In almost complete blackness, he felt around inside the leather pack and found a single candle and a flint hook. He wedged the candle in a small handful of snow between them, then struck the hook, sending showers of sparks over the candle wick. It took an age, but eventually, a flame rose and a glorious bubble of orange light spread through the crude shelter, giving off the merest hint of heat. He peeled off his frost-hardened tunic and kicked off his boots, undressing Sura likewise. In the gentle light, he rummaged through the sack again.
‘Bless you, Rectus,’ he said through chattering teeth, pulling out two thin but dry woollen blankets and a small haircloth pack of nettle leaves. He tossed one blanket around the murmuring, semi-conscious Sura and the other over himself. He took a few nettle leaves and began wiping them vigorously around Sura’s hands and feet, then did the same for himself – the brutal sting providing a warmth of sorts. Next, he cupped his hands over the candle flame until he could feel sensation shooting along each finger, then rubbed and pinched his palms until he felt like they belonged to his body again. It was still as cold as death inside that meagre shelter of snow, but to Pavo, it felt like plunging into a bathhouse’s steaming caldarium pool.
As the events of the night flashed through his mind, he stared at the walls of the snow cave, the stark reality of it all sinking in. He was a rogue tribunus, robbed of his legion, trapped in no-man’s land between the jaws of two great and vindictive armies. He stared at the bronze Pax token Valentinian had given him, feeling a great urge to weep. But then he sensed the hands of dead comrades rest upon his shoulders, reassuring, whispering words of encouragement.
‘I will do this, for you,’ he said, shedding not a tear, ‘I will walk this road.’
Chapter 13
Sura’s head swam in a thousand different directions. His dreams were unorthodox at the best of times, but now, in this tangle of cold-delirium, they were a little ridiculous. He imagined himself as a centaur, blessed with bulging, strapping muscles, galloping across the Thracian countryside on a summer’s day, while being chased by a herd of female centaurides. He was both terrified and ecstatic about the whole scenario, shooting glances over his shoulder at their malevolent looks and the spears they carried, and then at their juddering, bare breasts.
‘We mate with him, then kill him!’ they chanted.
Perhaps it was worth letting them catch him, he mused? But when he faced forwards again, a great, one-eyed beast rose before him – a creature made of ice and snow. He reared up as the creature opened its mouth, lined with fangs, and roared, casting a shower of ice crystals at him.
He flailed and thrashed, waking to a world of darkness… suddenly pierced by that monstrous eye of light, a spray of chill particles falling on him from above. ‘Mithras!’ he wailed.
Then a hand brushed around the bright oculus above, enlarging it. His eyes adjusted and now he saw the small snow-cave: a candle, burnt to the base; a pole and an earth-digging tool wedged into the wall, the wet garments hanging from these hooks partly-dried. Memories of the chase last night and the blizzard-trek resurfaced in blotches. The hand above stopped brushing around the hole and Pavo’s face appeared there instead, staring down at him, framed by bright-blue and calm winter sky. Not quite a bare-breasted centauride, but a welcome sight nonetheless.
‘Awake?’ Pavo asked.
‘Alive too, somehow,’ Sura replied.
With a thump, Pavo landed inside the cave, clasping a rabbit by the hind legs in one hand, a bundle of kindling in the other. ‘You were sleeping so I left you to it. Well I think you were sleeping – your arms and legs were twitching as if you were running on all fours.’
Sura rubbed his eyes and face and shook his head, the dream now seeming wholly ridiculous. ‘Forget it. Let’s get this fellow on a spit.’
They cleared the rest of the cave roof away, opening the shelter to the sky but protecting it from the still-stiff wind. The snow reflected the sun’s gentle heat around the space and when they had the rabbit cooking, the smell and the heat from the flames charged them both with a renewed vigour. The meat was succulent and sweet, easing their hunger-sore bellies. Cups of melted snow washed the meal down perfectly. ‘Have more,’ Pavo said, offering Sura the scraps. ‘You’ll need your strength.’
Sura’s eyes narrowed.
‘Nothing’s changed. We’re still going to see Fritigern,’ Pavo said calmly.
‘There’s no way through,’ Sura sighed. ‘We went through this in the cave. We’d stand out like flames in the snow if we tried to steal past their stockades. And Rectus’ idea of forcing our way through as a legion – well that’s gone, along with the legion.’
Pavo stripped another mouthful of rabbit meat from a leg and wagged the bone at Sura. ‘That’s the problem. All this time, we’ve been trying to think of ways to sneak or break through as Romans. But remember yesterday, at the twin hills, when we were hiding in the Tonsus shallows?’
Sura shrugged. ‘They nearly had us… but we ‘swam’ across the river. They were impressed by that. So was I.’
‘How do you know they were impressed?’
Sura scowled. ‘Because we heard them say so.’ He fell silent. It was like a spark of light in the centre of his head. ‘Mithras walks… we heard them!’
Pavo grinned. ‘We heard them – shouting to each other across the twin hills, then when the horsemen came after us and we hid at the river banking. We heard them speaking in the full Gothic tongue. We understood them,’ he explained. ‘Two years ago we spent an entire summer north of the river, living with them. At the plateau, with Eriulf’s people.’
‘Drinking with them,’ Sura agreed.
‘Hunting with them,’ Pavo recalled.
Sura’s eyes grew distant, his hands squeezing two invisible mid-air orbs. ‘Feeling them…’
‘Anyway, we both know the Gothic tongue well. Not just well enough to trade and negotiate, but to converse as Goths do. We can make ourselves look like Goths too – we did so once before, when we freed Felicia from a Gothic camp, remember? If we dress as Goths, act as Goths, we should be able to pass through their lines as Goths. If they challenge us, we can speak to them as if we are one of them. The horde is massive – they will not know every single face within it.’ He held up the peace token then clasped it in his fist and shook it. ‘We can do this, Sura, I know we can.’
‘Very well,’ Sura mused, chewing on a last piece of rabbit meat. ‘But where do we get a set of Gothic garments?’
‘Well that’s the other thing: when I was tracking this hare, I saw a pair of tribal riders heading down to a frozen tarn about two miles west of here. There’s a ramshackle farmhouse and an old man who keeps geese there. A Roman. He must be one of the last to hold out in these parts. The two Goths knocked him around, took some of his geese, and rode away back to another watch camp in the northwest.’
‘Then they’ll be back for more, soon enough?’ Sura said, lifting his spatha and patting the flat of the blade against the palm of his free hand.
‘Do you not understand how much it pained me to kneel before Gratian in Thessalonica’s agora?’ Emperor Theodosius’ words rang around Constantinople’s Chalke hall. ‘My soul burned as I stooped before my father’s murderer. I fear it will burn for eternity now too, once I pass from this earth.’ His voice fell into a low, woeful drawl, the likes of which usually heralded the switch of moods from ice to fire. ‘And now? Now must we meekly await the spring, and the shame of having our Western neighbours end this war for us?’
Saturninus looked up and around the map table. Nobody dared answer: General Modares, Bacurius and Eriulf feeling the same unease as he. He looked down at the map again, surveying the inky outline of the Diocese of Thracia, and the two arcs of wooden pieces which faced each other: the one facing north composed of legionary figurines, the one facing south of long-haired, snarling barbarians. Evenly-balanced in terms of numbers, separated only by the hiatus of winter – a winter that was right now receding. The gurgle of melt
water through the streets of the Imperial Palace hill served to taunt all in the chamber.
He could understand the Eastern Emperor’s indignation. Saved from the barbarian in Thessalonica by Gratian. Now to be granted salvation once again by the same man. Victory for Gratian in the spring would all but cement the young Western Emperor’s place as a virtual god, and Theodosius’ as a grateful underling.
‘There is… one… hope,’ Saturninus ventured. ‘The legionary who came in on the first days of March. He assures-’
‘The young wretch? How can we believe a word he says?’ Bishop Ancholius cut in, striding from the side of the room to plant a palm on the table as if to close the lid on the theory. ‘We don’t even know if he really was a legionary. He wore nothing but rags and went barefoot. He had no soldier’s tools, nor even wore a signaculum token around his neck. He is a beggar seeking favour from a troubled emperor.’
‘His name is Durio. He claims to be a member of the XI Claudia,’ Saturninus rebuffed.
‘The deserter legion?’ Ancholius laughed.
Eriulf, Modares, Bacurius and Saturninus all turned their heads to the bishop like a venue of vultures. ‘Deserters? The Claudia would fall on their own swords before they would abandon their posts,’ Modares growled.
Ancholius threw out his hands, palms turned up as if passing the matter to God. ‘Yet the fact remains: they fled from Thessalonica during a Gothic night attack last summer. Never to be seen again.’
Each of the generals flicked looks around the table. ‘There may be… reasons… behind their disappearance,’ Saturninus reasoned, ignoring the bishop and daring to hold the emperor’s eye.
Theodosius neck lengthened a little, his head tilting back. ‘Perhaps, but that is of no concern to me.’
But Saturninus continued: ‘Yet let us assume – just for a moment – that the boy-legionary’s story is true: that Tribunus Pavo has some token of truce in his possession. How he got it is of no concern, for peace is what we set out to achieve at the beginning of last year, wasn’t it?’
Agreement rumbled from all apart from Ancholius. Theodosius’ face hardened. ‘It was. Before Fritigern slew Dignus – one of my finest negotiators, then threw his horde against the walls of Thessalonica. That does not sound like the actions of a man seeking peace. And how do we know this Pavo has not been in league with the Goths all along, causing us to tarry for peace while Fritigern made his move for Thessalonica and the fleet? Right now he and his legion might be with the horde!’
‘The soldiers I have spoken to say that he did have some relationship with a Gothic whore,’ Ancholius said with a series of exaggerated nods.
‘My… sister,’ Eriulf shook with rage.
Ancholius’ eyes narrowed to slits. ‘Yes… the one who tried to slay our emperor. The one you cut down.’
Eriulf lurched forward.. ‘I will rip out your tongue you worm!’ he roared, struggling as Modares held him back.
Emperor Theodosius’ Inquisitors lunged forward, their spears clacking level as they rushed for the flashpoint. Saturninus held out his hands to plea for calm. Eriulf shrugged Modares off and the inquisitors backed away too.
Theodosius blazed a look at his council, then settled his gaze on Saturninus. ‘Make your point, Magister Militum,’ he snapped.
Saturninus half-bowed. ‘What if Dignus never reached Fritigern? It would not be the first time an envoy was injured or killed by those whose ambitions differ from ours, would it?’ He placed a finger on the map of Thracia, between the two opposing arcs. ‘If Pavo is out there. If he can make it to Fritigern – stand before the Iudex for certain – and deliver this peace token. If Fritigern was to accept…’
‘If, if, if!’ Ancholius roared in glee.
Theodosius shot up a finger to silence the bishop. ‘It could be a… useful outcome,’ he said flatly.
‘It would deny Gratian his glory. Yet we are here, licking our wounds in this fine-walled city. Our broken legions will have little part to play in the spring campaign. If Fritigern offers peace, it will be to Gratian. And Gratian will not be minded to accept.’
‘Our legions might be in tatters, Domine,’ Modares said, ‘but if Pavo is out there, then he is alone. We could at least try to support him somehow? Maybe even help direct Fritigern’s response to the peace offer… to these halls instead of Gratian’s camp?’
Bacurius grunted in agreement, his eyes sliding over the land between the jaws of Roman and Gothic forces. ‘Quite. If Pavo tries to steal through the Gothic lines and into Kabyle itself… he will die before he even comes within sight of Fritigern. He needs help.’
‘So perhaps a few men could be despatched to help him. The exploratores, maybe? They are quick and know the land,’ Saturninus pressed.
Theodosius sighed tersely through his nostrils. ‘Pavo – if he is even alive – will have no aid from me. I supported his plan for peace before and it nearly ruined me. If he brings me a treaty, stamped and agreed, then my feelings might change. Until then, his actions are his own. The consequences are his to bear.’
Modares slumped.
Bacurius sighed.
Saturninus closed his eyes.
Bishop Ancholius smiled.
Eriulf stared into the ether.
Eriulf stepped from the Chalke Hall and strolled through the gardens of the palace hill. Patches of snow remained, with hardy winter jasmine scenting the air, and a harp player’s sweet music lilting across the rooftops from the emperor’s bedchambers. In the darkness nearby, he saw Bishop Ancholius shuffling towards his quarters. It had been testing in the extreme to pander to this man in recent months: he had even considered swapping the façade of his Arian ‘faith’ for the Nicene one just to stay on the right side of the recent edicts. A swapping of masks and no more, he mused, still undecided on the matter. For a time, he considered following the bishop on through the night and throwing him from one of the garden terraces to dash him on the flagstones below. But that would have to wait, for another matter pressed.
He came to a promenade that looked down over the slopes of the imperial hill. He gazed across the terraced orchards and lawns, out over the inky night and the waters of the Golden Horn into the night, and on to the distant, freezing north.
I admire you so much, Tribunus, he thought as a cold wind lifted the loose locks hanging down from his topknot. You are brave to a fault, honourable to the last, and everything I would want in a friend and a brother. But your mission cannot succeed. The candle of hope still gutters and I must snuff it out. I pray that the lad Durio’s stories are false, or that you have fallen already, for it would tear at my soul to know you might be there when my message arrives.
‘Comes?’ a gruff voice spoke from behind.
Eriulf turned to see his bearded messenger. The man’s palm was outstretched. Eriulf hesitated for a moment, thinking of all he and Pavo had been through before, then placed the silver-edged vellum roll in the messenger’s hand.
Chapter 14
The Thracian countryside shimmered in the early spring heat, the meadows green and lush, speckled with blooms, the woods plump with wild fruits. A pleasant heat carried the scent of herbs and lemon groves through the air. Skylarks swooped and plunged through the hazy, pastel blue sky, singing as they went.
Boda rocked in his saddle, his long fair hair swishing against the small of his back, his longsword and spear sheathed diagonally across his shoulders in an X. The weight of the weapons made him feel like a great warrior, and in his head, he was one. Yes, he had merely been a reserve in the great battles with the Romans so far. In truth, the thought of battle made him feel ill – the idea that an arrow might plunge into your eye at any moment, or that no matter how well you fought, you might be overcome by greater numbers and butchered horribly anyway. The thought of the blood leaving the body, and the inky, freezing abyss of death that awaited had him vomiting even in the rear lines of the horde. In any case, now he was at the forefront, patrolling the vital stretch of land between the Goth
ic watch stations and the Roman encampments. He was a chosen warrior, in effect, and he looked forward to showing it today as he had on each of his last sorties.
The brook by the scree path gurgled on down towards a knot of green hills, sheltered in the lee of a red bluff. He eyed the dilapidated farmhouse there by the side of a tarn. An old fellow stumbled around down there, calling after his geese, who scattered before him, honking and flapping. ‘He’s the biggest goose there,’ he rumbled to his comrade, Gasto, trotting lazily alongside. ‘He refuses to eat his own birds – feeds them the little grain he collects from his one field. No wonder he’s built like a broom handle. Not only does he treat the birds as pets, but he talks to the tarn waters, swears his dead wife’s spirit is in there. That’s why he didn’t abandon his home like the rest of the Roman farmers. He’s mad enough to believe he’ll come to no harm out here. Still thinks of himself as a Roman on Roman lands.’
‘He’s done not too badly so far,’ said Gasto. ‘Six years since the war began, four since Thracia fell into our hands… and he’s still alive.’
‘How many geese do you count?’ Boda said, cracking his knuckles as they rounded a bend in the path and walked onto the farmstead’s approach.
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