‘Well, Libo is even prettier than you,’ he grinned. Before she could swat him, he pressed a kiss to her lips. ‘I will be back later tonight,’ he whispered in her ear.
The harbour of Thessalonica glowed in the night – from the myriad torches, the light of a sickle moon on the still waters and sea of ruddy faces packed inside and spilling around outside the dockside taverns. Cups clacked, wine sloshed, trays of baked mutton and seared bream were passed around and songs echoed into the night, soldiers, citizens, beggars, thieves and whores joining in to the beat of timpani and the whistling song of a double flute. Just when the dock ward seemed fit to burst, the men of the Claudia then spilled across the scene to welcome cheers and mock insults from other off-duty legionaries.
Pavo took a wine cup offered by Stichus then peeled away to sit near the stony outer wall of one drinking den, overlooking a stretch of wharf and the still waters. He turned his wine cup slowly on the surface of the table at his right, not wanting to drink too much before he had had a chance to talk with Sura.
‘The Vaulting Champion of Adrianople,’ Sura’s wine-fuelled voice cut through the air. A bunch of women squealed in delight and interest.
With another, heavier sigh, Pavo turned his head to the sight. Sura was standing atop a pile of sacks near a loading dock, back turned to Pavo, still dressed in his Gothic trousers and a tunic that hung to his hips. Poised like an orator, the women and some men of the Claudia watching him were hooked. ‘Every games day I’d offer to go last. Let the other lads have their moment, you know,’ he winked at one woman who blushed and nudged her friend. ‘And then they’d call out my name. Most years you could barely hear it, for the crowd would roar, knowing it was my turn.’
Pavo decided to have a long draught of wine.
‘I’d take up my place, then burst forward like a deer,’ Sura swung his arms as if running, ‘up to the line and then doof,’ he dug his imaginary pole into the ground and imitated his vault, arms flailing in exaggerated fashion, ‘couple of somersaults, still easily beating the previous best by a few feet.’
The women listening now looked a little unsure. One of them guffawed, turned and walked away.
Somersaults? Pavo chuckled inwardly. But damn, you could overcook charcoal, old friend.
‘Eh? That’s bollocks,’ the already roaring drunk Rectus slurred, then nudged his old comrade, Libo – swaying like a stalk of wheat on a breezy day. Rectus whispered something in Libo’s ear, then the latter staggered in a wide arc to come around behind Sura.
‘And the noise… they certainly knew how to greet their champion vaulter!’ Sura faltered as another woman left. ‘Some of the local ladies said that I could probably have vaulted without a pole, if you take my meaning,’ he tapped his nose and winked at the remaining few female onlookers. When they stared back blankly, he pointed furtively at his groin. ‘I mean I could use this instead,’ he grinned hopefully.
Like a pair of striking vipers, Libo’s hands shot up behind Sura and grabbed the waist of his trousers at each hip, then yanked them down unceremoniously to his ankles. Loincloth and all came down too – leaving Pavo with the unsolicited view of Sura’s bandy legs and grubby buttocks. Abruptly, the revelry on the wharf fell to silence. The women – ‘treated’ to the view from Sura’s front – gaped in horror. The Claudia men gawked, then collectively raised an eyebrow each, before smirking and cupping hands over their mouths to catch spluttering laughter. Pulcher dispensed with subtlety: ‘Put that thing away,’ he bellowed, ‘you could have a mouse’s eye out with it if you’re not careful!’
The laughter exploded all across the wharfside. Shambling down from the sacks while clumsily hauling his loincloth and trousers back up, Sura bumped into Libo, whistling a tune and inspecting his filthy fingernails. ‘Did you see who did that?’
Libo looked up as if he had been interrupted from thought. ‘Hmm? Did what?’
‘Never mind,’ Sura growled, stamping over towards the tavern.
Pavo chapped the table to catch his attention. Sura swung to him. ‘Ah, excellent, just what I need,’ he said, sitting across from Pavo, taking Pavo’s cup and draining it in one go, then pouring another from a wine jug on a table opposite and downing it too. ‘Ach, that’ll all be forgotten come tomorrow,’ he said breezily, not hearing the pair who still muttered in mirth nearby, one making a fist and wiggling their smallest finger.
A young lad came and placed a fresh jug of wine, cups and a loaf of warm bread between them.
‘Nothing like a quiet drink,’ Pavo said wryly, tearing a piece of bread from the plate and chewing on it slowly.
‘Ah, yes, you wanted to talk.’
Pavo leaned a little closer. ‘I’m going to see if I can speak to Julius tomorrow. This shore camp for the Goths reminds me horribly of the refugee camp up by Durostorum, three years ago.’
Sura gulped down his mouthful of wine as if it was a stone. ‘The biggest balls-up in living memory,’ he mused bitterly.
‘But Modares asked me something tonight, about Eriulf and his Goths.’
Sura leaned a little closer. Pavo looked up and into his eyes.
‘Can we trust them?’
Sura snorted. ‘The traitors amongst them – the “Vesi” – were dealt with back there on the plateau.’
‘Are you sure?’ Pavo pressed.
‘Scapula almost took the lead elder’s head off, so yes, I’m pretty sure. Why?’
Pavo mulled over the question, swirling his wine. At last, he shook his head and laughed uneasily. ‘Modares also urged me to doubt everyone.’
‘Save your suspicions for the likes of Scapula,’ Sura said, his face falling stern. ‘He’s the one you know is a danger. He’s been trailing us around for months.’
‘He’s saved us more than once in that time,’ Pavo muttered, again thinking of the dream of the wolf and the goose.
‘Yet the mission to the north is over, and he’s still tagging along with us. Why?’ Sura probed.
Pavo took a drink of wine, his expression darkening, remembering the moment the wolf struck… when the goose was least expecting it. ‘You’re right. He has stuck to us like glue since the moment he turned up at Castra Rubra. I don’t think he’s been more than twenty paces away from us in all the time since. Yet where is he now?’ he said, using the cup to disguise his mouth and his looks around the crowd.
Scapula lurked in the shadows of a wharfside nook, watching everything like a night-hunter. And this night would be crucial. Under his cloak, he stroked the lethal edge of his dagger with a thumb as one might smooth a kitten’s fur.
I am a shadow, I move like a breath of wind, I strike unseen, he mouthed the mantra of the Speculatores over and over, eyes searching the sea of activity. He noticed the young legionary, Stichus, over by the tavern trying to fend off the attentions of a woman who pulled at his arm as if to lead him away towards a nearby alley. The other soldiers around the lad laughed and egged him on, but Stichus was insistent. ‘I haven’t been this content in months. I’m going nowhere,’ he pulled the woman onto his lap, then grinned at his comrades. ‘I have a full cup of wine, the night is clear and I’m here with you, my brothers.’
For a moment, Scapula envied the lad. Stichus had conquered his nightmares at last, it seemed. He hadn’t bumped into the young legionary wandering, awake, in recent nights, nor had he shared the simple chats they had enjoyed during the time on the plateau. And so in these last nights, Scapula had walked alone. Alone, but never alone, he mouthed bitterly, thinking of his brethren. He saw in his mind’s eye the many gatherings of the hooded ones… and then the very first he had ever attended. The boy in the loop of a garrotte. The hooded one behind the youngster ready to yank it tight.
‘What would you have us do, Kaeso?’ the hooded leader hissed. ‘The choice is yours…’
Emotion rose like a tongue of flame within him. ‘Kill him,’ he whispered as he pushed the memories back down, deep within, ‘kill him.’
At that moment, his ea
gle-sharp gaze found Pavo and Sura, sitting at a table by the wharfside tavern’s outer wall. Was this truly the relation of his one-time brethren, Dexion? It seemed hard to believe: the tribunus had some physical similarities, but his nature was so different. Pavo was like a full moon, bright inside, whereas the light within Dexion was all but eclipsed, leaving just a waning arc. It was as the Speculatores were trained: to retain just a flash of humanity – enough with which to deceive, enough to disguise the truth.
And there was no doubt now. Pavo was the one. Emperor Gratian’s would-be assassin had been found. He had been immediately suspicious upon meeting the tribunus for the first time at Castra Rubra. Then at the plateau, he had concluded that the plumbata was Pavo’s, almost certainly. But the key had been the tribunus’ own words. Scapula, robbed of his chats with Stichus, had spent recent nights perched like a crow in the blackness near the tribunus’ tent – unbeknownst to the sentries – and had heard Pavo’s muffled laments. And then all doubt was removed last night, when he had heard the words clear as running brook water, words addressed to a certain ‘Gallus’… a name well known to Scapula and his brethren: Gratian will pay… I will avenge you, sir, you and all my lost comrades.
He realised his head was poking from the dark wharfside nook and ducked back as a bare-breasted whore led the bull-like medicus, Rectus, down an alley.
When they had passed, he reset his eyes on the table by the tavern wall…
But they were gone!
Where are you, Tribunus?
Under his cloak, he expertly weaved the fingers of one hand, the dagger held in it turning round and round as his eyes combed the wharf. Then he saw it – the hem of the tribunus’ ruby cloak floating for an instant, then snatched away, disappearing down one lane.
With a low purr like a hunting cat, he set off in pursuit…
His blood warm from the wine, Pavo trudged across the near-deserted agora, the cacophony of drunkenness from the wharf dying behind him. The only signs of life in this part of the city were a pair of sentries on the horse arena’s high sides and a few beggars shambling along nearby streets. When he came onto the main avenue, the only movement came from the colonnade-like cypress trees hugging the road, furring in a gentle breeze. As he passed under the shade of the towering and majestic Arch of Galerius, he heard a noise behind him. Slowing just a fraction, he glanced back to see a pile of russet leaves below an ancient oak at one end of the circus dancing and lifting in the night wind.
A low, cantillating song met his ears. For a moment, it stirred in him memories of the eerie Gothic ‘Vesi’ chanting. But when he heard the words, he realised they were Christian Rites, coming from the city’s palace hill. He glanced up over the terraced gardens to the palace quarters at the top, lit from within by pale amber lamplight. The Emperor Theodosius lay in there, being tended to by healers and priests. He thought of the tall, commanding man who had addressed them here in the spring. When Fritigern’s Goths came roving back into these lands, the paltry Army of the East would need a single, true leader at the helm. ‘Not Julius,’ he muttered. ‘Anyone but him.’
A scuffing of soft leather on stone sent a prickly sense of alarm through him. He glanced back again. The street was empty. ‘Damn you, sweet wine!’ he said aloud, then swung back to swagger on into the slums. These alleys would take him more swiftly back to the land gates and the army camp outside.
In the blackness of these tight lanes, his step grew erratic. He staggered and bumped off of the uneven and crumbling walls of homes on either side, tripping a few times on the broken remnant of what had once been a flagged way. Then, from his belly rose a sharp, uncontrollable ‘hic!’
He shook his head and spluttered. ‘hic!’
Another two steps and: ‘hiiic!’
Now he had to stop and rest one hand against the wall. ‘Urgh… damned wine!’
And it was then that the shadows came to life. From nowhere, the wraith that had been following him lunged forward, right up behind him. He spun, just as Scapula’s face came to a halt right before his. The speculator’s eyes sparkled in the gloom, his lips opening to impart some final line, when he froze.
‘Ah, Scapula, so glad you could join us,’ Sura said, stepping from the shadows of a nearby doorway to come up behind the speculator.
Scapula’s eyes flicked to one side, registering Sura’s presence, then the primus pilus’ spatha tip, pressed tightly to his flank. ‘How… how did you?’
Sura sniffed nonchalantly. ‘The Spectre of Adrianople, they once called me,’ he started. ‘Well, they didn’t actually, because they were never able to spot me.’
Pavo, now standing tall and having miraculously lost his blight of hiccups, gave Sura a stiff look to end the tale there. He then glowered down upon Scapula. ‘I had some wine tonight, Scapula, but not that much. I saw the shadows in that nook at the wharf. I saw you there. I asked myself why you were there, watching me. Just as I have asked myself why you have been with my legion since the spring.’
‘Well?’ Sura said, gripping one of Scapula’s shoulders with his free hand and digging the point of his spatha in just enough to make it clear he meant business.
‘I was assigned to your mission to help bring the Goths of Arimer into the empire,’ Scapula said, his cruel face taking on a well-practiced look of self-pity – like a drunk who sees his last drink topple and spill away on the floor.
‘And they are here now,’ Pavo rumbled. ‘Yet so, still, are you.’ His gaze dropped to Scapula’s hands. No weapon in either. Had the speculator merely been swift to put his blade away?
‘That is why I was following you, Tribunus. To tell you that the time has come for me to return to the West and to my master.’
Sura gave Pavo hard eyes and nodded almost imperceptibly at the spatha.
Pavo read the offer: to run Scapula through and ensure he never returned to tell Gratian of his findings – whatever they might be. He looked into the eyes of the agent, the one who had saved his life and the lives of his men more than once… the one who had rescued their mission from disaster. He glanced again at the agent’s empty hands and Sura’s sparkling spatha blade. I fear I may regret this, Speculator, but…
He gave Sura a brief and minimal shake of the head. With a sigh of disappointment, Sura lowered the spatha. ‘We will see you off at first light,’ Pavo said.
‘No need, Tribunus,’ Scapula said. ‘By the turf camp gates I have a horse waiting to leave right now.’
‘Very well,’ Pavo replied. As Scapula stepped away, Pavo felt the burden of the man’s presence lifting already. ‘You saved us more than once up in the wilds, Scapula. For that, the men of the XI Claudia will never forget you.’ Scapula backed further away. ‘You and I were never friends, but I know that at times up in the northern woods, some of my men took to you. Referred to you as one of the ranks. Stichus will be sad to hear of your parting.’
Scapula’s face bent first in a frown, then in an awkward shape that Pavo realised was meant to be a smile. ‘I am most grateful to hear that, Tribunus. But now I must be going. For my master will be keen to hear the outcome of this mission… and of my findings.’
With that, Scapula melted into the shadows. Pavo and Sura were left staring at the blackness where he had been.
‘We should have killed him,’ Sura growled. ‘I have never taken a sword to an unarmed man before, but-’
‘We don’t know for certain what he’ll take back to Gratian,’ Pavo replied. ‘And if he had failed to return west, I can guarantee we would be seeing a lot more of his ilk very soon.’
‘Perhaps,’ Sura muttered, ‘but I fear that is inevitable in any case...’
Chapter 14
Gratian, swaddled in the over-embellished Gothic furs and leathers that had caused such a stir at Theodosius’ coronation, and crowned with the imperial diadem, walked his silver stallion up the shaded side of a small hillock in the pastures of Augusta Treverorum. When he reached the crest, the low winter sun splashed across him. Hi
s eyes grew thin as slits, his nostrils widening as he inhaled the crisp December air. The green hills, golden stubble-fields and sycamore stands of Gaul were bathed in silvery frost, and a thin wintry mist pooled in the dips and hollows. Robins and crossbills darted and played in the trees, and deer grazed in the distance.
‘A fine day for a hunt, is it not?’ he cooed, patting his hide-mitted hands together, his breath clouding like that of his silver stallion.
His retinue, standing in an arc behind him, said nothing. He laughed once and nudged his mount round to face them. ‘Lost your tongues?’ he said. His tone was cheerful, but the faces of the onlookers suggested they knew well how thin the façade was.
‘A f-fine day. A blessing f-from G-God, Domine,’ one voice from down by his side answered at last.
Gratian looked down his nose at the slave – one of four standing there. The barefoot wretch wore a tatty tunic, and was nearly blue with the cold. ‘I was not talking to you,’ he said, the humour and the smile fading. He lifted his gaze to the three mounted ones with him. Merobaudes, land and straggly hair covering one eye and the scarred side of his drawn face. Malevolent Merobaudes, he thought, rolling the words in his thoughts, a note of a chuckle escaping his lips, chained to me like a mastiff. He turned to the nine-year-old boy saddled on a roan by Merobaudes’ side. ‘What about you, Stepbrother? Are you ready for a full-blooded hunt on this fine day?’
The boy’s slender, handsome face paled, his dark eyes reluctant to meet Gratian’s, his brown curls not long enough to offer him a veil of respite.
‘Valentinian does not need to be part of the hunt, Domine,’ Merobaudes said gruffly.
‘Doesn’t he?’ Gratian said, clicking his fingers to summon a silver cup of warmed, spiced wine from one of the waiting slaves. He took a gulp and sighed with pleasure, breath clouding. ‘My stepmother insists on filling your head with Arian nonsense, Stepbrother. I think today is more vital for you than it is for me.’
EMPIRE OF SHADES Page 23
