EMPIRE OF SHADES

by Gordon Doherty

  Fritigern looked up at his bodyguard. ‘Then the West had best be ready, for as much as my army has been fierce tonight, the fire-hearted curs who follow Alatheus and Saphrax will show no mercy. Every soldier who stands in their way will be butchered, every field they cross will turn to ashes.’

  Chapter 17

  Mud sprayed up over Gratian’s hunting robes, his purple cloak already heavy with water. In the low light he could see little but the patches of purple dusk sky beyond this cursed fen. He yanked on his silver stallion’s reins and jabbed a heel into the beast’s mud-coated flanks, turning it one way then the other. Out there in the muddy marsh, he heard weak splashing and a gentle whimper. But which direction, and how far?

  ‘Curse you, slave,’ he growled. ‘Guard,’ he snapped over his shoulder, ‘let the dogs finish this.’

  The huge Alani warrior following on foot some way back crouched and unhooked the iron clasp roping the four slavering war hounds to his waist. Like loosed arrows, the four dogs sped forward, past Gratian, splashing into the marshes. Only moments later, Gratian heard snarling, then a scream, then the wet, fervid ripping of flesh. ‘The hunt is over,’ he said in a low drawl.

  Turning his stallion and riding from the knee-deep mud, his mind toyed with the impending visit to Sirmium. There, perhaps, he could announce his grand campaign to save the East? News of Fritigern’s thumping victory over Theodosius near Scupi had arrived a month ago, in May. Gratian had been at once disgusted at his fellow-emperor’s carelessness and delighted that the opportunity he had hoped for had fallen into his lap: the East was on its knees, Theodosius’ new army had faltered… and Fritigern too must surely have suffered heavy losses in winning his victory. Yes, he mused, save the East and secure my status as the true emperor of the realm entire. Then neither Merobaudes and the whelp, Valentinian, nor Theodosius or any other weak-headed clod will dare to cross me.

  With drumming hooves, his horse rode onto solid ground again. He realised the rest of his hunting party were nowhere to be seen. ‘We are alone?’ he asked the Alani guard.

  ‘Yes, Domine. We lost the others a good hour ago,’ the man flicked his head into the distance.

  But Gratian could only see blackness there. ‘Damn them,’ he muttered, then twisted to look in the direction of Mursa. The city from which they had set out – the city by which his fleet for the Sirmium visit was docked – was merely a tiny halo of orange light on the northern horizon. He made eyes at the surrounding blackness, feeling the fresh chill of the night air. ‘Find a safe spot,’ he said, noting the rolled tent the Goth carried on his back, ‘and make camp for me.’

  The Alani guard nodded, whistled to call the dogs back in, then jogged ahead of Gratian, leading him uphill onto a raised mound. The guard crouched there, leashing the bloody-faced dogs when they returned, then set about erecting the tent.

  Gratian waited impatiently, eyes darting to the many sounds of the night across the dark heath. Crickets clicking, bats rapping, foxes prowling. He had never spent a night in the wilds like this. A chill touched him at that moment, his eyes imagining the foul moor creature out there in the blackness. That wretched dream had evolved again in recent nights – for now the shadowy being was neither faraway nor stationary: now it was but an arrowshot distant and swaying slowly but inexorably closer. And now he realised just how similar the land outside was to that grim dream. Worse, through every moment of the day just passed, he had not been able to shake off the odd feeling that while he tracked the pagan slaves… someone, something, was tracking him.

  ‘The tent is ready, Domine,’ the Alani said, startling him.

  Gratian brushed past him and entered. The pavilion tent was spacious, the Alani having set up a lamp, a chair, a bed and a bowl of drinking water and washing water for him. He unhooked his cloak and slumped on the chair, reaching instinctively for a wine cup that wasn’t there. He choked the air with a growl instead. His head flopped forward and the wretched dream returned to his thoughts. Last night he had even heard the thing’s squelching footsteps, the wet breaths…

  Oh yes, the crone’s troubling prediction echoed in his mind, you will have… years. The blackness outside now seemed like a shroud.

  ‘Hurry up with the damned fire,’ he snapped through the tentflap to the Alani guard, kneeling outside, struggling to kindle marsh-wet twigs. But the big fellow rose to stand tall, back turned to the tent flap, the fire still unlit. ‘Did you hear me, get that fi-’ he fell silent, hearing what had caused the guard to stand. Hooves. ‘The others have caught up?’ he said. A single, stiff arm and a raised index finger shot back through the tent flap from the guard. Gratian fell silent, then saw the Alani hoist his spear to hold it level. The man called out in a jagged accent. A call of challenge. Gratian’s skin crept.

  Then: whoosh… thwack!

  The Alani staggered backwards, inside the tent, an arrow embedded in his shoulder. With a roar, the guard surged back towards the tent flap, just as a blonde, bearded warrior plunged inside as if born from the night. A Goth? Gratian recoiled in the chair as if to make it walk backwards. The intruder’s longsword chopped down for the Alani guard’s forehead, but the giant forfended the strike then punched the Goth in the guts, before slicing the man’s belly open.

  ‘Domine, you must-’ the Alani started, before another arrow whizzed into the tent and whacked into his back – only part dulled by his thick leather jerkin. The guard’s face contorted in pain, but he swung back to the tent flap just in time to duck a sword swipe, then ram his spear into a second Goth’s eye. Sinking to one knee, the Alani just managed to pluck his spear from the Goth’s face, pointing the tip towards the tent flap, resting the butt on the tent floor to prevent his total collapse.

  ‘Domine,’ he gasped, ‘Goths… four… outside. Two now.’

  Gratian stood, backing away almost to the rear edge of the tent. ‘Two more?’ he whispered, taking his jewelled spatha from his belongings, resting by the bed roll.

  With a whispering zing, he drew the blade, just as the last two Goths entered the tent. They came in slowly, weapons in scabbards, hands empty. He looked from one to the other and back again. Not warriors: older, wealthier.

  ‘You should have been more careful, Emperor,’ the squat, bald one said.

  ‘Careful on your hunt… and careful in which promises you choose to break,’ said the tall one with the lank white hair, narrow face uplit by the lamp.

  ‘We have never been introduced face to face,’ the squat one said. ‘I am Saphrax and this is Alatheus.’

  ‘Gothic Reiks? Here?’ Gratian panted, moving his sword tip from one to the other. ‘How?’

  ‘Because the Black Horde right now approaches the border between East and West. We heard of your journey towards Sirmium and rode ahead. We’ve been hunting all day too,’ said Alatheus, ‘hunting you.’

  ‘We couldn’t believe our luck, or your folly, when we saw you stray from your party,’ Saphrax smiled.

  ‘What do you want?’ Gratian snapped, stepping back.

  ‘Only what we are owed,’ Saphrax said darkly, stepping forward in time with Alatheus.

  ‘Nominate us as true kings of the Goths,’ Alatheus said. ‘Furnish us with the riches you talked of in your letters. Cede to us the lands you vowed we could have. Dacia and Pannonia will do, for now. Thracia and Macedonia soon after, once we have offed Fritigern.’

  The Alani seemed to be recovering his strength a little. He rose, swaying but still a fearsome prospect, levelling his spear towards the approaching Gothic pair.

  Gratian felt a surge of reassurance at this. He squared his shoulders and took his seat again. ‘Why ever should I?’

  Alatheus leaned forward, his black eyebrows bending into a baleful V. ‘Because if you don’t, we will let it be widely known what you did.’

  Gratian noticed the Alani’s ears prick up a little, confused.

  ‘You worked with us to ensure Emperor Valens’ demise. We played our part,’ Saphrax smirked.


  The Alani shot an uncertain glance back over his shoulder to the seated Gratian, but reaffirmed his stance, shrugging away his doubts. Alatheus held up his palms to reassure the guard he wasn’t going to try anything, but the guard shook his spear just enough to halt the pair.

  Gratian smiled, knowing the oaf guard would not turn against him. He steepled his fingers and rested his chin upon the tips. ‘Right now, you two are the only ones who know of our dealing, am I right?’

  Alatheus and Saphrax swapped sideways looks.

  ‘I thought so. You should have been more careful than to come to me like this, together. Kill them, guardsman.’

  The Alani stiffened, drawing his spear back to strike, only for Saphrax to part draw his longsword. ‘You might strike my fellow reiks down, but then I will have a clean chop at your head.’

  The three remained locked in that agonising moment of uncertainty. And then distant hooves sounded. ‘The rest of his hunting party?’ Alatheus whispered to Saphrax.

  Gratian laughed loud and long. ‘Perhaps I should take you back to Treverorum. There are many wonders there. Towers, gardens, grand baths. Under the streets too, there is much to be admired. The Dark Well lies in one of those low chambers. And down there you could scream and shout all you wished about my dealings with you. Nobody would hear.’ Gratian leaned forward, toying with the hilt of his spatha, spinning it on its tip. ‘A man is lowered into the neck-deep waters. At first, he is usually bemused, wading back and forth and carefully studying the sides to find a way to climb out, for surely there must be a way. But all find out eventually that the walls had been polished smooth. Few tortures bring on despair so markedly – when the victims realise they have no hope: fatigue takes them eventually and causes them to slump under the surface. A cycle of gagging and waking in shock is repeated for days, weeks, sometimes, before the wretches give in, holding their own heads under the surface until they drown. One even took to bashing out his own brains against the well side.’

  Sweat spidered down Saphrax’s bald head, sword still part-drawn in readiness to strike at the poised Alani. The hooves grew louder.

  Saphrax’s eyes darted from the Alani’s spear tip to the direction of the noise and back again, then whipped his longsword out and up, striking off the tip of the Alani’s lance. The big guard staggered back in shock as Saphrax and Alatheus quickly backed towards the tent flap.

  ‘Pay us our dues,’ Alatheus said as they backed out of the tent, ‘or your Western cities will burn.’

  ‘You will have no gold, no station, no lands,’ Gratian spat. ‘And spread your stories if you dare.’

  Alatheus’ face bent in a fierce rictus. ‘You have had your chance. You have made your choice. The Black Horde will advance, churn these lands into a red mire and trample your skull amongst it all.’

  With those words still echoing in Gratian’s ears, the pair ducked away into the blackness. A sharp thunder of their mounts’ hooves faded, and the incoming ones grew louder. With a series of confused shouts and calls, the hunting party approached.

  ‘I beg your forgiveness, Domine,’ the Alani said, sinking again to one knee. ‘I should have stopped their escape. And…’ he edgily looked everywhere but at Gratian. ‘I heard nothing and I will say nothing.’

  Gratian rose from his seat, patting the guard on the shoulder. ‘I know you won’t,’ he said, then drew his hand back, deftly slicing the fang ring on his finger across the Alani’s jugular. The guard’s face widened in shock, then he clasped a hand to the sheeting blood, before crumpling, spasming, onto the floor beside the dead Goths.

  ‘Domine!’ Lanzo the Heruli Tribunus gasped, bursting into the tent, shouldering a pair of Alani out of his way jealously.

  ‘I am well,’ he reassured the soldier as three more flooded in behind. ‘But perhaps we should make haste to Sirmium.’

  ‘Aye, Domine,’ Lanzo said. ‘We crossed paths with a scout when we were looking for you. He told of a troubling sight near the western edge of Dacia. The Black Horde is poised as if ready to penetrate your lands.’

  Gratian’s nose wrinkled. This was not how it was supposed to be: I am to save the East! His mind screamed, not scrabble around in some panicked defence of the West! And what few forces he had in nearby regions now flashed in his thoughts. Apart from the flock of officials who plagued any official imperial visit, with him on this visit to Sirmium was just the Heruli legion, a knot of his Alani and a few turmae of riders. His eyes darted as he thought of the legions stationed nearby: the legions that before now could have been employed in containing the crisis in the East. Merobaudes and the whelp, Valentinian were at the fortress of the Petulantes legion, only days away. The stables of the Armatura riders too, were less than a week distant. ‘Send messengers at once, to the Petulantes, to the Armatura, to… to…’

  ‘The Celtae too,’ Lanzo added, sensing the emperor’s urgency. ‘The VIII Augusta can be raised and the I Noricorum, if galleys can be found to transport them.’

  ‘I want every nearby legion available,’ Gratian spat. ‘Every rider too. And send a despatch to Theodosius’ court – he owes me support for this.’

  ‘But the reports have been verified, Domine,’ Lanzo said. ‘Theodosius was indeed routed by Fritigern’s forces in Macedonia. He will be short of manpower himself.’

  ‘You have your orders, Tribunus,’ Gratian snapped. He pushed past Lanzo and stared into the night, in the rough direction of Sirmium, where East and West met. ‘Aye, the soil will be a red mire… red with Gothic blood.’

  As his men set about their tasks, Gratian gazed into the night. In the blackness, the memories of the moor-dream rose again. The dark being was coming for him, still. Killing the Goths who had invaded his tent had changed nothing. Scowling at the blackness all around, fear rising within, he backed away onto his stallion and snapped to his nearby guards. ‘Get me away from this foul marsh.’

  Chapter 18

  Pavo climbed to the tip of Thessalonica’s turf rampart under a scorching July sun. He rested his elbows on the wooden palisade and peered westwards, a dog-hot noon breeze furrowing his short scrub of hair, dancing over the still-fiery scars on his shoulders and torso. It had been over three months since the army had shambled back into the Thessalonica earth bastion, but behind him, he heard the creaking of men walking on crutches – men who would never fight again – and the eternal silence from those who had never returned from the Scupi Ridge. Ahead, he saw the hazy countryside, and in his mind’s eye, he saw Runa’s smiling face, heard her rich laughter, smelt her sweet scent, felt her soft skin upon his. Then he saw her eyes draining of life, her blood-stained lips falling slack – robbed of the chance to truly explain. ‘Why?’ he said softly. His head flopped, gazing at his clasped hands.

  A reassuring hand rested on his shoulder. Sura, having arrived unheard at the tip of the rampart beside him, said nothing. His friend’s eyes, shaded from the blazing sun under the rim of a felt cap, swept the countryside of Macedonia guardedly.

  ‘You must think me a fool,’ Pavo said. ‘All this time, I was closest to her. And I never saw it, never once suspected.’

  ‘She deceived us all, Pavo. Even her brother. The rest of the lads are asking themselves the same questions. And some talk of the fate of Egypt. What if Julius was right? If the Goth-legion we sent there are of the same mind…’

  ‘The ranks sent to Egypt were not Vesi,’ Pavo sighed. ‘The Vesi were but a minority preying upon the discontent of the good. More, they are nothing without a leader. When Raban the Elder fell, the rest crumbled. When Runa fell… ’ he paused to suppress a thickness in his throat, ‘… the Vesi are done,’ he finished flatly. ‘The growth has been cut out of the flesh.’ And the wound is deep, a voice added within. He turned to look over the camp, eyes halting on the lone tent and the limp, white wolf banner beside it. Of the many Goths Pavo had led into the empire, only one man remained here. Eriulf’s weeping had been low and harrowing. Night after night. Without regard for who might hear, he had
called out, weeping over his sister’s treachery and lamenting her loss.

  ‘No words can heal his wounds,’ Pavo mused aloud, once again resolving to keep Runa’s final truth to himself: Eriulf did not need to know that she had been the one who murdered their father, Arimer. ‘I feel as if I have dragged his people into our world on false promises. They have been pulled apart, scattered and treated like dogs.’

  ‘The emperor holds him in high regard,’ Sura said. ‘Already he has been assigned to the command of the auxiliaries, and given a small villa in the city. A promise fulfilled, after all.’

  The patter of hooves brought the attention of both back to the countryside. A messenger sped for the gates, dust whipping up in his wake, his wide eyes shooting over his shoulder in panic. The sentries along the wall braced, looking where the messenger looked.

  ‘Fritigern attacks?’ Sura whispered, one foot poised to turn and call on the Claudia.

  But with a collective sigh and a few curses, the messenger cried up to the gatehouse. ‘They chased me for miles, but broke off a while back.’ As he came through the gates he slowed, continuing his report. ‘The inland towns have fallen to the Goths, and the country is thick with their patrols. Even some of the larger-walled settlements who might have withstood, instead surrendered in fear. Fritigern led his forces to the walls of Larissa – offered the people their lives, but only if they took the city gates off of their hinges and burnt them.’ The rider spat into the earth, shaking his head. ‘He went on to ride through the streets in a procession, took half of all the grain in the silos there and left again. Not a soul dared stand up to him or his warriors.’

  When the commotion faded and the messenger headed on through the turf camp and into the city via the land gates, Sura licked his dry lips and said: ‘Back in the winter before last, in the frozen wastes of the Rhodope fort, I refused to let my spirit waver. Now? Now I hear only one question, echoing within: have we lost?’