Pavo said nothing. Hearing his old friend – so often a voice of encouragement in the darkest moments – speak so frankly cut to his core.
‘Thracia lies shattered,’ Sura continued. ‘And now we have been beaten back to the edges of Macedonia. The port cities and a few high-walled redoubts inland are all that is left. Thessalonica, Constantinople, Adrianople and a few other cities clinging on like the fingernails of a man hanging from a cliff. The Goths run this land. They have done for nearly two years. Aye, we whipped Reiks Ortwin, but to what end? He was merely a brainless pawn. Fritigern now ambles to and fro in his stead, with many more warriors and a far shrewder mind, exacting grain and goods from the rural settlements – like a tax collector, a master of the land… an emperor. With so much lost, so many dead, what hope is there for the Empire of the East?’ he cast out his arms in despair and spoke to the skies: ‘This Empire… of Shades.’
Pavo gazed west, a black cloud crawling over his thoughts. ‘There is only one hope.’ He gulped as if swallowing a bitter gall. ‘Gratian. Without the support of the Western legions…’
Sura’s eyes darted, then he nodded like a man accepting his own death warrant. ‘And that’s just what the bastard always wanted, eh?’ he said. ‘To pick his moment and be the saviour. Yet all we hear is of the Black Horde, pounding Dacia into the dust, roving ever closer to Gratian’s lands. He might never get the chance to sort out this mess he has created.’
Pavo peered towards the horizon. ‘If the Western legions come, I will rejoice. If they do not, then I will weep for the sweet soil of my homeland. But come what may, I will never forget what he has done,’ he growled, ‘never forgive. I will have my moment in front of him. I will ask him why… and then…’ he stifled the rest of the sentence as a sentry walked past.
Sura whispered in reply: ‘And I’ll be there by your side, Brother. Whatever may come to be.’
‘Tribunus,’ a familiar voice called up to Pavo, ‘you have been summoned.’
Turning, he saw Modares down at the foot of the rampart. He noticed something different about the Gothic general but, part obscured by passing men and the bright heat, he couldn’t work out quite what. He tentatively set one foot on down the rampart slope. ‘Summoned, where?’
Modares’ eyes glinted. ‘To the palace… by the emperor.’
Coils of incense and myrrh stained the air of the cool, high halls and echoing porticoes within the Thessalonica palace. The cold, judging eyes of Jove, Mercury and Mars watched from high niches as the young legionary tribunus and the Gothic general entered the throne room. They moved through tall columns of speckled, gleaming porphyry sprouting like great oaks, the purple, fluted pillars stretching up to the vaulted ceilings, veined red and painted with scenes of running bulls and winding serpents. More recent imagery of martyrs and the now ubiquitous Chi-Rho hovered up there too. The tessellated floor felt strange underfoot, after so long in camps or in the wilds. Warm light streamed in from the row of high, arched windows, as if searching the vast hall for intruders, while the throne dais at the far end rested in pleasant shade. And it was unoccupied, just a pair of Lancearii standing either side, spears clasped, grim faces staring at some point in the distance.
Pavo and Modares’ shared footsteps echoed like a round of applause. He had been in the presence of the emperor before – Emperor Valens – but in very different circumstances: first as a boy, a rascal legionary; then as a true soldier, Valens seeking his advice on matters of war; finally, as a confidant, as the wounded emperor breathed his last at Adrianople.
Modares halted a few paces from the steps leading up to the throne and so did Pavo. Only now did he realise that he was still dressed in his dusty soldier-tunic and threadbare boots. Worse, his chin was thick with a scruffy layer of stubble. He glanced to his side at Modares, now seeing clearly what was different about him: he had neatly groomed and waxed his moustache, and his long hair had been oiled and swept perfectly back to rest in a tail on the nape of his neck. More, the Gothic Magister Militum was not bare-chested for once, instead wearing a long-sleeved, white tunic adorned with a purple, downwards pointing arrow stripe on each breast, and a fine, recently-washed, red Roman cape to boot.
Modares looked back at him with something of a smug expression. ‘Bit shabby for an audience with the emperor, are you not?’
Pavo’s face crumpled sourly, but just as his mouth opened to shoot back, the grand doors behind the throne swung open with a moan from the iron hinges. Emperor Theodosius entered dressed in long white robes and a jewelled diadem, his full, searching eyes regarding Pavo and Modares as he shuffled up and onto the throne. Bishop Ancholius and Magister Militum Saturninus came with him. Saturninus, carrying a small, polished wooden box underarm, gave Pavo a welcoming nod. Pavo appreciated the gesture hugely.
‘Domine,’ Modares said softly, genuflecting.
Pavo followed suit.
‘The situation is grave,’ Theodosius began without further ado. ‘Our forces remain too few to consider another foray into the field to face Fritigern. Our grain supplies dwindle despite emergency imports from Africa and… and the high taxes seem to be bending my people’s loyalty.’
Outside, fiery voices rose every now and then, sometimes followed by barking cries of sentries trying to split up the demonstrators.
‘Meanwhile, the Black Horde travels west, towards the hills south of Sirmium. Their progress is slow, but this route takes them safely past the city. Our only hope now lies with my fellow emperor, who will have to meet them in the field or face the imminent plunder of Pannonia and his western lands. Only if he manages to repel Alatheus and Saphrax from Pannonia, might he be able to bring his western legions to bear in these parts, to do the job that I…’ he paused as if a bone was caught in his throat, ‘that I could not.’
‘The Lord saw fit to defer your glory, Domine,’ Ancholius screeched righteously from the emperor’s side. ‘So the day you seize it, it will be all the more divine.’
Theodosius paused to clasp his Chi-Rho necklace and mouth words of prayer. To Pavo, the gesture shaved a sliver from Theodosius’ aura of authority. The emperor then gestured to Saturninus, who stepped down from the throne dais and to a section of the floor that had been tessellated into the form of a map depicting the empire. He crouched to one knee, his long, dark locks hanging over his cheeks as his head moved carefully around to survey the land. He drew a set of wooden pieces from the small timber box – carved figures, some wild-haired horsemen and others broad, strapping barbarian spearmen. He placed a handful of just less than thirty in a cluster, a distance southeast of Sirmium and facing west as if on the march that way.
‘Alatheus positions the Black Horde to migrate west before the summer is out – a decisive push to raze Pannonia’s farms and towns, then spill anew into the western realm.’
Pavo’s eyes scoured the tile-map. He had seen the terrain near Sirmium before, when he and Sura had travelled there for Theodosius’ coronation. A broad run of flatland – hemmed on the south by the Dinaric Alps with Sirmium a good ride to the north – presented a gateway to the west.
He realised Saturninus was looking up at him, as if reading his thoughts. ‘The gates are open. But,’ he said, lifting fourteen more pieces from the box – a dozen of legionaries and two horsemen – placing them in something of a blockade before the horde, ‘Emperor Gratian plans to move twelve legions and two wings of cavalry to the area. His best general, Merobaudes, leads them. Battle is a certainty – Alatheus and Saphrax are notorious for their belligerence and their ferocity, and their warriors will have fire in their blood.’
‘They are not as shrewd as Fritigern though,’ Pavo said, then realised the thought had escaped aloud. He looked up to meet the eyes of the others. Theodosius peered down at him and flicked the ringed fingers of one hand as if to bid him to continue. It seemed no decorum had been broken. ‘Brute force is their strength. But if each of these figurines represent… a thousand?’ Saturninus nodded once, ‘then they ha
ve the numbers to pulverise the western legions.’
‘In a frontal assault, yes,’ Modares agreed, crouching to his haunches over the map. He stretched out an arm and with the back of his hand, shoved the Gothic mass towards the Roman blockade. ‘But when they are engaged, they will be exposed to their rear,’ he placed five more roman pieces on the map, facing the back of the Gothic host. ‘We might not have the numbers, but if we can strike them at just the right time, with just the right impact, it might be enough.’
‘We?’ Pavo whispered.
‘In a recent message, Emperor Gratian hastened to remind me that the five Pannonian legions he granted me at the time of my coronation were but a loan,’ Theodosius explained. ‘What regiments we can spare from the defence of our embattled cities, will be sent west, to Pannonia, with haste, to repay the debt. Reiks Ortwin was well-beaten last spring, Tribunus. Well-beaten by you and your men. And so you and your legion will be part of the relief force heading for Sirmium.’
Pavo’s heart thumped hard, once. For Sirmium, to battle… on the same field as Gratian?
‘Modares will lead the relief force, comprising of the XI Claudia, The IV Flavia Felix and Hormisdas’ Theban legion.’ Hormisdas entered the room quietly as his name was spoken, looking cool and unruffled, draped in a delicate green Persian shirt.
Pavo realised another had slipped into the hall in Hormisdas’ wake: Bacurius One-hand, denuded of his helm so all could see the pink rake of three thick scars on his face running up and through his thin hair.
Theodosius glanced towards the scarred general then back to the others. ‘I will grant you the services of the Scutarii. One thousand riders – all the East can call upon… use them wisely.’
Cavalry – especially a crack palace corps like the Scutarii – would add fangs of steel to the legionary column, Pavo thought. But his eyes drifted to the map, eyeing the route from Thessalonica to the hills of Pannonia. ‘Domine, the lands outside this city are rife with Fritigern’s forces. The Scutarii might be fast enough to slip through their patrols and speed west. Our infantry march swiftly too, but swift enough to evade the Goths?’
Theodosius’ face remained stony. ‘You will have to be. Understand that you carry the weight of God’s will upon your shoulders, each of you,’ the emperor said, then clapped his hands once. ‘Now go to your regiments, and have them prepare.’
Pavo turned on his heel to leave, his head still spinning, when Theodosius added: ‘Not you, Tribunus.’
The generals had dispersed and Pavo found himself alone under Emperor Theodosius’ gaze, the twin Lancearii statue-still either side of him. He felt his gut writhe and shrink, and loathed himself for such feelings of dread – there was no enemy blade here… but the emperor’s gaze was carefully blank, revealing everything and nothing at once. Theodosius was still an unknown quantity. He thought of the acts of Julius and Bishop Ancholius during the emperor’s illness. The emperor had made no statement on Julius’ doings, nor had he in any way repealed the fiery edicts prepared by Ancholius. Yet those matters might be the least concerning. What if he is Gratian’s puppet? he wondered yet again. A sudden thought struck him: as well as asking for Eastern support, what other information might the Western Emperor have passed on to Theodosius? Word of Scapula’s… findings? He worked hard to remain statue-still and keep his face impassive.
‘I saw how your face fell when I whispered prayer to God,’ the emperor said at last. ‘You and your border legionaries think me a fool?’
Pavo maintained a firm soldier’s stare, directed just to the emperor’s side. ‘My legionaries honour you, Domine.’
Theodosius’ lips flickered a little. ‘Your men… they have yet to see the true path, am I right?’
Pavo sought careful words to reply: ‘They seek the favour of the soldier-gods and the blessing of their emperor.’
Theodosius sat back on the throne, steepling his fingers and resting his chin upon them. ‘I thought long and hard about who should travel to Pannonia. Many of the legions out there in the turf camp are valorous and willing… many worship the true God also.’ A weighty silence followed. ‘But the Claudia are different. For you have lived through stark trials. I was told of your efforts in Bosporus, and at the Danubius when the Goths came, then in the sands of Persia. Of your time holding the Succi Pass… and of your near-devastation at Adrianople. Then you vanquished Reiks Ortwin and brought to me the savages from north of the river – such a shame they had a rotten streak amongst their nobility. Your legion seems blessed… cursed perhaps?’
‘Blessed,’ Pavo replied. Blessed by the mighty Mithras, now… always, he added inwardly.
Theodosius’ brow furrowed just a little. ‘And then there seems to be a pestilence that has followed your ranks. Some I conferred with spoke of unusual activity around the Claudia cohorts… of Western agents. Speculatores. Is it so?’
A cold stone landed in Pavo’s belly and he felt a stark unease, suddenly suspicious of the faint shadows behind each porphyry pillar, of the unseen ears perhaps pressed to the doors. Was this a test? Had Gratian told him of Scapula’s findings as he feared? ‘Such dealings fly above me, Domine,’ he said respectfully. ‘I merely serve the empire as a humble soldier.’
‘Yet the one called Scapula accompanied you all the way to Arimer’s lands, did he not? And your predecessor, Tribunus Gallus, I am told, was no friend of the Speculatores.’
Pavo resisted the urge to laugh coldly. ‘Few are, Domine. Who makes friends with walking shades?’
Theodosius’ face lengthened. He clapped his hands again. The two Lancearii flanking him both marched swiftly from the hall. Now he was truly alone with the Emperor of the East, the one who saw himself as the Christ-God’s appointee.
‘One of Scapula’s comrades fell ill and died while they were here,’ Theodosius said starkly. ‘A terrible blight.’
Pavo’s eyes narrowed.
‘And when Julius visited him in his sick bed, he… he found ways of drawing information from the man,’ Theodosius continued. ‘They were here ostensibly to pass on Gratian’s decision to ratify my plan: to summon Arimer’s Goths from beyond the Danubius. But that was not all… ’ the emperor gazed hard at Pavo now. ‘They also sought the legionary who had tried to toss a dart at Emperor Gratian in Sirmium. Scapula was assigned to track the most likely culprit. Do you know… if he found who he was looking for?’
Pavo’s blood halted in his veins. His lips parted, mouth dry, no words ready to fend off suspicion. His mind’s eye now conjured images of blade-wielding agents stealing silently across the tiled floor behind and towards him. ‘Domine, I,’ he said, tensing up as if for battle.
‘I always adored my father,’ Theodosius interrupted him with a wave of a hand.
Confused at the non-sequitur and still primed to defend himself, Pavo frowned. The rumours over the demise of the emperor’s father had never been confirmed. Some still claimed Theodosius had been involved in the grim affair.
‘Yet now I ask myself why,’ Theodosius continued. ‘He was a hard bastard, irritable and self-doubting in private, but an example to any man he led. Champion of the Iron Mountains, Hammer of the Alemanni and Pacifier of Britannia. He led armies with distinction – a trait I hoped I had inherited until we met disaster out by the Scupi Ridge. He never spoke to me as a son, and even when his cuirass was off, his armour remained in place. He found it hard to talk to me, you see. He could bark orders and battle-sermons at soldiers, give them belief and confidence… but he could never speak the words his callow son needed to hear.’
The emperor sighed, gazing through Pavo and into the brume of memory.
‘We were living in Mauritania, four years ago. We had spent all day preparing a feast, and he seemed relaxed for once. In the baking spring heat, we strolled together on the high edge of our garden terrace atop a red-rock spur. He started the same sentence more than once, and I could tell he was having difficulty.’ The emperor stopped and laughed. ‘The man who could lead twenty tho
usand legionaries into the bowels of Hades on the strength of a rousing homily… could not tell his own son how much he loved him.’ Theodosius paused to inhale deeply through his nostrils. ‘And he never did. It was just after the death of the old Emperor Valentinian, you see – when powerful men met gruesome ends all across the empire as the new claimant to the empty throne flexed his muscles. We heard the clatter of dropped trays, screaming slaves and braying horses, then the soldiers spilled across our gardens, out onto the spur-terrace. Father backed away from me, the unspoken words still on his lips, his eyes like moons as he realised they had come for him. I saw how he looked at the sharp drop from the terrace as he backed towards it, then shambled up on top of it, ready to leap. No, I cried to him, before swinging to the rushing soldiers. Two of the soldiers manhandled me, pinning me to the ground. They made me watch as the others hauled my father back from the precipice, kicked him to his knees, pressed him across a stone bench then took an axe to his neck, three times. The blows were clumsy and deliberately so. I saw them pull his head from his body, his eyes still locked on mine despite the life having been snatched from them, the words forever unsaid.’
Pavo shuffled in discomfort as a tear spilled from the emperor’s eye.
‘I remember the axeman well. A speculator,’ Theodosius said, the word spat like a mouthful of bad fruit, ‘sent by Gratian. Dexion was his name.’
Pavo closed his eyes in despair. ‘He… he was… my,’ he began, then wiped the words from his tongue, ‘I know of him. His path and mine once crossed.’
Theodosius’ neck lengthened and he sat up, intrigued.
‘He is dead now, Domine,’ Pavo said quietly. ‘I hope that offers you some peace.’
‘Not a crumb,’ Theodosius said. ‘My father died on Gratian’s order and I was allowed to live. Why? Because he knew I would never forget – how easy it was for him to pluck a seemingly powerful man’s head from his shoulders. And before he raised me to be Emperor of the East, he stared long and hard into my eyes… just to check that the memory was still in there like a barb.’
EMPIRE OF SHADES Page 31
