Pavo sought out some form of reply as the emperor let a silence preside. ‘Perhaps the next Emperor of the West will be more noble, Domine.’
Theodosius cocked an eyebrow. ‘Indeed. The boy Valentinian, he has the makings of a fine leader, noble and true. Yet he is too young, does not yet believe in himself. One day, if God wills it, he will be Emperor of the West. His minder, the general Merobaudes, however, would make a fine steward in the meantime… if something were to happen to Gratian.’
A chill danced up Pavo’s back. ‘What are you asking of me, Domine?’
Theodosius clasped his hand to his Chi-Rho necklace. ‘I ask nothing of you, Tribunus Pavo. I know now that I do not have to.’
The faces of the dead flashed in Pavo’s mind with his every heartbeat. Then the face of the Emperor of the West, their killer, burned brightest, searing into his mind like a brand. He recalled his own words from his last visit to Sirmium when his attempts to strike Gratian came to nothing: There will be another time…
‘When are we to leave, Domine?’ Pavo asked.
‘Did you not hear my urgency when I dispersed the generals?’ Theodosius’ moon eyes widened further, like a man who had just seen his own shade. ‘You leave now, Tribunus.’
Part 4
March of the Black Horde, Summer 380 AD
Chapter 19
The July heat warped and melted in a chimeral haze around the mighty walls of Sirmium – the city like a silver island rising from a sea of golden grasslands, the River Savus winding by the southern walls like a teal ribbon discarded by a giant. Upon Sirmium’s high battlements, a pair of green-robed Alani warriors emerged from one tower and strode along the walkway, the sunlight flashing from their tribal torcs and speartips. Behind them strode a knot of others: Gratian, diadem tilted at a lazy angle, supped wine from a gem-studded cup as he walked, his thin purple cape and white silk tunic pristine. He stopped by a crenel to look over the sweltering croplands.
Workers darted through the patchwork fields, scrambling to gather what under-ripe wheat and vegetables they could. Nervous eyes switched from the stalks to the eastern horizon. Panicked voices shouted for haste. The Goths of the Black Horde had been ravaging neighbouring Dacia for over a year, ransacking everything in sight, gathering up provisions, robbing Roman arms factories of every last ring of mail and bringing treacherous Roman deserters to their sides too. And now it seemed they were intent on spilling from that dead land and into this. From the shattered East and into the West.
‘Your fear is an insult,’ Gratian hissed under his breath at the nervous field workers, then took a draught of wine and smacked his lips together, shifting his gaze towards the vast flotilla of galleys docked down by the city’s southern port-gate, on the banks of the Savus. The last few legions he had summoned here from around Pannonia and southern Gaul were disembarking, spilling from the biremes and triremes onto the wharf. But no sooner had the sight fortified his resolve than the memory of the scout’s report last night came back to him: More than Twenty-five thousand Goths, Domine, and they will be here come the new moon, the eager fellow had gushed in that candlelit chamber within Sirmium’s palace. Even with the twelve legions you have summoned and your best horsemen, you cannot risk a confrontation.
He closed his eyes as he recalled his own response: a wave of the hand to a waiting speculator. The scout’s panicked pleas had turned into a rasp as the speculator forced him to his knees, grappled his chin and the back of his head, then twisted, hard and unrelenting, bending the scout’s head round, past his shoulder, almost to look backwards like an owl. There had been a moment of strain, of whimpering, animal noises and the crackle of stretching sinew, and then… snap! The scout’s head had recoiled like a loosed arrow string, then toppled horribly over to hang down his front like a dead weight, the neck bruised and torn, broken vertebrae bulging from the skin. The ruined corpse had then crumpled like a dropped robe.
You were a scout, not an advisor, Gratian mouthed, revelling in the fellow’s demise once again. Just as he was about to open his eyes, he heard something from the depths of his mind. Something invading the memory of the scout’s death: the slow, steady footsteps and heavy breaths of the moor-creature from his foul dreams, coming for him.
In time with the altered memory, real footsteps sounded behind him. With a start, he blinked his eyes open and swung round. Seeing Ambrosius and young Valentinian, his fright passed. He straightened his diadem and wiped the agitation from his face. ‘Ah, Stepbrother?’ he said tersely. ‘You should see this,’ he pointed with the cup down towards the last two of the disembarking legions. ‘I’ll teach you a thing or two about ruling in the weeks to come. You would do well to heed my lessons,’ he added, peering down at the goliath of a rider mounted on a bay stallion, greeting these last two regiments, ‘for your mastiff of a minder, Merobaudes, may not make it through the clash.’
‘He will win the day for you,’ Valentinian replied, standing on his toes to look over the parapet with Gratian. ‘I heard him and his men make a pledge on ship this morning: to stand firm against the Goths, no matter what.’
‘Brave words. They could well be enough to ensure victory… but they might not be enough to save Merobaudes...’
‘But Merobaudes is stronger than any warrior, any legionary. He is the finest fighter in the empire.’ Valentinian gasped.
‘He is a brute, that is true, but being a champion amongst mere men is not everything,’ Gratian said, then made eyes at Bishop Ambrosius.
‘Merobaudes makes God angry, boy,’ Ambrosius said, stooping to be level with Valentinian’s ear. ‘When your stepbrother sent me to Rome to announce his resignation as Pontifex Maximus, and to take the old, heretical monuments out of the city’s ancient temples, Merobaudes tried to stand in my way.’
Valentinian looked up at the bishop. ‘I remember. Merobaudes returned from Rome to Milan to tell me about your seizure of the Altar of Victory from the Senate House: he said a fool in a white gown had taken the soul of the empire in his hand and torn it from the body… only to store it in some dusty underground vault… then had gone on to preach to the wailing masses that it was for their own good. Then he told me of the ancient pontifices, stripped of their homes and money, their temples robbed of gold and silver. And the Vestal Virgins too.’
Ambrosius laughed awkwardly. ‘Confused by it all, Merobaudes was, but he saw my reasoning. He did not prevent me in my actions.’
Valentinian muttered in reply: ‘Only because you turned up in Rome with a cohort of Heruli and a wing of horsemen.’
Gratian snapped his gaze down on the fiery boy. Too fiery? he wondered. Soon, the fires will be doused, he thought, eyeing the legions led by Merobaudes: Scapula was secreted in those ranks. The heart of battle is a savage place, he smiled, and when Merobaudes falls in the process of securing victory for me, his gaze returned to young Valentinian, your shield will be gone.
He noticed that Valentinian was now peering east, along the River Savus and towards the horizon. The boy’s naivete was reassuring. ‘If you’re looking for the Goths, then you won’t see them coming that way,’ Gratian said. He twisted Valentinian towards the south again. ‘See the golden plains across the river, running all the way to the Dinaric highlands? That is the route this “Black Horde”,’ he said, over pronouncing the term with burlesque indifference, ‘plan to take in their journey west.’ He traced a finger from east to west, running along the plains at the base of the southern mountains – though it was all masked in heat haze at this distance. ‘By skirting past this city they believe they will be outmanoeuvring me. But there, they will be crushed.’
‘Even though they have nearly two men for every one of yours?’ Valentinian asked.
Merobaudes! Gratian raged within, instantly knowing who had told the boy more than he needed to know. ‘An imperial spear is worth ten barbarian clubs or axes, Stepbrother. And when it is done, the West will breathe a sigh of relief.’
‘And what of the Eastern relie
f force – will they arrive in time?’ Valentinian answered, stretching a little further on his toes as if to look beyond the hills. ‘Merobaudes explained how you had sent a begging letter to Emperor Theodosius.’
Gratian contemplated for a moment lifting the impudent boy and tossing him over the walls. ‘The victory to come will not depend on Theodosius’ Eastern relief force,’ he snapped. ‘But they will arrive here as I commanded they should. You see, Stepbrother, obedience pays. Those who please me… please God… ’ He inhaled the hot summer air. ‘And those who anger God, will have no mercy.’
In the dead of night, the Eastern relief column marched out through the gates of Thessalonica’s turf rampart. Pavo looked up to the walkway, seeing the silhouetted figure of Saturninus up there, watching their departure. The Magister Militum cast up a solemn parting salute as the force passed under his gaze.
The five-thousand strong column moved like a shadow in the blackness, the light of the stars and full moon stolen by a thin layer of cloud. There was no paean of imperial horns, no pomp or ceremony, just gasping breaths and the drumming of boots and hooves. They went with their armour and helms stowed in dark leather bags, their faces blackened with dirt. The only lights to be seen were the pin-pricks of orange, miles to the south and west: the camps of Fritigern’s many warbands.
Modares and Bacurius rode with the thousand-strong Scutarii vanguard. The three legions – the Claudia, the Flavia Felix and the Thebans – marched in a thick column behind. Eriulf led his contingent of auxiliaries as a rearguard.
Comes Hormisdas, with his Thebans, hissed with every step as they ploughed through golden grass. ‘It is an affront for me to march with you on foot.’ He gestured towards Rectus, the Claudia’s medicus riding astride the ranks on a pony. ‘Even he has a mule. I was riding my father’s finest Nisean pony when I was but a boy. Groomed to ride with the Savaran, I was. I even carried a drafsh banner into battle when I was eleven summers. Marching is for mere infantry, I should be on a horse.’
Libo muttered a little more audibly than he had intended in reply: ‘A horse already has one arsehole – why burden it with another?’
Hormisdas swung round to pinpoint the culprit, only to find a sea of devilish grins and stifled snorts of laughter. ‘Talking of arseholes: do you know what they do to recalcitrant soldiers in Persia?’ He shouted back as he held up an imaginary ‘sword’. ‘Red-hot iron blade, right up the ar-’
‘Stealth and silence is the key, Comes,’ Pavo interrupted, gently guiding the Persian officer’s ‘sword’ arm back down.
Hormisdas almost made to tuck the imaginary weapon into his scabbard when he remembered it was only imaginary and shook his head in anger. ‘How long must we persist with this night marching?’ he grumbled.
Pavo flicked a finger to the south. ‘Fritigern’s forces are concentrated here in Macedonia,’ then he gestured to the north, ‘and some roam Thracia again too.’ ‘Now he nodded directly ahead to the high, craggy shadows of the Rhodope range. ‘Those mountains are the quickest way to slip past his armies and on to the deserted countries where we can march on good roads again. Night is the only way we will make it without one of his patrols spotting us. I served under a general named Bastianus, and learned this well. Once in the mountains I can guide us through. We will emerge in the Diocese of Dacia, but a week from Sirmium and the vicinity of the Black Horde.’
‘The tribunus knows those heights well,’ another voice said. Modares – dressed typically once more in just trousers, baldric and a cape. ‘He is our best hope of making it in time. But as he says: silence and swiftness, until we slip beyond the range of Fritigern’s masses.’
They sped onwards for hours, until Eriulf signalled with a bird call – so reminiscent of those hunting trips from that lost time at the plateau. The column came to a rapid halt. As their breaths steadied, they heard it: the distant crunch-crunch of strange boots, and the jagged words of the Gothic tongue.
‘A warband approaches. A night patrol. Only a thousand,’ Bacurius seethed through clenched teeth, his blade-tipped stump arm shaking with battle-lust as they saw the writhing shadow of men trekking over a rise in the south, distant but coming towards them.
‘We must let them pass, and make sure they do not see us,’ Pavo insisted. ‘We could off them, aye, but when they don’t return to Fritigern tomorrow?’
‘He will know there is a legionary presence in these parts,’ Eriulf answered. ‘And send a lot more than a thousand to investigate.’
‘We can’t move from here or they’ll see or hear us. We can’t fight them,’ Modares mused, his face troubled. He eyed the tall grass around them and the stands of oak nearby. ‘So we hide. It’s the only way.’
And so the relief legions lay on their bellies in the grass like thieves. Bacurius led the Scutarii at a walk into the depths of the oak stands. Pavo watched as the warband passed across a tract of grass right beside them, laden with sacks of bounty taken in tribute from an imperial farming settlement no doubt, and oblivious to the masses of Roman steel poised just paces from them.
Within the hour, the warband had passed and faded off into the northern blackness. ‘That hurt,’ Sura grumbled as he rose.
‘The time will come when we can right matters here,’ Pavo assured him. ‘That time is not now. First, we must reinforce the Western armies at Sirmium.’
Sura flashed a wry grin: ‘Well I meant it hurt because I was lying on a blade of a rock… but aye, to the West.’
They marched on that night, making a cramped day camp in the lee of a cliff which shielded them from the baking sun and from the eyes of any more Gothic patrols. On the second night, under a clear sky and a moon argent, they finally reached the Rhodope foothills. Up ahead lay the tall, silent shadows of the Rhodope Mountains proper, and a V-shaped cleft between two of the rocky tors – a pathway into the range and away from the Goth-ridden plains.
As they went, Pavo realised Eriulf was moving nearby, his auxiliaries screening the column’s right-hand side. Pavo caught his eye then looked away again. The man was the last of his kind – most cast away to Egypt, the southern edge of the world, while the few who had remained with him were slain at the Scupi Ridge. Bleakest of all was the fate of his sister, dead on the end of his own spear. So much pain in that single glance.
‘I see it in your eyes too, Tribunus,’ Eriulf said, falling in beside Pavo. ‘I forget at times that she meant so much to you also. In ways I pity you for the burden of hurt you must feel, and in others it gladdens me that I have someone left with whom I can talk to about her. Everyone else is… gone.’
Pavo could only think of that frantic moment after destruction of the camp near the Scupi Ridge, when Runa lay dying in his arms, Eriulf’s spear lodged in her flesh. ‘I could not have done what you did,’ he said. ‘And you were right to do it, as painful as it is to admit.’
Eriulf shrugged. ‘It took no thought. It was a warrior’s reaction. Betrayal is all I saw – a Vesi charging to kill the emperor. I did not even know it was Runa until after my spear had plunged into her breast.’
Pavo felt sick for the man. ‘Had you known…’ he started.
Eriulf waved away the need for the rest of the question. ‘And that is my torment, my burden to bear. My dreams, they cut me apart.’
‘Dreams?’ Pavo sighed. ‘The bane of any soldier.’
Eriulf laughed dryly and without a grain of mirth. ‘The Vesi are gone now, snuffed-out. My suffering means little, like a dim star in a night sky of thousands.’
Pavo’s eyes searched the ground before him as he tried to summon some words of hope for the man. ‘Before I came to the plateau, I was in love with a Roman girl. Felicia was her name,’ he said. ‘She was part of me, all of me, I thought. When she died, I thought much of me had died with her and would never return. But I found Runa. For all she was, I loved her, and I remembered what it was to know true companionship again. She is gone now too, and I feel numb inside once more. But this time, I know it will pass.
Over time, your suffering will end too. You will see things clearly again, when the time is right.’
Eriulf smiled sadly, his eyes turning glassy before he looked away. ‘There would be no war between Roman or Goth,’ he said, his throat thick with emotion, ‘if all our people could share words like this.’
‘Sir!’ a voice rasped.
Pavo’s head swung back to see big Pulcher and his Centurion, Cornix, waving wildly.
‘Halt!’ Pavo hissed across the column. ‘What is it?’ he said as he dropped back. There, Centurion Libo sat on his haunches, nose raised to the air like a hunting hound.
‘He can smell something,’ Pulcher replied.
So canine did Libo look, Pavo half expected him to roll over and lick his own genitals. But suddenly, the one-eyed centurion snapped his wild face round to Pavo, the shaggy mess of hair and braid swinging. ‘I can smell horses, ahead,’ he whispered, pointing towards the rocky corridor.
‘I see nothing,’ Sura said.
‘Nor do I,’ Libo replied, then tapped his nose, ‘but this thing can detect anything: from a mile away the sweat of men, from a neighbouring province a whiff of wine, and from across an ocean the sweet scent of a whore’s cu-’
‘What’s going on?’ Modares cut in, falling back to see why the column had stopped.
‘Something up ahead, sir,’ Pavo said, eyeing the creek.
‘But that’s the gateway out of these parts is it not?’ Modares frowned.
‘It is but… we should exercise caution until we’re well into those heights. Permission to take a scouting party forward?’
Modares grunted and spat into the earth. ‘Be swift. We need to make use of every hour of darkness. We will follow on at a slower pace.’
EMPIRE OF SHADES Page 32
