EMPIRE OF SHADES

by Gordon Doherty

  He found Runa sparring with a young Goth boy, both using wooden Roman training swords near a beach section where one of the newly-raised cohorts of Gothic legionaries had pitched their tents in Roman military style. She giggled as she danced around the lad. Pavo watched her fondly for a moment, enchanted by her spry movement.

  She rose and swung round to him, sweeping loose locks of her hair back from her face – as bright as the spring sun. It was infectious, and he smiled giddily back at her. ‘Pavo,’ she said breathlessly. ‘You must help me choose which clothes to wear when I stand before the emperor at last.’

  ‘Runa, nothing has changed. The city watch won’t let anyone from here inside-’

  ‘Haven’t you heard?’ Eriulf cut in, grinning, striding over.

  Pavo turned to him. His blank expression was answer enough.

  ‘A messenger from the palace came here this morning – dared to get his feet wet in these sands.’ Eriulf said. ‘A small group of us have been permitted to enter the city in twelve days’ time – for this announcement the emperor is to make.’

  ‘A messenger,’ Pavo said, ‘one of Julius’ men?’

  ‘Aye, sent by the Butcher himself,’ Eriulf said, flicking his gaze up towards the high tower where Julius usually stood.

  Pavo felt a smile creeping across his face.

  ‘Whatever you said to him worked,’ Eriulf shook Pavo’s shoulders in jubilation, his eyes alive with hope. ‘A small group of us at first. But then perhaps soon after we might acquire homes or jobs within the walls for the families. The five legions on this bay can find a place within the turf camp too. And my people will make good farmers: we can work the countryside – keep the grain silos full.’ Joyful tears brimmed in his eyes. ‘The green-gold paradise is one step closer, my friend.’

  The Ides of March brought the first hint of warmth to the air. Pavo flitted down the steps of the racing circus, weaving around and bumping into people as thick crowds moved to their seats. The masses lined the oblong arena’s sides and curved ends, and even filled up the sandy floor, some finding vantage points on the plinths of the obelisks and statues on the spina – for the stadium was not to be used for racing today. Something far greater was afoot, that was all Pavo knew.

  He paid a lad a few bronze folles for a pair of cushions, then edged his way along to the spot where Runa sat with Eriulf and a small knot of fifteen of his kinsmen. Sura was there too, standing to face Siward and the seated Goths behind him, waffling about some racing event in the past where he had outrun a prize racing horse.

  ‘The Stallion of Adrianople, they called me,’ he beamed. He flashed another Gothic lady by Eriulf’s side a cheeky smile as he said this. ‘If you take my meaning.’

  Siward cupped a finger and thumb to his chin in thought. ‘You mean… you stink?’

  Roaring laughter erupted from all who had been enduring Sura’s tale.

  Sura opened his mouth to protest, and Pavo clapped a cushion over it. More laughter.

  He handed Runa one cushion and sat upon the other, deliberately nudging her hip as he sat. He hesitated, spotting Eriulf’s austere glance at this, then saw the ludic glint in the Goth’s eye.

  ‘By Wodin, take her hand in yours. You’ve been seeing each other for a long time now. Do you think it’s a secret?’ Eriulf chuckled, taking a sup on a cup of Rhodian wine.

  Runa slipped a hand into his palm, knitting her fingers with his. Eriulf was right – it had been some time now. Long enough to feel a gentle warmth in his chest whenever he was with her, a desire to protect her from anyone and anything. Last night they had lain together, her head on his chest as she told him of childhood play, of her mother and of her first ever attempt at hunting with her father. Pavo had stroked her hair as she spoke, enjoying the hotness of her breath on his skin and the scent of woodsmoke in her hair. He thought of Felicia then: for the first time without guilt. It had been long enough. Then, like a flower turning to face the sun, he gazed at and thought only of Runa.

  ‘Runa,’ he whispered, leaning in to her ear, ‘I love y-’

  Cornua wailed from the tops of the circus. Drums thundered like beating hearts. The crowds roared in delight, all eyes turning to the kathisma – the colonnade-fronted imperial box. Emperor Theodosius emerged from the gloom, draped in purple, tall and strong.

  ‘By all the gods, is that the same man we watched at the rotunda?’ Sura whispered so only Pavo could hear.

  Even his smile was broad and defiant, as if his recent frailty had been imagined.

  ‘The emperor is well,’ people cheered. ‘God is with us. The future is bright!’

  Bishop Ancholius, by Theodosius’ side, gloried in the shouts.

  ‘The baptism?’ Pavo surmised. ‘But damn, if his god has given him strength, then I have no quarrel,’ he mused, taking an offered wine cup to drink a mouthful.

  ‘His god, and a regular dose of this,’ Rectus said, leaning over Pavo’s shoulder from the row behind, then dangling a small clay vial like a prize, ‘Marigold tincture. Takes the edge off of a long-running fever in no time.’

  Pavo snorted in amusement, recalling Rectus’ mutterings in the rotunda on the day of the baptism. ‘It took a legionary medicus to identify a cure?’

  ‘Ancholius wanted it to be a cure from god – wouldn’t let healers near him. So I got talking to a palace slave, explained it all to him and, well, the emperor’s been getting a little bit extra in his water every day.’

  Sura hooted with laughter, looking at the triumphant Ancholius. ‘If only the smug bastard knew.’

  ‘But no sign of Julius,’ Eriulf grumbled, the rest of the Goths likewise stiffening in distrust at the mere mention of the name. ‘Couldn’t be bothered to turn up, could he?’

  ‘Come on, at last he has let some of us enter the city. One by one, we will pluck that raven’s feathers,’ Siward joked.

  The Goths exploded in a chorus of jagged laughter now, the Roman citizens seated near them sneering and scowling.

  The noise faded as Theodosius extended his arms. ‘My people,’ he boomed. The slightest scrape of a boot could be heard, so rapt was his audience. In terms of oration, the man was everything poor Valens was not. ‘With my past sins, my illness was washed away also. The Sacrament of Baptism and your constant prayers have re-energised me, chased evil from my being and delivered me, strong and hale, to lead you once more.’

  Another thunderous cheer exploded.

  ‘And so we reach a great crossroads. A time that will mark our devotion to our Father.’ He looked to Ancholius, hesitating. Pavo noticed Ancholius’ eyes narrow and his head dip just a fraction as if giving his assent. Theodosius faced the crowd again, his brow now lined with a sullen frown. ‘From this day forth, all nations should steadfastly adhere to the religion which was taught by Saint Peter to the Romans. Let us believe in the sole deity of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost; under an equal majesty, and a pious Trinity. Let us assume the title of Catholic Christians. And all others are… ’

  Hesitation again. Pavo’s heart grew cold as he saw Ancholius stepping forward to take the lead.

  ‘All others are heretics!’ Ancholius shrieked, his tone drilling at Pavo’s marrow. ‘Followers of Arius, be damned!’ he added with a swipe of the hand to the left. ‘Pagans, be gone,’ Ancholius cast a fierce finger out to the right as if driving away the many in the crowd who still adhered to the ancient gods.

  ‘What did he just say?’ Siward snarled.

  ‘Were we invited here to be insulted?’ Eriulf agreed.

  ‘There is no longer a place for celebrating the pagan mysteries,’ Ancholius continued. ‘There will be no more practising the madness of the Arian ways. The name of the One and Supreme God shall be celebrated everywhere; the observance, destined to remain forever, of the Nicene faith shall be maintained. The poison of the Arian sacrilege shall be banished,’ Ancholius’ chest swelled and then he screeched with a cloud of spit, ‘forever.’

  The air thickened with a clamour
of fear and confusion from the minority and a roar of glee from the rest.

  ‘In the West, Emperor Gratian delivers this same speech. Later in the summer he will travel to Sirmium to reaffirm it. The Nicene ways have been set in stone. The way of the future has been divined.’

  Pavo noticed how Theodosius stared into infinity as the bishop ranted. ‘He believes the baptism saved him. He’s been bewitched by the power of his god.’

  ‘This isn’t going to end well,’ Libo added, pointing down to the circus floor where a small group had made their discontent known and many more had railed against them. Fists flew as more piled in. A cushion and a cup flew through the air, plunging down near Eriulf.

  ‘Gothic scum!’ an unidentified voice spat in their direction.

  A moment later another cup bounced from Siward’s shoulder.

  ‘Right, out,’ Sura said, standing, jabbing a thumb towards the high exit. ‘There’s no honour to be salvaged in a circus riot – believe me.’ The contingent of Eriulf’s Goths did not argue, surging up the stony stairwell as other fights broke out around them. Pavo took Runa’s hand. ‘Don’t worry,’ he told her with a reassuring squeeze as they entered the exit stairwell. She clasped his hand tighter in reply. But in the cool, still and dark air within the stairwell, Pavo heard the crunch-crunch of marching boots – echoing up from the street, below.

  ‘Soldiers?’ Runa said, she and Pavo sharing confused look. But when they spilled out onto the street, the confusion turned to joy. A thick, long column of scale-vested comitatenses legionaries were marching from the docks. There, a forest of high masts bore the purple sails and golden eagle emblems of the Classis Alexandrina.

  ‘The Egyptian Field Army?’ Sura gasped. ‘This was supposed to be the climax to the speech.’

  Pavo saw their dark skin, the Chi-Rhos on their shields, their haughty looks and the proud commander who rode at their head: a man in saffron-yellow trousers, a leather cuirass and a bright green cape. His skin was dark – Persian, Pavo reckoned, going by the man’s features and tightly-curled hair and beard.

  ‘Comes Hormisdas,’ shouted a man on one of the arcade stalls erected within the arches of the arena’s base, ‘a Persian prince, no less.’

  ‘Five legions,’ a boy called down excitedly from a tenement window across the street.

  ‘From Egypt,’ Pavo whispered to himself. ‘How can it be? There is no other garrison in that land.’

  ‘Another five thousand men?’ Rectus laughed in disbelief. ‘At this rate, we might even have a balance of numbers to face Fritigern.’

  They were headed along the triumphal way, towards the arch and the main city gate and the turf camp no doubt to take their place there with the rest of the army. Pavo shot a look along that way… and then his face fell. For coming in the opposite direction was another column. The rest of Eriulf’s warriors, unarmed. And with them in a straggling mass were the rest of the annex inhabitants – the young, the elderly and the non-combatants the Claudia had led south. Everyone from the shore camp apart from the knot of seventeen who had been allowed to attend the edict announcement. Six centuries of Flavia Felix legionaries, armed and watchful, screened the procession of Goths from the oncoming Egyptian soldiers.

  ‘Pavo, what’s going on?’ Runa said.

  Pavo realised then and there exactly what was going on, but the words choked in his throat. Egypt would have a replacement garrison, it seemed.

  Eriulf instinctively threw out a leg to pace over to his people, when a century of Lancearii spilled from the horse arena to corral him, Runa, the small knot of Goths and the few Claudia men to the arena walls. Eriulf gawped in disbelief at the Roman spear points hovering at his throat.

  ‘Stay back,’ a voice called darkly from above. Pavo twisted to look up there. Julius stood on the arena’s edge, black cloak rippling in the gentle breeze. ‘Stay back or by God’s will I’ll have you cut down.’ Twenty mail-cloaked archers rushed to fan out either side of him, bows nocked and creaking within moments.

  ‘Reiks Eriulf!’ one warrior called from the Gothic mass being herded along the street towards the docks. ‘They came as soon as you left the annex.’

  ‘Why, where are they taking you?’ Eriulf called back.

  ‘To the harbour,’ another wailed. ‘They are shipping us to Egypt.’

  The Egyptian legions now churned past Eriulf, Pavo and the others on this near side of the street, the Goths going in contraflow on the far side.

  ‘What’s happening?’ Libo’s Gothic woman called out from the marshalled column, face drawn and etched with panic, hands outstretched, only for a Flavia Felix spear to bat her hands back.

  ‘This is not what we agreed?’ Eriulf’s head swung from his people to Julius and back again. He looked to Pavo, his eyes pleading: ‘The green-gold farms of Thracia and Macedonia… that was the dream.’

  Pavo mouthed a half-word reply soundlessly. Julius had solved the problem posed to him by Pavo on the tower-top in his own way: by swapping the five thousand Goths for five thousand Romans.

  ‘You will take what you are given, Goth,’ Julius spat, the words hard enough to etch granite. ‘In Egypt your warriors will be rearmed with imperial steel and given billet and duties.’ His brow dipped and his lips lifted in a sneer. ‘In Egypt your people cannot collude with Fritigern.’

  ‘I brought my people to serve the emperor, here,’ Eriulf screamed, jabbing a finger at the ground.

  ‘And here you will stay,’ Julius said, sweeping a hand across the small knot who had attended Theodosius’ announcement. ‘With the head and body parted, the snake is no longer a threat.’

  ‘Pavo, do something!’ Runa wailed, beating her palms on his chest, her thick locks swishing across her face with effort.

  ‘It… it’s too late,’ Pavo said, ‘Egypt lies sparsely garrisoned right now. Even if the emperor wanted to stop it he could not.’ He tried to look Eriulf and Runa in the eye. ‘I wanted none of this, you must believe me.’

  But Eriulf was staring across the way at his departing people, tears staining his face, one hand outstretched but two Lancearii spears pinning him. Goths within the column moaned and cried out to their leader. Some stepped across the road too, towards their legionary screen.

  ‘Do as they say,’ Pavo shouted to them, seeing the Flavia Felix men’s heads swing to the slight encroachment. ‘There will be nobody hurt, I can assure you that much.’

  As soon as he had spoken a scream rang out – a Gothic man who had stepped too close to the screen of Flavia Felix men falling back from a speartip, his arm torn open.

  ‘Stay back!’ Pavo snarled across the wall of moving legions now.

  But the fellow with the torn arm screamed and screamed, and then when a stallholder from the market on the opposite side of the road cried out that one of the passing Goths had snatched something from his wares, angry voices struck up, then the thwack of knuckles hitting flesh… then the yelp of a Flavia Felix legionary, battered across the face by a makeshift cudgel. The bows of the arena-side archers creaked. No, no, no!

  An arrow loosed. It whistled down and took the apple-stealing Goth square in the chest, punching him to the ground, stone-dead. An instant later, the street broke down into chaos. Eriulf’s people lunged towards the Flavia Felix screen. The Flavia Felix men met the assault with sword and spear, the archers loosed down upon the Goths’ heads and the Lancearii surged into them too. Hormisdas snarled at his five Egyptian legions to halt, face the ruckus and remain still, shields presented but not spears. Goths fell, battered by Flavia Felix shields, torn and run through by spear and sword. Legionaries too slumped to their knees, bruised and bludgeoned.

  ‘Stop!’ Eriulf roared. ‘please!’

  His throaty and pained cries sailed across the broad street. In a flash, he ducked clear of the Lancearii spears pinning him at the base of the arena and bounded through a gap between two of the Egyptian cohorts, then shouldered through the screen of Flavia legionaries locked in the deadly brawl with th
e Gothic people before turning to face them, hands up in appeal. ‘Please, stop.’

  Pavo saw the Flavia legionaries’ turn, ready to run Eriulf through. In a trice, he followed Eriulf’s path across the street, throwing himself before the Gothic reiks like a shield.

  The brawl faded at that moment.

  ‘Tribunus Pavo?’ one of the Flavia men said, his spear halted mid-thrust towards Eriulf.

  ‘Enough!’ Pavo cried, shaking with rage.

  An eerie silence followed, until Eriulf climbed atop an overturned market wagon and appealed to his people once more. ‘What matters more than anything to me is that you are safe,’ he said to them. ‘The Romans choose to send you off to distant, baking lands. But is that not better than dying on these streets like this?’

  Pavo’s heart ached. He could see in Eriulf’s eyes how much it hurt the man to ask his people to go along with the exodus. But they listened to him, one last time. And so he stood there, watching, as his kinsmen filed forlornly onto the Egyptian galleys at the docks. Hormisdas – his legions having acted nobly, not engaging when they could easily have slaughtered the Gothic train, ambled on towards the land gates and the turf camp.

  The sun was casting long shadows by the time the street was clear again. The arena had emptied too, and the raven-like Julius had flown. Pavo stood with his best men and the handful of Goths who had not been deported. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he whispered.

  Broken, Eriulf nodded once, hardly able to meet Pavo’s eyes such was his dismay.

  Pavo turned to Runa. She was staring into the distance, watching the spot where the ships had departed from, laden with her people. When he made to touch her hand, she drew it back, turned and walked away.

  Sura rested a hand on his shoulder. ‘Give her time. Damn, give us time. What just happened here?’

  When the clopping of hooves split the late afternoon calm, all looked up to see a Gothic horseman belting along the way from the land gates and towards them. After a moment of fright, they realised it was Modares on his dark mare, his hair thrashing in his wake like the horse’s mane. His body was dusty and streaked with sweat from a rapid ride.