EMPIRE OF SHADES

by Gordon Doherty

  ‘Move out!’ Sura roared.

  Pavo led as they moved south at a fast march along the arm of land that sheltered Thessalonica’s bay. They soon came to and worked their way along the sandy shores at the slower military-step, the tide on their right lapping near their booted feet and sand flicking up in their wake, the shifting surface making it an arduous task. The mid-morning sun now prickled on every man’s skin. After a mile, he heard one recruit whine and another one pray. After three miles, he heard men stumbling and falling, only to be put right by the barking demands of his centurionate: Libo, Trupo and Cornix showing no mercy as he had demanded of them. Even the young legionaries who were now veterans urged their new comrades on: Herma, Indus and Durio berating those who fell.

  ‘Full-step,’ Pavo yelled, quickening the pace. But the new men could not match the speed of the veterans, and the entire legion was pegged back to military step. After eight miles they came to a stretch of marram grass where the sand blended with earth and then fens, and a pale limestone cape rose like a giant’s fist, jutting into the sea and up into the pastel-blue sky, gulls nesting on its weather-pocked sides. Here, he let them halt. Most were shaking, white as the tiny wisps of cloud and raining sweat – their fresh new military tunics damp front and back as the midday sun beat down upon them and reflected back up at them from the sand. Thessalonica was but a hazy white glimmer up the coast and, across the bay to the west, Mount Olympus rose like a chimeral vision, the cool, crisp snow still clinging to its highest parts almost taunting the parched and sweating men.

  ‘A veteran legionary must be able to march three times the distance we have come. With packs of rations and equipment for making camp. With iron helms and vests.’

  He noticed Stichus, the feeble slave boy, on his knees, spitting. ‘So show me what you have left. Get on your feet, get up there. Take that high ground as if it was an enemy stronghold.’

  The panting ceased for a moment as each of the new lads gawped at the height and the painful looking few routes to get up there.

  ‘Come on, come on – you heard your tribunus,’ the centurions and the veterans roared. ‘Up!’

  Pavo and Sura hung back, watching from the bay as the three cohorts were guided up the three snaking and scree-strewn paths towards the heights. Men slid and squawked, bumped into one another and clung to roots for purchase, edging up and up until they were but a few moments from reaching the top.

  ‘When do you think they’ll realise?’ Sura mused.

  Pavo caught sight of the glint already waiting up there. ‘About now,’ he said calmly.

  From the top of the promontory came an almighty cry and the blast of another legion’s horn, as the men of the Gemina rose from their haunches in the grass up there and rushed the exhausted Claudia units.

  ‘It’s about how they react,’ Pavo said, watching carefully. The Claudia men stiffened into a hastily formed line, barracked by Centurion Libo. ‘Shields, closer, brace!’ he screamed the well-practised call to battle.

  ‘They did not panic,’ Sura mused. ‘Well, those that made it up there,’ he added, sourly eyeing the smattering who were still stuck on the steep path leading up there. Young Stichus’ name rang out as others berated him for slowing them down.

  ‘But they are beaten,’ Pavo countered as the Gemina men raced to envelop their Claudia counterparts. Just before the two legions were about to come together, the buccina wailed again and the standards were waved to signal the end of the ambulatum session. Cheers and mocking calls rang out from the Gemina men, some offering noble condolences, others flashing their buttocks and laughing.

  As the Claudia men descended, panting, discussing their failures, punching fists into palms in frustration, Pavo had them fall out to eat bread and salted mutton on the beach. As the Gemina Tribunus gave his ranks praise for their victory nearby, Pavo strode amongst his men. ‘Why did you lose?’ he said.

  The men seemed reticent to answer, until one volunteered: ‘Because we let them encircle us up there.’

  ‘No,’ Pavo said.

  ‘Because they had the element of surprise – waiting on us as we climbed.’

  ‘No,’ Pavo repeated.

  ‘Because they saw our approach?’

  ‘No.’

  Pavo saw that big Pulcher had the answer on his lips, but his narrow eyes darted amongst the others, willing one of them to answer correctly instead.

  Now Stichus, chewing gratefully on his bread, stopped and let the morsel sink down his throat, his face falling. ‘Because we were too slow.’

  Pulcher grinned. Pavo swung on his heel to the boy. ‘Yes we were. The Gemina left the Thessalonica camp at the first hour, yet they took a longer route to get here – exactly an hour longer. I ordered you to be ready to move out on the second hour, yet you were not ready until a good half-hour later. And so, the Gemina reached this cape before us, in good time to take the high ground and prepare for our arrival.’

  ‘So when your tribunus tells you to be ready,’ Sura hissed, ‘you bloody well be ready. And when he calls for a full-step march, you do as he says even if your foot’s hanging by a string. For next time it could be out there,’ he stabbed a finger to the north, ‘when your life may well depend on it.’

  They repeated the manoeuvre every morning for the next week. On the first day, the men rose to prepare and eat a breakfast of cooked wheat porridge. They watched as the Gemina legion marched from the Thessalonica turf camp at the first hour, then set about tidying away their cooking gear, kitting up and preparing for the march. There was more urgency this time, but still, more than an hour had passed before they were ready. When the horns blew, they forged south along the beach again. After the previous day’s gruelling trek, many struggled with stiff legs, blistered feet and aching shoulders. The will was there when Pavo called for full-step, but their bodies barely scraped that relentless pace. When they reached the cape it was in slightly better time, but they lamented at the sight of the Gemina crawling up the far side of the height. Some fell to their knees in the sand, dropping their weapons.

  ‘Well, it doesn’t end here,’ Libo growled. ‘Pick up your weapons and get up that bloody hill!’

  Pavo went with them this time, watching, trying to get a sense of their mood, to identify the stronger ones in the ranks. He peeled to one side of the steep path to crouch in the shade of an overhang and watch the rest ascend, unseen. Libo led the First Cohort, his wild false eye staring to their goal up above, then came Opis, Herma and the smattering of ‘veterans’. Molacus and his Batavians moved with them, obedient and exemplary, their thickly-muscled thighs straining as they bounded up the path, keeping a flat front despite the tight space, demanding more of those behind. Next came Trupo’s Second Cohort and Cornix headed up the Third Cohort. Lastly came the straggling recruits – having fallen behind their cohorts. Knots of them climbed past Pavo, until only the weakest stragglers remained, gasping, groaning, slipping. And last of all was Stichus.

  ‘Come on, Stichus,’ one of the street beggars snarled. ‘Don’t waste our time again.’

  Stichus’ moon-eyes bulged, his lungs rasped, but still the gap grew. Finally, just as he was rising past Pavo, he slid and fell onto his face, sliding back down the slope a little, his shield like an anchor. His legs trembled under him as he struggled to rise. Just as he seemed set to fall and slide down even more, he spotted Pavo in the shade of the overhang. Instinctively, he reached out a hand, seeking support. With all his heart Pavo wanted to step to the edge of the ledge and stretch out a hand to help the lad, but a shade-like memory held him back: during a day of training Gallus had walked on when Pavo had been flailing in a mud-pit, sinking. He hadn’t understood it then, but he did now. His arms remained by his side. ‘Do you want them to respect me?’ he said in a hushed voice, looking uphill at the legionaries scowling over their shoulders at the exchange. ‘Or you?’

  The lad’s pitiful, wrinkled face changed. He gulped, forced himself to his feet and staggered on uphill. His foot
steps faded away above as the Gemina men cried out in victory once more.

  At dusk on the third day as they ate their evening meals of toasted bread and mashed olives at the Thessalonica turf camp, he heard the men muttering ideas as to how they could finally claim victory on the cape. On the morning of the fourth day, Pavo emerged from his tent to see the men finishing simple breakfasts of hardtack prepared the night before. With no fires to douse or utensils to tidy away, they were kitted up in better time and left almost exactly an hour after the Gemina. They marched briskly, and the moaning of the first few days was absent. When Pavo called for full-step, they sped up without complaint. When they reached the sun-bleached cape, they saw the Gemina – a blaze of silvery light – approach from the eastern hill tracks. The two legions claimed the high ground at once, then raced to outmanoeuvre one another – the killing strike of an ambulatum session. At the very last, the Gemina edged it, their men still fresh enough to flank the Claudia cohorts. Their cries of delight echoed across the bay. That night, the discussions amongst the Claudia campfires lasted well into the night.

  When Pavo emerged from his tent on the fifth day, he balked, seeing the Claudia men standing in marching formation, their breakfast fires dulled, the meals eaten. ‘Ready when you are, sir,’ Pulcher grinned. They marched with gusto, some striking up songs from the streets, others singing old soldier songs picked up from the veterans.

  ‘Hardtack didn’t quite cut it yesterday,’ Sura explained when he saw Pavo’s confusion. ‘So today they had hardtack and a fair bit of honey – to help fuel the legs that little bit more.’ They raced south and saw once again the Gemina legion pouring from the eastern hill route, speeding towards the cape.

  ‘Today. We can do it today!’ Libo bawled, leading the way as the Claudia stole towards the rocky cape too. Pavo slowed and remained on the beach and watched as they sped up the heights, his eye following Stichus, keeping good time with the rest, sheer will providing the extra strength that his body still lacked. The Gemina reached the heights only once the Claudia cohorts had secured them, and the song of victory was sweet.

  As they ate under the warm sun afterwards, Pavo strode amongst them again. ‘You won today, and deservedly so. Can you tell me why?’

  ‘Because we were faster than them,’ one piped up.

  ‘Perhaps,’ Pavo replied.

  ‘Because this time they were too slow,’ another suggested.

  ‘Maybe,’ Pavo said, then swept his gaze over all of them, including Stichus. ‘But I saw something different in you all today. The thing that gave you speed, the thing that made you think about today last night, the thing that had you ready to move without a wasted moment. Strength,’ he batted his chest, ‘in here. Desire to win. Belief that you could. A need to be as good as you can be. That’s why you won.’

  On days six and seven, the Claudia won the battle for the cape. Even centurion Libo lost control of himself, pulling up his tunic to bare his buttocks at the Gemina soldiers who had taunted his men in such a fashion during the early days of the exercise. He planted a hand on each buttock to open and close them like a mouth, shouting obscenities in perfect time. The Claudia men roared in fits of laughter.

  Down on the beach, alone with no other near enough to see his face, Pavo’s lips rose in a gentle smile.

  It was the final day of March, and in the dying light, Modares and Pavo walked through the Thessalonica turf camp.

  ‘I have heard good things about the Claudia,’ Modares mused.

  ‘The men are unrecognisable from the rabble delivered to us just over a moon ago,’ Pavo said. And it was true: beggars, groomed and washed in the sea every day and now clad in steel – helms and mail shirts having arrived at last only days ago – and military cloth were beggars no more; slaves who had come to the Claudia bent double and fearful stood straight and proud; the sons of retired legionaries had shed weight, grown calluses on their palms and heels and sprouted backbones too.

  ‘I also hear they talk of Reiks Ortwin and boast of being the ones to finish him?’ Modares said.

  ‘They are bold, true enough, and some who served in the Rhodope fort have skirmished before. But few of them have ever faced true battle.’

  ‘Yet we do not have the luxury of time. They are ready, because they have to be. We march into Thracia tomorrow,’ Modares replied, saluting then turning to walk into the fading light. ‘And Ortwin?’ he called over his shoulder. ‘I will be the one to finish him.’

  Pavo saluted in reply then turned away, back towards the Claudia area. He passed the principia – an enclosure of pavilion tents near the centre of the turf camp. This was the officer’s meeting point, where all the tribuni of the legions gathered to discuss affairs. Pavo had suffered four such droning affairs. More interesting was the dark-wooded wagon at rest beside it. As he flitted past the principia, he caught glimpses, between the edges of the tents, of hooded, black-robed men. Strangers.

  He arrived back at the Claudia area and set down his helm on the table by his tent, glancing again and again at the visitors’ wagon, the crackling of newly-lit torches nearby sparking and stoking thoughts. A strange chill crawled up his back, and he wasn’t sure why. When he entered the tent, his heart almost leapt from his chest: a shadow-figure was sitting there, waiting for him.

  ‘In the name of-’ he croaked, then saw in a pale flicker of light from outside that it was Saturninus, sitting on a small wooden stool, fingers knitting and unknitting anxiously. ‘Sir!’ Pavo saluted stiffly. It was the first time he had been face to face with the man since the grim encounter at the tavern in Adrianople.

  ‘At ease, Tribunus,’ he said in that gentle voice of his.

  Pavo saw a jug of watered wine had been delivered to his tent. Most nights, he had handed it to a different century of his legionaries. Every crumb of morale and belief mattered. Tonight, he poured a cup for the Magister Militum and himself.

  ‘The Claudia will be ready for tomorrow’s march,’ he pre-empted.

  ‘They had better be… Pavo,’ he replied. ‘For this place is not safe.’

  Pavo saw the troubled look in the general’s eyes.

  ‘That night, at the tavern. I meant what I said,’ the Magister Militum whispered.

  ‘Sir?’ Pavo said, his mind combing the hazy memory of the exchange.

  ‘They’re everywhere.’

  ‘They?’ Pavo said quietly, a question to himself as much as to the other.

  ‘They wear rings with a staring eye,’ Saturninus said.

  It came back to him then: Gratian’s agents now permeate the East. They poured from the West with him like… like shades – creeping across the land. Every ear listens, every eye watches.

  He thought of the dark wagon, flicked his head to the tentflap, then back to Saturninus. ‘The Speculatores are here?’

  Saturninus nodded. ‘They come as allies, supposedly.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘But we both know why they are here, Tribunus,’ Saturninus looked up.

  ‘Aye, to meddle in Theodosius’ affairs,’ Pavo muttered. ‘Or perhaps Theodosius is glad enough to be Gratian’s puppet. And that would make him just as dangerous.’

  Saturninus looked up, face pale, head shaking. ‘You have not heard? Rumour has spread. Rumour that they seek out an enemy of Gratian. It seems a legionary of the East tried to assassinate him at the Sirmium coronation.’

  Pavo’s blood ran cold. ‘A legionary? How can they be so sure,’ he replied, certain his voice was laced with guilt.

  ‘They found a plumbata, manufactured in southern Thracia…’ Saturninus looked him in the eye; a look that searched inside him like a winter wind.

  Pavo wondered if this was it. Were the Speculatores right now gathering around his tent? Had Saturninus merely been delaying him with his words? Was it all to end as it had done for so many of his loved ones, on the end of a speculator’s blade? Footsteps grew louder outside, thudding towards the tent. Pavo felt his spatha hand tense, his battle-senses coming t
o him, his lungs readying to shout upon Sura… his last hope.

  The footsteps padded on past, the two legionaries they belonged to laughing about something. ‘Knackered, I tell you – never known exercise like it,’ one of them chortled. ‘And when I was done, she was walking like a Hun!’ The voices faded away again.

  Pavo and Saturninus shared a long, silent look.

  ‘As soon as I heard of it, I knew it was you,’ Saturninus said quietly. ‘I saw how you reacted when I told you Gratian would be at Sirmium. Such fire within. And I understand why, too. May God forgive me, but I realise now that you were right about him. Since I returned from hiding, I have heard the full reports of what happened at Adrianople. The pieces are fragmented, but they all point to him, just as you said.’ His voice fell into a whisper, tight like a drawn bowstring.

  But Pavo’s thoughts were on the dark agents right here, right now. His eyes hung on the sliver of twilight outside the tentflap, his throat dry as sand, his thoughts racing.

  ‘They are asking to see imperial rosters,’ Saturninus said. ‘They don’t yet know to which legion that plumbata batch was delivered. But they will, and soon. I advise you to hasten from this place before they turn their eyes upon the Claudia.’