Dexion shrugged, lifting a twig from the fire and taking a piece of toasted hardtack from the end. ‘I suspected you might say that. And why should we? To return without having passed word to Emperor Gratian, eight men lighter . . . that would serve nobody. In any case, we are more than half way into the troubled stretch – closer to the upper Danubius than to Trajan’s Gate. To go back might be more dangerous than to proceed. And I promised Pavo we would return safely.’
Gallus accepted a chunk of the toasted hardtack and chewed upon it, nodding in appreciation. ‘Then our thinking is attuned. Though now we are on foot, and I fear the journey will be grim in either direction.’
Dexion’s tawny-gold eyes glazed over and the firelight danced in them. ‘So be it.’
As Dexion tended to the eel, turning it in the flames, Gallus’ mind flitted with thoughts. This journey was his and his alone. At the end of the journey waited his prize: vengeance . . . and then? Were he to be struck down having meted justice then Olivia’s words would prove true; eternity in that foggy netherworld would be his reward. But did Dexion deserve to be tangled in this deadly quest? Yet what can I do – continue on alone and send this man back through the treacherous route we have just endured, alone? he reasoned.
Gallus closed his eyes and saw the grey, marching ranks in the blackness of his mind. The shades that would never leave him. How many hundreds, thousands, now? I’m sorry, he mouthed, resting his forehead in his palms, imagining the eight brave equites joining the endless procession, trying as best he could to fend off the forming image of Dexion along with them.
‘Those riders died on the edge of Quadi blades,’ Dexion said.
Gallus looked up, somewhat shocked that the primus pilus had read his thoughts. But he saw that Dexion was absently carving the meat from the eel, his gaze distant and their deliberations having coincided.
‘As would we had you not tossed us from that precipice,’ Gallus added. ‘It takes a brave man to do what you did. You saw what happened to the rider who fell and landed on the rocks, didn’t you?’
‘Aye, I will not forget either,’ Dexion said, handing him a thick cut of eel flesh. ‘But at that moment, I had two choices: die meekly and have my head taken to some Quadi chieftain’s hall to be displayed like a trophy . . . or jump. Jump and probably be dashed on the rocks, but maybe, just maybe, to land in the water and not drown or crack my head on the bed of the ravine.’
Gallus nodded, chewing on the eel meat – tough but instantly innervating.
‘In the end, that sliver of possibility won. We’re alive. Those men did not die in vain, for we might still achieve the two things you set out to,’ Dexion continued.
Gallus stopped chewing, a sense of guilt and selfishness overcoming him. Vengeance? Justice?
‘To take word to the Western Emperor and see Thracia relieved by Gratian’s armies . . . and to return to the XI Claudia and to my brother. The last one may well be selfish, I know, but-’
‘Pavo has endured a troubled life,’ Gallus said. The words were instinctive and surprised him. ‘There is nothing selfish in wanting to be near to and protect those you love.’ He felt his ravenous appetite wane after only a few mouthfuls of meat, and took to swigging water instead. At that moment, he longed to be back in the misty netherworld, with them in his arms.
The fire crackled and they said nothing.
‘Will you return to Olivia’s side, sir?’ Dexion said at last.
Gallus switched his gaze upon Dexion like a brand. ‘What did you say?’
Dexion’s face paled. ‘I . . . your wife? You spoke her name in your sleep, over and over. I assume she is the one you would want to protect, to be beside?’
‘Then you must have heard incorrectly, Primus Pilus,’ Gallus snapped, tossed the remaining scrap of eel meat into the flames then pushed himself to his feet. His body was riven with spasms of pain and at once he wanted nothing more than to crumple back to the earth, but Dexion’s words taunted him.
I assume she is the one you would want to protect, to be beside?
‘Sir, I didn’t mean to overstep the mark,’ Dexion pleaded.
‘Tomorrow will be a hard march, but my wounds won’t slow me,’ Gallus said, gazing around the night sky, then unhooking his now-dry and smoky-scented cloak from the fireside and sweeping it around his shoulders like a blanket. ‘It would be prudent to get as much rest as we can before then.’
He uncorked his water skin and emptied the contents over the fire. With a hiss, the flames were doused, the gentle orange light was extinguished and the cove fell into blackness.
They rose at dawn the next day to find the cove dusted with a thick frost. Pools near the brook were frozen and the air had a fierce bite to it. After a light breakfast of hardtack and salted meat and very little conversation, they set off and stayed clear of the Via Militaris – instead moving along the forested lands hugging its southern edge. In here at least they were as veiled as any other cur hiding in the undergrowth in this troubled territory. Indeed, they actually observed two more Quadi bands using the Roman road as if it was their own.
‘Geridus talked of Sarmatian riders in these parts – allies, he called them. They seem to be as absent as the legions,’ Dexion mused, more to himself than to Gallus.
Gallus realised it was one of the few things the man had said all day. He felt a prickle of embarrassment on his neck as he realised how much his hasty rebuke the previous evening had cowed the man. As if to add salt to his discomfiture, his bruised ribs flared with pain. ‘They are thought to be in the north, nearer the River Danubius,’ he replied as clearly as he could without sounding snappy. But his primus pilus’ point was a strong one: they had so far tried and failed to rouse reinforcements to despatch back to Trajan’s Gate: most forts they had passed were deserted, ruined, or with only skeleton garrisons. And then there was Sardica. He could not help but emit a low growl as he remembered the fraught and brief exchange with the Governor of that city.
‘Then this place is little more than a Quadi kingdom; a sea of tribesmen with precious few islands of imperial authority,’ Dexion surmised. ‘Much like the situation in Thracia with the Goths.’
‘The Goths number hundreds of thousands. The Quadi are few and will scatter like rats when Gratian brings his army east along this path. They are merely taking advantage of the empire’s plight in other areas: as the armies are drawn to the areas of trouble – in Thracia, Persia or the Rhenus – the regions they leave behind are at the mercy of such banditry. It has always been this way. Believe me, I have seen it often enough.’
They marched on into the afternoon, noting that the clear morning sky was gradually being swallowed by ominous grey clouds. A short while later, the forest thinned and the sky unleashed a ferocious icy deluge upon them. The chill rain soaked them in moments despite the protective canopy of forest, then it turned to sleet, stinging them and numbing their extremities. The wind picked up too, sparring with them like a fist-fighter, denying their efforts to press on. Before the light had faded, both men struggled to control chattering teeth and the sleet grew blinding, driving at them.
‘We need to stop, sir,’ Dexion implored him. Clasping one hand to keep his cloak around him and the other pointing to a sheltered dip in the forest floor – the hole left behind when a giant pine had toppled and brought its roots up with it.
‘We can only be a few days from the Danubius. There, surely, Roman rule will be enforced. There, we will find riders to take word to Emperor Gratian. There, we will find reinforcements that we can send back to Trajan’s Gate. We march until darkness is upon us,’ Gallus snapped. Only as he said this did he notice the light was already slipping away.
‘Sir, tomorrow we can march at pace, but only if we find warmth and shelter for tonight.’ Dexion’s face was drawn and weary, and his eyes seemed to search Gallus. ‘If anything it will hasten our journey and . . . ’ his words faltered.
Gallus saw the passing fear on Dexion’s face and felt his stubborn, ic
y resolve thaw. ‘Aye, wise words, Primus Pilus. Let us gather kindling before the light fails.’
Chapter 17
Pavo and Sura stood by a babbling fountain at the heart of Sardica’s forum, each carefully scooping and throwing water over their faces after their hasty march. The city’s frost-coated mighty walls and turrets enveloped them in every direction, leaving just a broad square of grey sky overhead. They had marvelled at the immense arena sitting just outside the city, and admired the tall, sturdy walls too, but Sardica’s interior was even more impressive: broad streets embellished with columns, statues and sculptures to rival Constantinople itself. A vast basilica hemmed one edge of the forum, and an ornate, marble-fronted bathhouse stood at the other end. The upper tiers of the colossal arena they had marvelled at outside the city jutted even higher than the southern walls. All around them, the populace wandered, chattering, carrying wares from the market. Some were togate in the ancient tradition, many wore fine silk robes. Barely a beggar to be seen, and not one soul carried an inkling of fear in their eyes. The closest they came to showing any sign of upset was when they meandered past the fountain, noses wrinkling slightly as they looked askance at Pavo and Sura’s grubby, dusty features, tattered military garb and dull, battered helms they carried underarm.
Pavo snorted at one shrew-like woman who scowled at them. ‘They act as if the fate of the world outside these walls is not theirs to be concerned with?’
‘Aye, and they’ve got men to spare, it seems,’ Sura nodded to the battlements where a healthy garrison was posted, wrapped in scale vests, fine red cloaks and wearing polished intercisa helms that looked as if they had yet to be blessed with the swipe of a Gothic sword. ‘A good cohort’s worth, I’d say. Comitatenses too – well hoarded within these walls when they could have been put to good use outside. They should be able to spare at least half for us, eh?’
Pavo held Sura’s innocent look of hope for a moment to be sure he was being serious. ‘Let’s just meet with the governor first? Ah, here we go,’ he added, looking over Sura’s shoulder to the pair of scale-clad legionaries who approached.
‘Governor Patiens will see you now,’ the tallest one said as if addressing a beggar rolling in his own filth.
Patiens lay on his side, stretched out on a quilted day bed in a chamber just off the palace’s peristyle garden. He stroked an evil-looking cat – completely hairless like its master though lacking the gaudy paint Patiens wore on his face. Around him sat a ring of well-fed nobility, their jowels wobbling as they laughed uproariously at his tales. Pavo and Sura were stripped of their swords then shown inside by the ascetic legionary pair. Unlike the frosty streets outside, the chamber was warm like a summer’s day, and Pavo felt the heat rise from the tiled floor and the hypocaust underneath. The walls were painted with bright scenes of blossoming orchards and gardens – every flower in bloom and every fruit ripe – birds and insects and bright-eyed people in fine robes, eyes wide as if fixated on Patiens’ tales too. However, on hearing the man’s weak rhetoric and woeful humour – mostly based around highlighting how rich he was – it was clear to see this lot were mere sycophants.
The pair came to the rear of Patiens’ ring of admirers. Pavo noticed the table in the centre of the gathering, laden with many jugs of wine, goose livers, stuffed birds and roast goat. His mouth suddenly moistened and his belly gurgled, a little too eagerly.
Patiens halted his tale mid-sentence, his jovial demeanour at once falling away and a cold air replacing it. He looked to the legionary sentries escorting Pavo and Sura, flicking his head up a fraction as if to demand an explanation.
‘Legionaries from Thracia, Dominus.’
Patiens’ expression darkened further and he waved a hand to dismiss his two men.
All heads turned to Pavo and Sura.
‘Well?’ Patiens said, his neck extending and his face agape as if mocking them.
‘I am Optio Numerius Vitellius Pavo of Legio XI Claudia Pia Fidelis, Second Cohort, First Century, sir.’
‘Very good. Well done!’ Patiens sat tall, clapped his hands frantically and guffawed, looking round his ring of toadies and rousing harmonising laughter from them too. ‘Will that be all?’
Pavo felt the utter lack of respect like a stinging slap. Before replying, he had to remind himself of the huge gulf in rank between Patiens and himself. ‘We have been sent here from Trajan’s Gate in the Succi Pass. There, Comes Geridus commands only two centuries of legionaries and one of archers. He is tasked with holding the pass in anticipation of Emperor Gratian’s march east. Such a small garrison might have been adequate at the outset of this strategy, but the situation has since changed – the Gothic horde has broken through the Haemus Mountain passes and now holds central Thracia.’
He paused, expecting a reaction from Patiens. The man just glowered at him as if being pestered by some over-attentive slave. Then an incongruous and strained smile bent his face. ‘Ah, Geridus – the Coward of Ad Salices – he finds himself at a more suitable, lowly station does he? The windswept furrow that is Trajan’s Gate sounds like an ideal home for such a craven fool!’
At Patiens gentle upwards flick of his hands, the ring of admirers hooted with laughter, gripping their bellies and throwing their heads back in a sickening show of flattery. ‘The doddering oaf cried his way out of battle,’ Patiens roused them, feigning hysterics, ‘and now spends his days weeping over his own failures!’ The chamber shook with the hilarity this apparently deserved.
Pavo thought to defend Geridus but shook the notion away. ‘Sir, a wing of the Goths are right now coming west. Five thousand men, led by a murderous bastard,’ he said this and had to stop to compose himself. But the venom behind the last word brought wide-eyes from the onlookers. ‘They are set on breaking through Trajan’s Gate and spilling into these lands,’ he jabbed a finger at the fine, heated and tiled floor. Still, no reaction. ‘Governor, should they succeed then your fine city is the first they will fall upon.’ Now he fell silent and vowed to remain that way until the man replied.
Patiens’ nostrils flared. ‘These leeegionaries from Thracia seem to have brought our gathering to an end.’ He flicked up his hands as if to wave the toadies away.
One long-necked and cross-eyed groveler misread Patiens’ signal and erupted in laughter at this, only to fall instantly silent and hang his head in shame as the Governor shot him an icy look. Patiens clapped his hands this time and, like a flock of scattering geese, his audience was gone. The governor stood and waved Pavo and Sura with him. He walked with a swaying gait, muttering to himself as he went, leading them up a red-veined marble staircase that wound through floor after floor. They came to a green-speckled porphyry chamber that opened out onto a semi-circular balcony edged with a carved balustrade. The view was a vertiginous and fine one, overlooking the fine street plan of Sardica’s halls, villas, gardens and markets. Many storeys high, it even afforded a perfect vista beyond the city’s walls and down into the floor of the arena just outside. The chill winter air up here was spiced with sweet woodsmoke from small sconces glowing at the corners of the balcony.
Patiens absently admired his fine city, as if he had forgotten about his visitors. Pavo and Sura shared a concerned look, each conscious of the vitality of every passing moment.
‘Sir, of all the matters that trouble my legion, time is the-’
Patiens raised a hand to cut him off. ‘Your tribunus passed through my city over a week ago. I know all there is to know.’
Pavo felt a wave of relief. ‘Tribunus Gallus was here?’
‘Yes, yes,’ Patiens waved his hands dismissively. ‘His primus pilus and eight riders too.’
Dexion! Pavo felt the hard ball of tension that had lingered in his stomach since his brother and Gallus had set off ease just a little. Still much might have happened to them since they had passed through here, but it gave him hope.
‘They were in a damned hurry to ride west,’ Patiens continued. ‘Like you, they thought they could simp
ly commandeer my garrison. They were wrong.’
‘Sir, the matter is simple. With just the few hundred men we have currently, the pass will fall and Farnobius’ Goths will be at your walls before long. More, this will divert Emperor Gratian’s campaign away from Thracia, and might even condemn those lands to defeat at the hands of the main Gothic horde.’ He stepped forward, daring to rest his hands on the balcony by Patiens’ side like an equal – a step too far on the rungs of social etiquette, probably, but the issue had to be pressed. ‘Grant us three of your centuries, sir, and the pass can be held.’
‘Can be held? You don’t sound so sure, legionary,’ Patiens hissed, eyeing him askance.
‘Victory cannot be guaranteed. Few things in life can – bar the scorching sun in June and that high tides will follow low . . . and that if we do not have more men and weapons and armour to equip those already at the pass, it will fall.’
Patiens forced a woefully inadequate smile. ‘Fine walls protect my city,’ he said. ‘I am no military man, but Goths do not break down city walls, or so I believe.’
Pavo frowned and snatched a glance over his shoulder to see Sura’s eyes narrowing too. ‘No, but they build ladders and swarm up them like maddened ants. They might not take your walls, but by Mithras, they will try . . . and there are plenty of them to replace those who might fail at first. Spare your citizens the threat of hearing these barbarous whoresons clawing at the battlements.’
‘A cohort of comitatenses legionaries makes a strong garrison for these fine walls,’ Patiens continued as if Pavo had not spoken. ‘Were I to dilute their number on some lost cause . . . ’
‘Sir, I implore you,’ he reached out to clasp the governor’s arm. A screech of steel halted him.
‘Not another inch,’ a stony voice spoke from the archway leading out to the balcony. Pavo and Sura swung round to see the grim legionary pair standing there, the tall one’s spatha part unsheathed.
Legionary: The Scourge of Thracia (Legionary 4) Page 25