he raised a hand, laced with battle-grime, and pointed a finger towards Valens’ right.
Pavo looked that way with all the others. A jagged, smoke-walled corridor lay open, between the heaped dead and the many pockets of fighting. The way led south, back down the slope. Crucially, the now-black smoke had momentarily veiled them from Alatheus and Saphrax and the horsemen coming for them.
‘Be swift, Domine. I offer you this chance but once.’
Pavo saw many of the battered and well-depleted legions flooding down the ridge slope now, their shadows long in the orange light of the evening sun. Some were being pursued by bands of Greuthingi, but others were unfollowed.
Valens gazed at Fritigern. ‘Some said salvation would come from my nephew, Emperor of the West. Others claimed it would be my legions who would save me. Yet it is you, my foe, who offers me this chance? I will not forget this moment, Iudex,’ Valens replied, then nodded to his candidati. The surviving handful, their usually pristine white robes smeared in dirt and grime, barked to form a tight screen and lead the emperor from the fray. They moved like cats, scuttling through the clouds of smoke, speeding across the empty corridor of battle mire and then halting the emperor with swiftly raised hands whenever a wing of riders came close. Gallus barked the fragment of Claudia men into following their trail. They stumbled from the thick of battle and down onto the lower slope of the ridge. The bloody mess underfoot replaced by desert-dry golden grass and dust, the smoke thinning, and the thud of their footsteps audible again as the clamour of battle faded behind them.
Pavo’s heart was still crashing against his ribs, knowing this was anything but finished. He scoured the largely featureless southern horizon for some idea of where they might flee to, then shot a look over his shoulder, seeing amongst the few pockets of trapped legionaries still fighting, Gothic riders pumping captured legionary standards in the air, roaring in victory. The entire ridge-top resembled a burst sore, stinking, weeping with blood and littered with broken flesh and flecks of steel. The Army of the East had been utterly broken up there, but the emperor remained alive. Was there still hope, he wondered?
As if to answer his question, a stray arrow leapt from the smoke clouds up there and cut through the air, right for him. He froze, only for the shaft to hum past him and thwack into something else with a wet thud. He swung his head round to see the arrow quivering in Emperor Valens’ back, just beside the gap in his armour near his armpit. The face of the candidatus with him was bent in horror. ‘The emperor has been injured!’ he roared.
At once, the Claudia and the few surviving candidati hurried to the scene. Valens was on one knee, clutching at the tip of the arrow which had burst though just below his collarbone. His face was pale and etched with pain, eyes like slits, lips trembling.
‘Get him up and away from here,’ Gallus demanded, his head switching from the southern horizon back to the battle-scarred ridge, where now the smoke was clearing and the Gothic victory cries were ringing out in full. ‘If the Goths see us clustered like this...’
Pavo scooped an arm around Emperor Valens’ waist, all thoughts of decorum lost on him. Gallus did likewise, supporting the emperor’s wounded side. Valens winced and cried out as he tried to move. The small group around him looked urgently to Gallus for direction.
‘We need to find shelter,’ he growled.
Rectus limped to the fore, wincing, one hand cupped around a tear on the back of his leg. Having once served as a medicus, he quickly pulled the sleeve of the emperor’s purple-embroidered white tunic to one side to examine the wound. His grave expression said it all. ‘He can’t move too far.’
Sura looked off to the south where some of the soldiers who had fled earlier were still visible, shrinking into the horizon. ‘Then the southern track to Adrianople isn’t an option. There’s nowhere to hide.’
‘We have to get him out of sight, and fast!’ the candidati with the emperor pleaded.
Pavo looked in every direction: the Goth-infested ridge to the north, the plains to the south and the low hills to the east and west – all devoid of some feature they might hide within. Then he turned to the southwest, his skin creeping as he set eyes on the small, insignificant farmhouse there. The dream echoed through his mind. But there was nothing there: no wolf on guard at the door, no pained cries of a dying white eagle within.
‘Sir,’ he said, turning to Gallus. For a moment, he fell silent, his next words trapped in his throat as he beheld the gaunt tribunus, his wintry blue eyes watchful like the wolf from the dream. And Valens, white-haired and clad in white steel, clutching his ruined arm.
‘Centurion?’ Gallus said urgently.
Pavo gulped, knowing that to hesitate here would be fatal. ‘That farmhouse... it’s our only option.’
Gallus nodded, his lips taut. ‘Then we take him there,’ he said, gesturing to Pavo, Sura and the nearest candidatus. ‘The rest of you,’ he signalled to the hundred and forty or so remaining Claudia legionaries and the other candidati, ‘Head south at haste. Let the Governor of Adrianople know where we are and have a relief force mustered and sent to us at once. We will try to wait out the aftermath in that farmhouse.’
Rectus hesitated for a moment, a solemn look in his eyes as he beheld the slumping emperor, the pitiful farmhouse, and the triumphant horde. ‘Aye, sir.’
Chapter 23
The five hobbled over to the sparse grass of the farmhouse hillside, Pavo and Gallus looping an arm each around Valens’ shoulders, taking most of his weight as the emperor stumbled and staggered. His head lolled, his breath rasped wetly and he seemed to grow heavier with every stride. When Valens winced, Pavo tore away and threw aside a strip of the Emperor’s purple and gold edged cloak that had snagged on the jutting arrow. They started to climb
the hill, this side of the slope in shade thanks to the now half-set sun beyond the brow.
Pavo heard his own breath come and go with that of the others, each man utterly exhausted, their thirst unslaked and their bellies neglected since that morning. From the corner of his eye, he saw the distant ruby-red blotch on the darkening southern horizon that marked Libo, Rectus and the others they led in their flight back to Adrianople.
Move swiftly, brothers.
But he, Sura, Gallus, Valens and the single candidatus were alone, with the entire Gothic horde milling just a half mile behind them. If Alatheus and Saphrax got their way then there would be Gothic riders searching the land soon, no doubt. An emperor’s head was to be had, after all. A look over his shoulder to the north confirmed it: parties of riders and spearmen were now cantering out in all directions from the battle ridge, many of them now no doubt clad in the plunder of Roman armour from the many thousands of legionaries lying dead up there.
This tacit warning was enough to hasten them on until the farmhouse came into view at the top of the hill. The sight took Pavo’s breath away: sanctuary, respite, hope… yet why, why had it been the place of his dark dreams? It was just a simple farmer’s home: whitewashed walls, a red-tiled roof and an abutting thatched barn. The main door lay slightly ajar and there was no sign of life. Of course it’s deserted, he scolded himself, every such home across Thracia has long been abandoned.
But as they came to the top of the hill, the nimbus of the deep-red setting sun seemed to frame the place in a fiery light, as if it was ablaze. The sight sent a shiver across Pavo’s skin as he helped carry Valens to the main door.
‘Sura?’ he panted, flicking his head towards the doorway.
‘Eh? Oh, yes,’ Sura said, creeping up to the door first, nudging it open and stalking inside with his spatha half-drawn. Utter silence followed, then a somewhat girlish shriek sounded followed by an unearthly animal howl. A calico cat with a face like thunder bolted from the door then Sura returned to the doorway and ushered them inside. ‘It, er, caught me by surprise… just as my boot caught its arse a minute later.’
They filed inside, squinting into the dusk sunlight streaming in from the window opposite. The whitewashed interior was devoid of furniture apart from a chair lying on its side and some scattered bowls by a blackened hearth on the left wall. Beside the hearth was a narrow timber stairway leading up to an attic or sleeping area of some sort, and in the space underneath the stairs was a sturdy-looking timber door – probably leading down to a storage cellar. At the top of the right-hand wall was a ladder leading to a small, open hatch which led into what looked like a hay loft in the abutting barn.
The candidatus righted the toppled chair and Pavo and Gallus eased Emperor Valens onto it. Instantly, he slumped, and the shaft of red sunlight that spread across his face barely masked just how pale he was. Gallus helped Pavo to unbuckle the emperor’s white-steel armour, which fell to the flagstoned floor with a crash like a speared rider toppling from the saddle. The pair unfastened the emperor’s swordbelt and then their own, resting them by the foot of the narrow staircase, then crouched before their emperor. ‘Do we have food? Water? Bandages? Anything at all?’ Gallus asked.
The candidatus fished around in his belt and handed over a haircloth wrap. Pavo untied this and spread it out. A chunk of hardtack, a sliver of cheese and a strip of salted mutton was all it held. Sura lifted a small bucket from the shade of one corner and put it down beside the meagre fare. ‘Water?’ he said, eyeing the discoloured liquid in the bucket askance. ‘It’ll have to do,’ Gallus affirmed, scooping his intercisa helm from his head and placing it down, then tearing a strip from the hem of his tunic and soaking it with water, before tearing Valens’ robe and peeling it away from the injured shoulder to dab at the arrow wound.
Pavo met Gallus’ eye briefly: the blood was washing from the wound and had already soaked Valens to his knees. Both men had seen injuries like this in the legion. Both knew what it meant. Neither voiced their thoughts.
‘Watch the approach,’ Gallus said to the candidatus, who was wringing his hands anxiously, looking on. The bodyguard moved over to crouch by the window and keep abreast of the Gothic riders outside. ‘They’re fanning out, riding in sweeping arcs,’ he said.
‘Search parties,’ Gallus muttered, his eyes scouring the stone floor of the farmhouse in thought.
‘They’ll come here soon enough,’ Pavo said. ‘We need to find a place to hide.’
Gallus looked all around the bare hearth room, his eyes coming to the hay loft, the cellar door and the staircase to the attic. ‘Sura, reconnoitre the rest of this place.’
Sura nodded, hurrying over to the cellar door. With a few heaves, the thick door was open, and he stalked into the blackness beyond, his hand on his spatha hilt.
Gallus and Pavo turned back to the emperor. His eyes were open now, his face was pitifully wan – almost as pale as his white hair – and runnels of sweat gathered and dripped from the end of his nose and chin.
‘Ah, you two,’ he said with a feeble smile. ‘The Iron Tribunus of the XI Claudia and his young firebrand centurion.’ He chuckled weakly and wetly. His words trailed off with a wet cough, his face creased in pain and he clutched Pavo’s forearm. ‘When we talked, Centurion, back in my tent at Melanthias… it was the first time in years I have spoken like that with someone who had nothing to gain by bending my thoughts, swaying my decisions. Perhaps I should have listened to my soldiers more often?’
Pavo thought again of his fraught early days in the legion, of the time he had stood before the emperor during the desperate events of the Bosporus mission. A mere recruit then, he had begged for the ear of the man at the zenith of the East, and had been granted his wish. Valens had taken his word and sent reinforcements to that wild, northern kingdom, saving the Claudia legionaries trapped there at the last. ‘You listened well enough, Domine.’
‘Yet they won’t write such in any chronicle,’ he panted, his voice growing weaker and his eyelids closing. ‘I’ve led the Army of the East to disaster. I have broken my realm. In light of this, no man will dare to speak of what little good I have done, or tried to do.’
‘Then shame on them,’ Gallus said flatly. ‘Shame on them for their ignorance.’
Valens turned to Gallus.
‘I have seen enough in my years to know that no emperor is blameless,’ Gallus said. ‘All have black deeds to their name, sour events to stain their reign, ignominious results on the battlefield. But a distinction must be made between those who strive to do what is right, regardless of the outcome, and those who do what they wish, heedless of those they harm.’
‘Kind words for a dying man,’ Valens croaked.
‘I do not pander to anyone, Domine,’ Gallus replied flatly. ‘Your brother, Valentinian, was a bastard.’
Valens’ eyes lit up for an instant. For a moment, Pavo feared Gallus had spoken out of turn. But the emperor acquiesced with a weak nod of the head. ‘I loved him… yet he was a man even more ruthless than I.’
Gallus’ teeth ground. ‘His agents took my family from me. A foul, wasteful spurning of life. Your nephew, Gratian, seems drunk with power already, despite his youthful years. He had no intention of coming to stand with you in battle. His goal was merely to dangle the possibility before you and to madden you and your armies into action, then step in as the saviour and claim the East for himself. I know this because I rode like a demon to reach his court and hasten him to the East, only to be thrown in his dungeons where I languished for many months at his torturers’ mercy.’
Pavo’s eyes widened. ‘Sir?’ he gasped, only now noticing the wicked weals of scar peeking from the collar of the tribunus’ mail shirt and noticing the profile of his nose – clearly broken in recent months.
Gallus gave him a slight shake of the head – enough to still the flurry of questions that came to mind.
Valens nodded feebly. ‘The greatest… pity is that I believe you entirely, Tribunus,’ he
wheezed.
Gallus shook his head. ‘The greatest pity is that I did not arrive back here soon enough to warn you and confirm your fears, Domine.’
Valens laughed weakly. ‘Even if you had, Tribunus, I would still have had to march to face Fritigern. My soldiers were already restless and I could not forsake the precious grain at Nike. It makes me wonder why man questions fate – is he ever truly its master?’ He groaned and his head lolled towards Pavo. ‘You… you remember that accursed wave that nearly… killed me? Feels as if… it’s coming for me now. I can see the lashing waters. There’s… there’s someone in… there,’ he lifted a trembling hand, a faint look of recognition appearing on his deathly features as he looked between and behind Gallus and Pavo. The pair looked round and saw nothing there.
‘G… Ga… Galates?’ Valens said weakly, his eyes glazing over, his pupils dilating. A moment later, he slumped back on the chair, his outstretched arm fell limp and swung by his side and his eyelids drooped. A rattling breath escaped his lips, his head slumped forward, and he was still.
Emperor Valens was dead.
Pavo stared at the emperor’s body in silence, seeing the white eagle from his dream.
‘Galates?’ Gallus said. ‘Galates was his-’
‘His late son,’ Pavo finished for him, recalling the grave at Melanthias, desecrated by the Greuthingi.
‘His loved ones were waiting for him?’ Gallus muttered to himself. Pavo looked to see the tribunus’ face, etched with an odd mixture of trouble and hope.
Just then, the candidati keeping watch by the window saw what had happened, turned to the dead emperor, fell to his knees and struck up a low, heartfelt Christian lament, tears staining his cheeks.
Pavo saw Gallus’ lips twitch as if eager to order the man back to his watch, but the tribunus hesitated, allowing the man a moment with his god. But Pavo could not control the words on his tongue. ‘Sir,’ he said, his mind numb with the barrage of questions. ‘What is this torture in Gratian’s dungeons you spoke of? What happened to you? Dexion said you fell at the hands of the Quadi on the road to the West.’
Gods & Emperors (Legionary 5) Page 42
