The Blood Road (Legionary 7): Legionary, no. 7

by Gordon Doherty

  Pavo lay in darkness. Itchy, stinking darkness. Then, from nowhere, a hand grasped his collar, hauling him from the hay pile on the back of the wagon and dumping him on the ground.

  ‘Hide,’ Sura hissed, kicking him underneath the wagon.

  Scrambling onto all-fours through the dust under there, he heard the crunch of boots as men came to unload the wagon. Looking up through tiny gaps in the wagon floor’s timbers, he saw sweating Gothic men sling sacks over their shoulders and others gather up armfuls of hay. Watching them was one he recognised: Hengist, Fritigern’s bare-chested bodyguard, bald and with just a lone knot of hair sprouting from his crown.

  Sura stood by the brute’s side, making an attempt at some inane chat about horses, to which Hengist nodded in disinterest. The bald brute waddled away, and Sura disappeared from sight too. Where to? An age passed and Pavo was sure his friend had been exposed. Now it would only be a matter of time before he too was… a hand slapped onto his calf and pulled, hard.

  Like a child being dragged from under his bed, Pavo flipped round, ready to kick out at his attacker, only to see Sura, a finger pressed over his lips. All around them, the acropolis grounds were deserted, and the royal guards on the parapets stood with their backs turned. Sura pointed to the villa at the centre of the acropolis, and to the blue hawk banner hanging limp from a spear set outside it. ‘Fritigern’s inside, now.’

  ‘Two men stand guard,’ Pavo whispered, seeing the shady outline of spearmen just inside the villa’s arched vestibule. Beyond, he saw the orange light of dusk dancing on the low and long-untended waters of the impluvium pool, a peristyled, overgrown garden, and the movement of slaves to and fro around that open interior, filing in and out of the triclinium with eating plates and bowls. The dining room itself went unguarded, he realised. But how to get past the two guards at the villa’s main entrance? His eyes slid up to the low, red-tiled roof of the exterior wall. The wagon was parked between the villa side and the storehouse.

  Sura and he shared a look. Within a breath, they were up on the wagon side. Pavo leapt first, clutching at the red tiles. Sura did likewise a moment later then both levered up and onto the villa rooftop. Like cats, they kept low and slunk along the spine of the roof – which ran in a rectangle around the open garden – taking care not to tread on any of the many snapped or missing tiles. Their eyes darted between the gardens down to their left and the nearest section of the acropolis walls immediately to their right, the parapets dotted with outwards-facing royal guards. All it would take was for one noise, one head to turn.

  ‘Here,’ Pavo whispered, raising a hand to halt Sura. ‘We’re above the triclinium doorway.’

  They waited for the train of slaves to ebb away, then shared another look. Pavo clutched young Valentinian’s Pax token. ‘To end the war,’ he said and Sura repeated. Both dropped down, landing with the barest of sounds. They folded round and stepped into the cool dining chamber. The walls were off-white with age since its last lick of paint, the pale red symmetrical pattern around floor and ceiling flaking and sad. For a moment, it was as if they were alone, for not a thing moved. Only then they spotted the four figures seated at the far end of the room, barely-lit by a lone torch.

  Fritigern stared.

  Hengist bristled like a great panther about to pounce. The two other Gothic reiks in discussion with their Iudex gawped. A slither of iron sounded behind Pavo and Sura, as a pair of unseen guards drew longswords and stepped into the room in their wake. The longsword tips rested between each of their shoulder blades and the two guards stripped them of their weapons. It had not been as cat-like an entrance as they had hoped, it seemed.

  ‘How dare you? I’ll have you whipped!’ Hengist raged, stomping across the tessellated floor towards them, his musclebound torso gleaming in the low torchlight, the back-slung scabbard swishing and his braid of hair lashing like a whip. ‘Then I’ll have you boiled in oil!’ He glared at Sura. ‘You,’ he seethed, seeing Sura as the wagon driver, then turned to Pavo. ‘And you? Who in the darkest of the pits are you? Cavalrymen and wagon-handlers are supposed to be billeted in the lower town. To approach your Iudex uninvited and unannounced is a crime, punishable by-’

  ‘Hengist,’ Fritigern interrupted like a parent spotting his child repeating mistakes from his own youth. ‘These are not our men.’

  Hengist looked to his Iudex then back at the pair.

  ‘Take off your helmet, Tribunus,’ Fritigern said, rising from his cherry wood chair with a crack of bones, resting his weight on a cane. His broad shoulders were exaggerated by the thick leather shoulder guards he wore, but it seemed more like a burden than an embellishment. He stepped towards them, his stride awkward, the cane clacking, his hands shaking.

  One of the reiks dining with Fritigern shot up to his feet, his demonic scowl directed equally at Fritigern then Pavo. ‘Tribunus?’ He spat, his chin-tied beard shuddering. ‘A Roman?’

  Fritigern raised a hand, one finger raised for silence. ‘Not all Romans are our enemies, Winguric,’ he explained. Then his head tilted a little to one side, his eyes glinting with suspicion. ‘Isn’t that right, Tribunus… Pavo.’

  Pavo slid the Gothic helm from his head, cupping it under one arm, his now finger-length hair tumbling around his brow, neck and ears. ‘Iudex Fritigern,’ he said with a short bow as the leader of the Goths came to within a few paces, Winguric and the other one flanking him a pace behind. ‘I bring you this.’

  He held out a hand, which all eyed with misgiving. Fritigern extended his palm, then examined the small token Pavo gave him. Pavo watched as he regarded the likeness of Valentinian on one side. He seemed confused, but then when he turned it over his features paled and widened.

  ‘Pax,’ Pavo said, ‘talks, peace, an end to the war. Emperor Theodosius’ orators now talk of peace where once they boomed about triumph on the battlefield. Valentinian, deputy of the West, wants this too. When I last stood before you, you told me how close our peoples were to concluding peace – in the heartbeats before the great battle at Adrianople and even since: you told me of an emissary you sent to Constantinople – slain by that murderous fool of a Roman, Julius. Since then Theodosius has sent an emissary to you.’

  Fritigern’s brow creased like a freshly-ploughed field.

  ‘Aye, before your armies struck Thessalonica, a party was sent to speak with you.’

  ‘Then they never reached me.’

  ‘I knew it,’ Pavo almost wept.

  Fritigern’s head tilted forward like a reproaching teacher. ‘I would never allow the slaughter of diplomats.’

  Pavo held his rheumy gaze, noticing the two reiks behind shuffling in unease. ‘I know. That is why I am here. That is why I risked my life, my legion, to come before you. To make sure you heard what you needed to hear. I know what you desire and I know it is the same thing that the great men of the empire wish for also.’

  Fritigern stared into space for a time, every crag and scar on his age-worn face like a deep gash. ‘And the Nicene way – how could there ever be peace between Arian Goths and Nicene Roman when I hear of great riots, of public beatings of the few Romans who cling to Arian or Pagan ways?’

  ‘Fools and demagogues will always find trouble, Iudex. I am neither Nicene, nor Arian. Indeed I do not follow the Christ in any form. I walk the way of Mithras, and here I stand before you. The men of my legion are like me. We fight the battles that need to be fought, not the ones that fat and rich bishops cause in the city streets.’

  Fritigern swallowed slowly, as if daring himself to believe. ‘But what of the Western Army? You make no mention of Emperor Gratian?’

  ‘No, because I spoke of the great men of the empire,’ Pavo said flatly.

  Hengist rumbled in a breathy, single laugh, then bit his lip in annoyance at showing his amusement.

  ‘My words to you the last time we spoke were true: Gratian had a guiding hand in this war,’ Pavo continued. ‘From the safety of his Western realm, he allowed the battle at Adrianopl
e to occur, stoked it and weighted the outcome. That day he wanted your horde to win and for the East to suffer a terrible defeat. Now, with his armies poised in the south, he is here to crush you and claim the final victory as his own. He is our common enemy, Iudex.’

  ‘Hang them from the acropolis walls, Lord,’ the second reiks hissed, leaning in towards Fritigern’s ear.

  ‘Judda, I will hear no more from you,’ Fritigern said, calmly. An age passed. ‘If I was to believe all you have told me. How could we make it so?’ he said. ‘Has the time for talks not long passed?’

  ‘Give me a token of yours in reply to this one. Send with me a party of men and we will take word of your intentions directly to Emperor Theodosius. He will listen, I swear he will.’ Or at least the rational men in his council will, Pavo thought. ‘After that, we can arrange a meeting. Peace can be concluded before the two vast armies serried across Thracia come together in battle.’

  Fritigern stared into space.

  Another eternity passed. Pavo watched Fritigern intently, willing the order to be given. He sensed Sura, by his side, tensed and thinking exactly the same thing.

  Silence.

  Silence.

  Hooves.

  Shouting.

  The hooves turned into rapid footsteps. A breathless man entered the dining chamber behind Pavo and Sura. Pavo dared to turn around. A sweating, filthy rider, unarmoured.

  ‘Speak, scout!’ Hengist barked.

  ‘It has begun, Lord,’ the man gasped, shaking with fatigue. ‘The Roman legions advance north and assault our watch posts, like fishermen dragging an iron net. Our warbands fall back towards this place.’

  ‘Then this is all a deception!’ Winguric exploded, striking a hand through the air as if casting a stone.

  ‘Slit the Romans’ throats and rouse the horde entire,’ Judda boomed. ‘It is time to put the legions to the sword as you have done time and again in these last years, Iudex.’

  Pavo and Sura moved a step closer together, balancing as if anticipating an assault. ‘You once told me you valued integrity,’ Pavo said, directing his words at Fritigern alone. ‘I ask you to look at me now and tell me whether you see a dishonest man before you. I knew nothing of the legions’ movements. Indeed we have spent the last nine months running and hiding like beggars – for we are dead men should Gratian get his hands on us.’

  Fritigern looked as if he had aged a decade in the time since the messenger had spoken, his wispy hair dishevelled as he wrung his fingers through it. ‘Sound the horns. Muster the horde,’ he said flatly.

  ‘No,’ Pavo and Sura gasped in unison.

  Fritigern looked up. ‘And gather twenty of my guards, Hengist, along with the elders. Prepare a wagon and horses.’ He stared at Pavo as he spoke. ‘For while the horde prepares for the worst, I will be travelling south, with the tribunus, to see if things can come to a less terrible end.’

  Pavo’s heart soared, a shiver rising from his feet all the way through his body. At long, long last: light, hope. He imagined that horrible dream of the blood road, saw himself breaking clear of the jeering corridor of corpses and to the tree, to the goddess… to the cusp of peace.

  ‘God weeps!’ Winguric shrieked.

  ‘You must see that you walk into a trap, Iudex,’ Judda wailed. ‘You will ride south and the next we will see of you will be your head on the end of a Roman lance.’

  ‘I have spoken, and I risk my own life in these steps – so respect and obey them as you are oathbound to,’ Fritigern growled. Pavo sensed something in the air at that moment – like the crackle of energy that precedes the first lance of lightning and boom of thunder. He saw the tacit agreement between Winguric and Judda, their dramatically woe-torn faces changing into baleful sneers. A flash of metal. The thrust of an arm. A gasp of breath.

  Fritigern spasmed where he stood as a silvery tongue of steel tore through his ribs and pointed at Pavo and Sura like an accusing finger. The Iudex’s dark blue robes turned black with a thick blossom of blood. His eyes met Pavo’s one last time, before he fell with a sigh to his knees, Winguric’s sword embedded to the hilt between his shoulder blades.

  It was a nightmarish moment. Pavo imagined the scene of the olive tree, of the beautiful goddess. Her smile turned into a fanged maw and suddenly he was torn backwards and into the heart of the corpse warriors.

  ‘No!’ Hengist screamed, reaching to his back-scabbard. Hand never met hilt, as the two guards behind Pavo and Sura sunk their spears into the giant’s shoulders, driving him down, running him through. The bodyguard jerked and kicked, refusing to believe his own death was coming for him. A moment later and he was still, lying on his side, staring lifelessly at his dead and beloved master.

  ‘Damn your peace,’ Judda hissed, crouching, taking Valentinian’s token from Fritigern’s dead hand and rising again to toss it out into the night. ‘And damn you.’

  Pavo and Sura automatically turned to face the two reiks and the two guards, pressing up back to back.

  ‘We should definitely hang them by their ankles from the walls,’ Judda said, teeth clenched like a wolf.

  Winguric’s eyes lit up at the idea, then his head tilted a little to one side. ‘No. Emperor Gratian seeks these two. Perhaps the clash that is to come will throw up a few tight moments for us. It might be wise to keep them as tokens with which to bargain.’

  Judda nodded slowly, then made eyes at the two guards.

  Pavo twisted to the nearest guard, only to see a spear butt rushing towards his head.

  Crack!

  Blackness.

  Winguric placed a foot on Fritigern’s shoulder and braced, drawing his sword free of the dead leader’s body. Cleaning the blade on a rag of cloth, he heard the shouts and clamour outside as the news spread of Gratian’s advance. The warriors of the horde would not sleep tonight. All were eager for war. ‘Fritigern was a fool,’ he burred.

  ‘We could have shown him this,’ Judda mused, drawing from his cloak a silver-edged vellum roll and unfurling it. ‘The Claudian Tribunus speaks poisoned words. Trust him at your peril,’ he read it with a laugh then folded it up again. ‘It would probably have been enough to change his mind about these two Romans.’

  Winguric stared down his nose at the unconscious Pavo and Sura. ‘We could have shown him the scroll, yes,’ he said, then tucked his sword back into his scabbard, ‘but then he would still be alive and I would not be king in his place.’

  The summer haze between the twin hills flanking the Tonsus was torn apart by a ballista bolt ripping across the green meadows, the grass underneath parting in its wake. The bolt, angled uphill, punched into the low timber gates of the Gothic fort up there. Splinters flew and the gates were all but ruined, but just to make sure, the thin twine attached the end of the bolt grew taut, and the men back at the ballista began to turn the wheel onto which the rope’s other end was fixed.

  ‘Put your backs into it!’ the Celtae Tribunus screamed, pacing back and forth behind them, his yellow plume shuddering.

  With a groan of timber, the gates bulged outwards and then exploded in a storm of fragments. The fort was breached.

  Gratian, saddled on his silver horse, kicked the beast on the flanks and caused it to rear up as if he was a war hero. ‘Forward!’ he demanded.

  The land erupted in a storm of shouts as the Celtae surged across the grass and towards the hill. Sagittarii jogged in their wake, nocking their bows as they went. Slingers ran and horsemen cantered wide of the advance. On the far banks of the river the Petulantes advanced likewise, the twin fort up there already strewn with arrow-ridden bodies, doubled over the simple picket walls of the fortified hilltop.

  Gratian let his forces charge, and only once there were plenty of them ahead of him did he advance with his Gentiles cavalry wing, the ground shaking as he went. ‘Slow,’ he urged them. He watched the leading Celtae flood uphill, shields raised like a roof as the Gothic garrison pelted them with stones and arrows. They barged through the ruined gateway wi
th ease and fell upon the few hundred defenders. Screams and the awful stench of opened bowels floated downhill. Gratian saw that every Goth up there was engaged in combat, overwhelmed and sure to die. Now was the moment, he thought, eyeing his bronze armour – the moment for a few genuine scrapes and scars. Three such stockades had fallen in this last month and not once had he managed to catch a spray of blood upon him. He had even heard one legionary laughing about him ‘parading through camp at night as if he had been any part of the victory’. Well, that legionary’s head remained in the camp, while his body had been fed to the Molossian pack. ‘Ready, and… charge!’ he cried.

  The land shuddered as he broke into a gallop, his black cape billowing in his wake like a windblown flame. With a sharp lurch, the horses raced uphill. Zing went his jewel-hilted spatha as he drew it, pinpointing a wounded and staggering Goth. Gratian spun the blade in one hand – he had always been a fine swordsman, in the practice arena anyway – and struck through the staggering Goth’s neck. The head spun away and blood – sweet, warm blood – coated him in a mizzle like a summer rain. ‘Ha!’ he shrieked.

  A Gentiles rider threw up his shield, catching a thrown axe aimed at Gratian, but the Western Emperor did not even notice, too absorbed in his next kill – the tearing open of a fleeing boy’s back. He spotted one with a face of blue spiral tattoos fighting a last stand near a horse-feeding area, up on a pile of tied hay bales, two other spearmen fighting alongside him. Celtae legionaries swarmed around them like dogs trying to claim a bone. ‘Kori!’ a few Goths near the tattooed one shouted, throwing him a spear when his own broke.