Pavo eyed the forest roof stretching off from the far side of the clearing. In the haze of distance and the falling mizzle, he could see a white bluff there, standing proud of the trees. Upon it was the faintest wisp of rising woodsmoke, pale against the blue patches in the sky.
‘Arimer’s refuge?’ Sura guessed. It was as Scapula had described.
Pavo’s mind raced. What if it was in fact the Huns’ camp? No, they only camped where there was the pasture their horses needed. But even if it was Arimer’s stronghold, what if the rest of the forest was teeming with Huns? The thoughts warred like entangled snakes in his head until something scattered them: the sensation of eyes on the back of his neck. He turned, just in time to see a dark shadow rush for him, a dagger held by the tip, raised and ready to throw.
Scapula!
Pavo threw up an arm, knowing it was too late. The blade spun from Scapula’s hand and towards him like a lightning strike. At the last, he saw Scapula’s grey snarl, the hood blown back enough to betray one icy eye… and then a great dark shape leapt before the blade, facing Pavo. A Hun! The Hun swung a sword round at Pavo, only for Scapula’s blade to thump into the base of the man’s neck, killing him silently and instantly. Pavo caught the foreigner’s body as it fell forward.
Scapula slowed to a crouch and settled by Pavo and a gawping Sura.
‘What the?’ Sura whispered, head switching between the dead Hun, Scapula and the clearing – the six Huns who had departed moments ago hadn’t heard a thing.
‘He was tracking you,’ Scapula said in a whisper, then reached down and pulled his dagger from the back of the Hun’s neck with a sucking, squelching noise and a leaping gout of black blood and slime.
Pavo glanced back whence they had come. The cohort was out of sight back there. ‘How did you spot him?’ Unless you were tracking us! he added silently.
‘I have my ways,’ Scapula said. ‘I am a shadow, I move like a breath of wind, I strike unseen.’
Pavo instinctively braced as Scapula carefully wiped the lethal blade on his robe. ‘Well that was a fine strike,’ Pavo said. An assassin’s strike, he realised. Scapula’s clean and gleaming blade hovered just a hand’s width from his chest, and both men shared a frosty glare.
‘My master demands that my brethren and I train night and day…’ was all he said.
‘Bring up the cohort,’ Pavo said, pushing the speculator’s hand out of the way and standing.
A short time later, the rain stopped. The First Cohort found themselves moving at a slow walk, every pair of eyes trained on the army of shadows within the woods, every ear pricking up at the distant whoops of hunting Huns. All it would take was for one Hun to spot them, just one. Pavo inwardly cursed himself for having the men come in full armour, bright shields and all. But it was as per Scapula’s passed-on instruction: that Arimer needed to see a proper imperial escort before he would come into the empire.
As dusk approached, they emerged from the woods to wade through a meadow of thick ferns before coming to the foot of the high white bluff. Its base was ringed by a quagmire: suppurating and gurgling, bubbles bursting and traces of wispy gas rising from them like freed shades. It was a perfect natural moat. Pavo’s eyes, combing the swamp for a stepping-stone route across, halted on one odd shape suspended on the surface of the filth. A mud-coated body, lying face-down, an arrow embedded between the man’s shoulder blades.
‘Even if we get across that, we’re not getting up there,’ Libo remarked, rather unhelpfully.
Pavo stared up at the cliff: weather-lined and sheer. Could they afford not to try? To spend the night in this edge of the woods, with roaming Huns and Mithras knew what else would be madness. In search of alternatives, he looked around the moss-coated boulders and ferns behind them. His gaze snagged on the white orbs hanging there. Eyes… tens… hundreds of them!
‘Shields!’ Pavo cried, tearing out his spatha, leaping into a defensive posture.
But before the cohort had even reacted, the shadowy watchers had risen. Goths, faces smeared in dirt, eyes and teeth white as the moon, hair tousled with strands of moss and leaves. They levelled their spears, the Claudia cohort in the teeth of the trap.
‘We can take them,’ Sura gasped, shouldering alongside Pavo, Stichus and Opis barging into place on his other side, the cohort in a rough arc facing this bullhorn of ambushers, backs turned to the swamp. But from behind, they heard a familiar, eerie creak of stretched bows. Pavo and Sura looked over their shoulders to see the moments ago deserted heights of the bluff lined with a row of bare-chested chosen archers, bows nocked, drawn and trained on the Claudia men’s backs.
‘If they wanted you dead, they would have let you try to cross that swamp,’ Scapula said, his relaxed tone ill-fitting for the situation.
‘Damn you, Scapula, for once will you-’
But the speculator pushed through the legionary arc, walking towards the dirt-camouflaged Gothic spearmen. They bristled, spears held a little more firmly. Scapula fell to one knee before the centremost one – a haughty-looking type with long hair knotted atop his head, the ends jutting like palm fronds, held stiff by pine resin. A tuft-beard hung from this one’s chin. He was a good head taller than the rest and sported three bronze rings in each ear. Scapula began to speak in a jagged tongue and the central Goth replied. Pavo recognised it as one of the tribal languages – understanding flashes of the exchange, hearing his own name mentioned. ‘We’ve found Arimer’s men,’ he realised.
When the central Goth flicked his head and spear like a herder, Scapula rose, turning to Pavo. ‘Well observed, sir. Now, these men have kindly offered to escort us up and into their stronghold.’
The centremost Goth swaggered up to Pavo, peering down his fine-boned nose haughtily then brushed past, saying in Greek: ‘follow me, Tribunus Pavo.’
One by one, the Goths picked their way skilfully across the bubbling morass, hopping from raised tussocks of grass to smooth rocks in a labyrinthine route that took them to a strip of chalky solid ground at the base of the bluff. Pavo followed as the first of the legionaries. Just as he had watched the Goths do, he leapt from one mound of semi-solid earth, over a boiling pool of mud, to land on a pillar of stone just wide enough for one man to stand on, arms shooting out for balance, then used a length of frayed rope hanging from the branch of a dead tree to swing over another green-coated pool of slime. As he edged past the mud-coated, floating body, the swamp purged a quantity of long-trapped and foul-smelling gas, the rapid rise of bubbles turning the floating body over. A Hun, Pavo realised, the corpse’s face locked in a death spasm of agony. A blast of bubbles erupted next to the wretch’s head and a slab of putrefying flesh slid away from his cheek like fat in a hot pan, leaving a bloody, blackened lesion. Pavo hurried on. On the chalky ledge he spotted a narrow and steep set of steps, cleverly crafted so as not to be visible from further away, cut into the side of the bluff and zig-zagging to the top.
The Goths climbed up and the Claudia men followed, the twilight illuminated by a pair of torches at the top. Pavo stepped up between the two crackling sconces and onto the plateau. It was a strange place: oval-shaped and as big as a ward of Constantinople, but crammed with tents, mud huts and simple shacks, all centred around a large fire by which a pair of men rotated three cooking boars and stirred a huge vat of a hearty-smelling soup. A tall ceremonial spear stood near the fire, haft dug into the ground. Near the tip hung a frayed white strip of cloth emblazoned with a howling wolf head, Arimer’s emblem. Gothic archers paced around the edges of the plateau watching the woods down below, bows nocked and held loose as if expecting a night attack. Many people milled around this high settlement: mothers sat cross-legged with crying babies, malnourished pets whimpered, comforted by bony elders while children played in groups, all halting in their activities and gawping as they saw the ironclad newcomers. Six thousand spears, Pavo recalled the brief, but nearly four times as many people in all, he realised.
‘They have talked much about their
salvation,’ the tall Goth said. ‘The children, they have whispered for many moons now of the iron ones who would lead them from this place. You had better lead my people to safety, Roman,’ he said, a threat and a plea at once.
‘Let me to speak to Arimer, spearman,’ Pavo replied coldly.
‘Arimer is not here. I am Eriulf, son of Arimer and Reiks of these people in my father’s stead.’
Pavo glanced to Sura, even to Scapula, to see what the pair made of this.
‘Where is Arimer?’
‘Absent, as I said,’ the tall one repeated calmly. ‘He left some time ago to try to make contact with our allies in the village by the high lake, four days’ north of here.’
‘So he will return soon then?’ Pavo reckoned.
‘Perhaps,’ Eriulf said calmly. ‘In the meantime, you will deal with me.’
‘Then tell me,’ Pavo said, ‘what became of our ambassador, Vitalis?’
Eriulf’s face fell blank. ‘I don’t understand.’
Pavo judged his expression. ‘Need I ask you again? What happened to the Roman ambassador sent here in the winter?’
Eriulf’s face creased at one side as if irked by the questioning. ‘Tribunus, no Roman has come to these parts in years… until now. If you sent someone here in the winter then they never arrived. I can assure you of that.’
‘Can you,’ Pavo muttered.
A cold silence followed, broken at last when Eriulf laughed aloud as if that was enough to thaw the unease. ‘This is no way for us to begin our partnership!’ He waved to the men attending to the cooking boar and bubbling broth cauldrons. ‘Bring our guests bread and beer,’ he called over before swinging back to the cohort. ‘Our home is cramped and small, but there should be enough room for you to set up your tents here,’ he gestured towards a small patch of unoccupied space at the eastern edge of the plateau.
When night fell, Pavo sat by the fire to eat with Eriulf and his royal guard – four ox-like men who wore baked leather vests inlaid with gemstones that marked their station. A tall, kindly-faced elder with long, iron-grey hair by the name of Raban brought over bowls of hot, nourishing vegetable broth for the legionaries. Hunks of bread soaked up the salty soup and warmed the many Romans’ bellies. Next, the boar was declared cooked and ready to feast upon, and bowls were refilled and handed round. The meat was sweet and succulent, the juices flooding into Pavo’s mouth as he took bite after bite, only now realising how long it had been since he had last eaten anything other than standard soldier food. He allowed himself one cup of foaming barley beer, and the bitter drink was a fine way to wash down his meal. Pipers played a skirling song and women sang some ancient ballad of Gothic heroes.
‘When the Huns came, we had to slaughter all but a handful of our cattle, smash up our wagons and leave the forests and plains behind,’ Eriulf said as he chewed on a strip of meat, his face uplit by the fire, ‘and flee up onto this rocky wart like frightened sheep escaping a flood. But Wodin has not forsaken us entirely, he gives us water at least,’ he used a copper eating knife to point to the rock cairn from which water gurgled up from some underground spring, then traced the blade in a rough circle along the sentry-lined edge of the high ground, ‘and a natural fort of sorts. Only smaller bands of Huns have tried to assault this place so far: groups of a few hundred, usually - hunters.’ He laughed without humour. ‘It is a small comfort to know that the filth in that bog is probably a large part decomposed Hun. But what we have faced so far is nothing. The masses of them – countless like the stars on a black night – who roam further afield will have heard of our presence here. This is a certainty. If… when they come this way in their multitudes, they will take this place – heights or no heights.’ Eriulf sighed, setting down his bowl.
‘To survive while we are trapped up here, my soldiers must undertake foraging missions. Smeared in dirt, they steal down the steps and across the bog then crawl along the forest floor in search of game and berries. They even stuff sacks with wild barley so that we might make beer to dull our minds to the reality of it all.’
Pavo stopped eating and eyed the boar meat, a sense of guilt dulling his appetite. Just then a hooting noise sounded from down in the woods. Eriulf, his guards and a fair few others stiffened, heads flicking in the direction of the noise, before relaxing again, realising it was just an owl.
‘Whenever we hear the Huns riding while we are down there on the hunt, we hide like rats, scamper up trees or bury ourselves in the dirt… in the soil of our erstwhile home.’ The Reiks’ knife hand trembled with ire now, knuckles white.
Pavo felt his appetite wane, and decided not to have another slice of boar meat when it was offered. He noticed the many eyes on him, and realised just how arduous a task he had been set. Would it at all be possible to lead this mass of people through the thick woods safely? Would the Huns not fall upon them and massacre them? He felt a great weight upon his shoulders as he saw wide-eyed children and old men gaze at him longingly. For a moment, he caught the eye of one of his own – Molacus, supping beer by the legionary tents. The one-time Batavian had been a firebrand at first, but it appeared that the man had buried his past failures and bitterness. Pavo had made the first advance, offering solemn words to Molacus to console him for the loss of one of his two comrades back at Castra Rubra. Now, Molacus raised his beer cup and offered Pavo a warm smile, as did the other surviving ex-Batavian. Pavo replied with the slightest of nods, his face stony serious.
‘My people believe you were sent here by Wodin, to lead us across the river to the green-gold grasslands and hills there,’ Eriulf said. ‘They are thankful to have you here and I am sure they will show it once the initial shock wears off.’ Eriulf laughed and added: ‘Some seem more grateful than others.’
Confused, Pavo followed Eriulf’s gaze until he caught the eyes of one villager: a woman, a good ten years older than him, her face riddled with boils. She smiled lustfully, revealing a mouth full of rotten brown teeth – even worse than Libo’s. When she began lashing her tongue over them ‘seductively, he looked away quickly. And then his eyes fell upon another, a woman his own age. She was a beauty, her skin the colour of pale honey, her golden hair gathered into a high tail like the warriors of this tribe, hanging to the small of her delicately curved back, and she wore boots and a thin jerkin, cinched at the waist with a strip of leather that hugged the garment to her ample breasts, hips and muscular thighs.
‘My sister, Runa,’ Eriulf observed with a playful glint in his eye.
But something was spoiling her looks. She looked dejected and withdrawn, Pavo realised. Of course she is, he realised, her father is missing. He twisted the conversation back to earlier matters, yawning to add an air of ease to his question: ‘So, as soon as Reiks Arimer returns, we will be able to plan our route back to the Danubius.’
Eriulf’s playfulness faded.
‘To lead your people to safety,’ Pavo added, ‘to the green-gold lands of Thracia and Macedonia.’
Eriulf stared into the starry night sky beyond the plateau’s edge, and sighed deeply. ‘When I was a boy, my people migrated from the high north to these parts. Tribal rivalries forced us to do so. The fighting men forged across the rough ground at the foot of the Carpates Mountains like a vanguard, while their wives, children and parents took a more circuitous route, passable by wagon. I went with the men and I was proud to do so. Before the split happened, I kissed my mother on the head and told her I would clear the path to our new home. I can still see the look of hope in her eyes.’
The fire crackled and spat.
‘And that was the last I ever saw of her. Some said the rival tribe had ambushed the wagons. Others said they met their doom in some flooded valley.’ Eriulf shook his head. ‘I didn’t want to believe it. I ran every day for a year to the edge of the woods,’ he pointed into the darkness, ‘and watched the northern horizon. I was certain that one day, she would appear there.’ He tossed his remaining scrap of meat into the fire, then looked Pavo in the eye. ‘My
father left for the high lake village last autumn. I know… I feel it in my heart… he will not be returning.’ His words were like the boom of a sepulchre stone sliding into place.
In the small area of the plateau given to the Claudia cohort, Molacus sat in the opening of his tent, watching the exchange between Pavo and Eriulf. ‘Look at him. A place by the reiks’ fire. Thinks he speaks for all of us. Give him a sword and let him face me… I’d ruin him.’ He picked and plucked apart blades of grass as he muttered. ‘But when it comes to it, he won’t have a blade. He won’t even know what’s happening to him.’
‘When’re we going to do it?’ his crony whispered, resting on one elbow in his bed roll. He drew a line across his neck with a finger and made a slitting noise with his tongue between his teeth. ‘Off that bastard while he sleeps then take our leave from this peasant-legion?’
Molacus watched as Pavo rose from the fire, eyes tracking the tribunus’ every step back to his officer’s tent, before twisting round to his fellow-Batavian. ‘Tonight.’
‘How? The tribunus’ tent is always guarded by two,’ the other said, eyeing Stichus and Pulcher standing watch.
‘And the watch is rotated, every three hours,’ Molacus replied, eyeing the sagging water skin hanging from a nearby, skywards-pointing spear, its contents drip-dripping away the time of the current watch.
‘We’re guarding the tent next?’ the other’s neck lengthened like a child about to receive a new toy. ‘Together?’
Molacus’ smirk was answer enough. He and his Batavian comrade had been assigned to guard Pavo’s tent a few nights before now on the journey north, but never as a pair. Always, they were partnered with the likes of Opis or the overly-alert Stichus. ‘The good soldier act has served us well. Tonight, you and I will stand guard over the Tribunus’ tent. No other will be present.’ His smirk rose into a contented smile. ‘You hold him down, I’ll open his neck. We take his purse and anything else of value and… then we’re free. It’s as if it was meant to be.’
EMPIRE OF SHADES Page 15
