EMPIRE OF SHADES

by Gordon Doherty

  ‘What happened here?’ Sura whispered as they crept towards the forum – deserted and so unlike that day of the coronation.

  ‘Alatheus’ final gambit,’ Pavo said sombrely, recalling the reiks’ ambiguous words. Gratian scurried back to Sirmium, as I knew he would – to safety… but by now, he will have found something very different waiting on him there…

  A clash of steel rang out. Both swung to the sound: a Heruli legionary stumbled backwards from a bakery, sword blocking the driving blade of a Goth. The Goth propelled the Herul to a babbling fountain. He thudded against this and one hand lashed back for balance, splashing into the water uselessly. Guard down, the Goth slashed across his chest and the Herul slumped against the base of the fountain, wet with water and blood, but managed a quick, fierce jab up and into the Goth’s groin. A thick wash of blood gushed down the Goth’s thighs as he staggered away, toppled to his knees and fell face forward, twitching.

  Pavo and Sura, shaking off their shock, approached the slumped Herul. The man’s wounds were grave and he had moments left, Pavo reckoned.

  ‘How did the Goths get in?’ Sura asked.

  The Herul’s fiery beard was beaded with blood as he breathed wetly. ‘The emperor… retreated from battle. Some Goths were waiting nearby. They tried to rush the… open gates. We… managed to hold them back. But the watch left here… was thin. They… slew all of them… just us few Heruli left.’ He clapped a shaking hand to his chest in pride. ‘We… cut down many of them… but not all.’

  Pavo’s face grew stony. ‘And, your master? Where is Emperor Gratian? You were guarding him, were you not?’

  The Herul tried to laugh but winced in pain. ‘He prefers the Alani these… days.’

  ‘Where is he?’ Pavo said again, firmly.

  ‘He sought refuge… in the… palace,’ the man said in a whistling whisper, his pupils dilating. ‘Doors barred now. You’ll have to find a way in.’

  Pavo and Sura looked up at the majestic marble façade towering over one edge of the forum. The air above, from the open wards within the palace, bent and swirled, and the crackling of fire seemed to be emanating from there. And it was from there that the rain of ash and embers rose.

  The Herul’s hand clutched Pavo’s arm. ‘Some of the Goths… followed him… in before doors could be barred. You will save him, aye?’

  Pavo clasped the dying man’s hand. ‘I will do what is right for the empire,’ was all he said as the Herul slipped away with a rattling final breath.

  Pavo rose from his haunches and a wave of blackness swept over him. He shot out a steadying hand to clasp the edge of the fountain. He looked at the Herul’s death-wound and then at his own gashed open shield shoulder, he saw just how much blood had soaked that side of his body, noticed just how dizzy he was.

  Sura shot up to aid him. ‘You’re not fit to tackle a whore, Pavo, let alone the bastard in there.’

  ‘Then I’ll need you to watch my back,’ he replied with a weak half-grin. ‘I’m not letting this go, Sura. Never.’

  ‘And it was always me who was branded the lunatic,’ Sura muttered. ‘Right, come on, I know how we can get inside.’

  They stole over to the northern edge of the forum and up onto the great stone podium on which Theodosius had been crowned. For just an instant, Sura hesitated there, turning to the empty forum, one hand clasping to his chest and the other outstretched as if imagining a great oration. Pavo almost heard his oldest friend’s thoughts, before yanking him on with his good hand. They scuttled across the viaduct that sprouted from the podium’s rear, passing over an open cistern and the iron-spiked wall that otherwise separated the palace from the great square. This brought them to the ornate balustrade that ran the length of the palace front, around the high first floor. A trio of men lay in pools of blood there – two Alani and another Herul, with a spear jutting from between his shoulder blades.

  Sura made eyes at a tall, arched window. The shutters lay a little ajar, a veil within floating lightly in the gentle summer breeze. ‘Our way in?’ Pavo mused.

  They made their way towards it, only to be halted by the thud-thud-thud of sudden footsteps, then the shutters burst open and a blazing Goth leapt out, screaming. The warrior flailed as he fell, cycling his arms and legs as if to steer himself towards the open-topped cistern… only to miss and land with a crunch of shattering ankles and knees on the flagstones beside it before thrashing from side to side like a human torch. The pair gazed for a moment at the man as the waft of burning flesh now assaulted their senses. A trice later, the wet thud of an arrow meeting flesh sounded from high above and a Herul shot through the neck plunged silently down from the palace roof to land square on the spiked iron fence, his body ripping open with the most awful of sounds to dangle there like a tattered garment. An instant later and a strangled scream sounded from the rooftop – the Gothic archer had met his end too, it seemed. ‘Kind of hard to tell who’s winning here,’ Sura whispered.

  Gingerly, the two rose from their haunches to peer inside the shutters, now hanging on their hinges and somewhat singed. The cavernous chamber within was shadowy and quiet. Sura helped Pavo in, then followed. Pavo heard his breaths echoing in the space – they were wet and weak, like a man dying, he realised. He shook his head of the thought. It was a shoulder wound and no more. But the amount of blood… and the polished stone floor and the air in here felt cold, so cold. And all this despite the ongoing crackling of fire from somewhere deeper within the palace.

  Austere busts peered down hooked noses at them, framed by wild and vivid scenes of the ancient Gods of Rome adorning the plastered walls. A long table ran down the middle of the room, laid out with vases and goblets, plates and knives. Goose, mashed olives, jugs of wine and a silver platter heaped with cherries, pomegranates and melons. All untouched. ‘A victory feast,’ Sura snorted.

  Just then, a voice sounded from beyond the doors leading deeper into the palace complex. ‘They’re finished, all of them,’ it said. ‘The last one on the roof – an archer – is now without his head.’

  Pavo and Sura looked at one another. Emperor Gratian’s guards had beaten the band of Goths who had broken inside Sirmium.

  ‘Not all,’ another voice replied. ‘I have this one.’

  Pavo and Sura shared a look, recognising the voice. Gratian.

  ‘And he is not long for this world,’ Gratian continued. A weak cry sounded, then a gasp.

  Pavo frowned and beckoned Sura forward. They crept towards the door and edged their heads around it. Outside was a mezzanine, lipped with a short, granite-pillared edge, hooded under an overhanging roof and looking down upon a peristyle garden – four squares of manicured lawn and a circular pool at the centre, with rich blooms, vines and statues all around. But the waves of searing heat and now-thick rain of ash and ember drew their eye – to the bulky heights of the palace on the far side of the gardens which glowed from within, orange flame and shadow dancing inside, smoke bulging from higher windows.

  The sounds, the smells… it all conjured images of what had happened in that farmhouse after the disaster at Adrianople. He saw then Gallus’ shade, one hand raised in salute in that fateful blaze. Into eternity, hail and farewell…

  ‘Gratian will pay for what he did, sir. You will have justice,’ Pavo whispered.

  They crept out onto the shadowy mezzanine, over to the stony balustrade. There, Pavo’s blood froze. Emperor Gratian stood there by the pool in his battle gear, crowned with his diadem, while a blood-smeared Goth knelt by his side, swaying and clearly ready to drop. With Gratian was a young boy, perhaps nine or ten, with brown curly hair hanging to the collar of a blue-hemmed tunic. The rings on the boy’s fingers piqued Pavo’s curiosity, sharpened his wandering, blackening mind.

  ‘Show me, Stepbrother, show me you can do it,’ Gratian encouraged the lad.

  Stepbrother? Pavo mused. Then it clicked.

  ‘Valentinian,’ he and Sura whispered together.

  Gratian pushed a dagger hilt
into the boy’s palm, then guided his arm towards the Goth’s belly, making an upwards and downwards motion. ‘It’s not so hard. Cut him open and let his belly flop out. Then we can board the ships and make haste back to the West, leave the craven legions who failed me to rot.’

  ‘He does not even know we arrived or that we helped seize victory,’ Pavo growled.

  Down in the gardens, Valentinian stared at the dagger. With a gentle sound of sobbing, the boy did nothing.

  ‘You seemed so brave, so strident, earlier when you called the artillery forward. Is this the “True Emperor” that the oaf, Merobaudes, protected for so long?’ Gratian mocked, turning to look up at two of the mezzanine’s four sides. Dark laughter echoed from there. Pavo and Sura froze, suddenly realising that up here in the shadows with them were Gratian’s men. Pavo peered into the blackness of the four sides. Two Alani, one on the edge left of them and one on the right.

  ‘You shy away from even crushing a fly, Stepbrother. And that is why you will never rule. Sometimes one must end lives in order to save others,’ Gratian goaded. His ice-blue eyes swept up and around, looking for inspiration. For an instant, they swept by Pavo, and Pavo’s heart turned cold as stone. Finally, Gratian settled his gaze on the blazing ward of the palace behind him. ‘Perhaps we can test you on it. The palace burns, Stepbrother. See? There are plenty of slaves locked in the cellars, but they barely matter. What about the thousands of citizens within Sirmium’s walls? They cower behind locked doors and shutters, many no doubt oblivious to the fire, simply scared that the Goths still lurk in the streets. It will creep and then speed across their homes. They will roast alive. Unless… I call upon the vigiles to bring their buckets and pumps and douse the inferno.’

  Valentinian’s head shot up, his pale, handsome face stained with tears and a look of hope. ‘Call them, please.’

  Gratian’s beatific demeanour didn’t even flicker as he gestured towards the expiring, kneeling Goth again. ‘Gut this wretch, and I will ring the warning bell.’

  ‘Please,’ Valentinian said meekly, looking at the dagger as if it was a curse.

  Gratian stepped back, arms folded, delighting in the spectacle.

  ‘A bow,’ Pavo growled, eyes on the faint pulse on Gratian’s neck. ‘A bow and this would be over.’

  After a time, Gratian took the blade back. ‘I should not toy with you. I will not ring the alarm bell. The wretches in the cellars will burn. In any case they are all dead – fire or not: the Goths from the battlefield will flood here within a matter of hours and tear this breached city down. The day is lost. Merobaudes, your great mastiff of a guardian, has led my legions to a shameful defeat… in which he has surely fallen with the rest,’ Gratian continued.

  Valentinian’s face fell and his head shook in denial. ‘He... he cannot have. He is…’

  ‘Invincible?’ Gratian cooed. ‘Visit the fields to the south in a year’s time – when I come back with all my forces to do what Merobaudes could not – look upon his sun-bleached bones and tell me he is invincible.’ He took the dagger from Valentinian, turned the blade over in his hand, then began walking around the boy. ‘And such poor timing for the wretch to fall, was it not? For those Goths who infiltrated the city, they got everywhere, didn’t they? Even right in here, into the heart of the palace, where we fled.’ Now he traced the blade around Valentinian’s shoulders, the tip rising and rising as he went, eventually circling his neck.

  ‘I tried to save you but they were too strong,’ he gasped, clasping his free hand dramatically to his cheek, mockingly agog. ‘Without Merobaudes to shield you, they cut you down... it was horrible.’

  More laughter rumbled from the two watching guards as Valentinian began to shake and weep.

  ‘Enough,’ Pavo spat. ‘I’ll take the Alani cur on the left, you go right.’

  Sura eyed Pavo’s blood-soaked arm.

  ‘I only need one arm to use a sword,’ Pavo hissed.

  ‘Aye,’ Sura acquiesced in a whisper, drawing his spatha. Pavo did likewise, and they went their separate ways.

  Pavo heard his every heartbeat boom like a drum, and felt the ground sway under him as he moved on his haunches, the drip-drip-drip of blood from his shoulder wound landing on the mezzanine walkway taunting him as he went, the fierce heat of the nearby blaze stark in contrast to his cold limbs. The Alani was oblivious, elbows resting on the balustrade, watching the vile show in the gardens. Now Gratian cupped the back of Valentinian’s head with one hand, the knife in the other, tip on the boy’s jugular. ‘Do you know how easily flesh splits? Sometimes my torturers mask a man, then slice deep into their bodies with blades so sharp they feel nothing. The horror on their faces when the mask is removed!’

  The laughing Alani’s shoulders jostled in time with his copper earrings, his green robe stained with Gothic blood, his long, golden hair resting on the small of his back. Stealth and silence was the key, Pavo realised. A mantra he hadn’t purposely learned came to him then.

  I am a shadow, Pavo mouthed to himself as he edged up behind the man, I move like a breath of wind…

  He rose from his haunches, spatha drawing back for a killing thrust to the Alani’s flank, when an unexpected hand, deathly cold, wrapped firmly around his blade arm from behind, a second one pressing something even colder to his throat. The hidden figure pressed tight against his back.

  ‘I strike unseen,’ Scapula finished the mantra for him with an asp-like whisper in his ear.

  Pavo’s blood flushed with ice-water, body freezing to a halt, his eyes rolling to one side in their sockets to see the speculator’s cruel profile, hovering just behind his shoulder.

  ‘You should be more vigilant, guardsman,’ Scapula hissed to the oblivious Alani, simultaneously squeezing Pavo’s sword hand to make him drop his spatha.

  At the clatter of the sword and the words, the Alani swung round, face agape, before he snatched up his spear and levelled it as if that was a timely response. Over on the far side of the mezzanine, the other Alani saw what had happened and swung round just as Sura was about to pounce. He drove Sura back at spearpoint against the wall, pinning him there, halting but primed for a killing thrust to the chest. ‘Master, legionaries!’ the Alani facing Pavo shouted over his shoulder, down into the gardens. ‘And not ours.’

  Head tilted back thanks to Scapula’s blade, Pavo peered down his nose to see Gratian looking up. The Western Emperor looked momentarily vexed, then his eyes came alive with interest. ‘Ah, Scapula, you have escaped the battle too. What have you brought home?’ he said like a child talking to a favourite pet, waving one beckoning hand. ‘Bring them down to me.’

  The speculator walked Pavo past the scowling Alani, along the mezzanine walkway and towards a shadowy stairwell that led down to the garden.

  ‘How long have you been following us?’ Pavo hissed, the knife edge scraping on his throat as he spoke.

  ‘Long enough, Tribunus,’ Scapula whispered, ‘long enough.’

  Pavo glanced down over the balustrade to see Gratian nonchalantly nudging the swaying, kneeling Goth face-first into the pool, then pressing his boot on the back of the man’s neck to keep his head underwater. The wretch thrashed weakly, before his arms grew limp and the struggle ended. No sooner had the Goth expired than Gratian took Valentinian in an embrace, but not an embrace of stepbrothers – for he held Valentinian like a captive, the boy’s back to his front, his dagger to the lad’s neck in the same way Scapula had Pavo.

  ‘How can you obey that creature?’ Pavo whispered to Scapula as they reached the end of the mezzanine walkway and slipped into the darkness of the stairwell. ‘The things he has done. So many dead because of him. You are a clever man, Scapula – dangerously so. Why do you follow him like a dog?’

  Scapula’s breath hissed near Pavo’s ear. ‘All men follow the path they must. That is why you are here now, is it not?’ He tightened the blade to Pavo’s neck as they descended the first steps. ‘To slay my master as you tried and failed to do once before
?’

  ‘You knew it was me from the start, didn’t you?’ Pavo growled as they went.

  Scapula’s silence was answer enough.

  Pavo sensed the distance between them and Gratian in the gardens below vanishing. There would be no escape, he realised. But at the very least, he had to understand why it had come to this. ‘You were sent east to find me,’ he ventured. ‘But you did not kill me, all through our journey north into the wilds and back again, when you had ample opportunity. And in that time you saved me and my legion more than once. Why?’

  ‘I was sent east only to ascertain your guilt, Tribunus. Had I killed you, I would have failed my master. He wanted your name, which I gave to him. Next, he planned to have you delivered to him… alive, so he could have you picked apart with pins and hooks in his cellars.’

  Pavo’s stomach turned and he remembered that wicked dream of the goose and the wolf that night at Novae fortress. It was as he had feared: gifted life for a time only to suffer a far more brutal death in the end.

  ‘Yet you have seen fit to deliver yourself to him instead,’ Scapula said. ‘I did not know the Claudia had come here with the relief force, and I certainly did not expect to find you here in the imperial palace. It was a reckless choice, Tribunus.’

  ‘Choice? What would you know of choice?’ Pavo spluttered. ‘You stumble to the call of your master, bound, chained, yoked like a mindless beast. You are afraid of the very notion of choice.’

  ‘I am afraid of nothing,’ Scapula snarled, tightening the knife-hold.

  ‘That’s not what Stichus said,’ Pavo replied as they turned to the last flight of steps. ‘He talked with you during those nights when you both awoke from nightmares.’

  Silence.

  ‘Do you know what he said of you, after you had left?’ Pavo continued. ‘He said he felt grief at your parting. Grief that he had experienced only once before, when his sister – a slave like him – had been taken from him to another noble’s estate. He asked where you had gone. Do you know what I told him?’