‘What then?’ he replied.
Pavo’s eyes darted, then met with Sura’s. He looked to Cornix: ‘Okay, take forty and do as you suggest,’ he motioned to the crest of the knoll. ‘But hold them up there.’
‘Sir?’ Cornix frowned.
‘Do it!’ Pavo hissed, then waved the rest of the century with him.
Pavo and his men flitted round to the edge of the hillock. There he saw the two sides: Quadratus, Rectus, Libo and the Sardicans, crouched and scuttling up one side and Cornix and his forty racing up the other – destined to clash on the brow. ‘Hold!’ Pavo whispered, lifting one hand to halt his forty as the two forces met up there, yelping in fright more than anything before clashing together. Poles and wooden training swords clacked against shields. Quadratus’ eighty men pushed against Cornix’ forty. In moments, the weight of numbers started to tell, with the big Gaul’s century driving Cornix’ forty back downhill.
Pavo saw Quadratus hold back, confusion pinching his face. ‘Hold on – this is only half of-’
‘And . . . forward!’ Pavo roared, drowning out Quadratus’ words as he led his forty round and up the far side of the ridge, racing for Quadratus’ rear.
‘You wiry bastard!’ Quadratus howled as Pavo rushed up behind him, tapping him with his wooden pole. ‘Kill,’ he said as the rest of his men swept in on the rear of the Sardicans.
‘Enough!’ Quadratus bellowed as they clashed and tumbled onto the grass, but still a few playful jabs of wooden weapons were exchanged. ‘I said enough!’
The play-fighting ended abruptly. Even Pavo was taken aback by Quadratus’ tone. Then he followed the big Gaul’s wide-eyed stare. There, less than a quarter mile away, a small cluster of riders watched on from a promontory nearby, east of the valley mouth. Just twenty or so of them.
Pavo staggered forward a few steps, the vicious wind ruffling his hair.
Huns.
They watched like sentinels, their long, fine dark hair and the manes of their ponies whipping in the wind, their bows nocked but resting across their saddles. For a moment, Pavo was sure they would loose and pepper him and Quadratus with arrows. Then one of the Huns waved the rest away with him, racing back down towards the Thracian plains.
‘Farnobius’ scouts?’ Sura uttered.
‘Aye,’ Pavo replied. ‘And how far behind is their master?’
Quadratus’ eyes combed the horizon. ‘We have days. If we’re lucky.’
Chapter 20
The hall inside the quadriburgium on the sandbank island echoed with the snapping, cracking and squelching of a feast being enjoyed by many, yet only one man indulged in the fare. Gallus watched as the figure across the table set about his meal. The candle was guttering, and when cast in shade, Clothar the Quadi King had an air of humanity about him. But when the flame leapt up again, it cast his cadaverous skull-face and thin wisps of fawn hair into sharp relief. The man was ill, that much was clear, and seemingly determined to eat all he could as if to defy his sickness.
Clothar tugged at the end of a bone and drew it from his mouth, his decaying, yellowed teeth stripping it bare of every last morsel of flesh, the juices spilling down his receding gums and over his grey lips and bony chin. ‘What is wrong, Romans? You are not hungry?’ he said, taking up another joint of goat meat.
Gallus and Dexion said nothing. They had suffered no ill-treatment since their capture on the beach of the sandbank island two evenings previous. Indeed, they had been given water and bread each morning along with clean, dry tunics to wear. Despite this, Gallus sensed a bleak future. It was something to do with Clothar’s demeanour, the way he beheld his captives and even his own men with a wolfish, animal air. Clothar had set this captured Roman quadriburgium up as his residence, it seemed. A wise choice, given that the empire could not retake it without men and a flotilla of sorts. With Clothar at the table was another pair of Quadi – high-ranking nobles, it seemed, going by the jewelled bracelets they wore and their smooth and relatively unworked hands. Quadi sentries stood at each corner of the hall, and Birgir – the pale, flat-faced hunter – stood just behind Clothar’s chair like a guard-dog.
‘Refusing food is poor etiquette,’ Clothar tutted and wagged a finger, then chuckled at his own joke before gulping down wine. ‘Worthy of reprimand!’ he added, his skeletal grin broadening as he looked to his two fellow nobles as if to bring them in on the jest. The two – one shaven-headed and one red-haired – looked nervously at one another, then laughed too.
Their reaction confirmed everything Gallus had assumed about Clothar.
‘Three years ago, there was a banquet just like this,’ Clothar said, gesturing to the plates of meat, fruit, wine jugs and bread between them. ‘Romans ate with Quadi. Except,’ he held a finger in the air as if to freeze time, ‘at this banquet it was a Roman who had invited the Quadi to dine.’ He stopped to gnash at more goat meat. ‘And no ordinary Roman . . . Emperor Valentinian, no less,’ Clothar leant forward, his teeth bared in a foul rictus uplit by the candle.
Gallus’ mind raced. Valentinian’s last years had been spent fighting these dogs – indeed, it was said that the old Western Emperor had died in apoplexy at their impudence. If only his agents had suffered such a fate too, he mused bitterly.
‘King of the Quadi before me – Gabinus, my brother – was Valentinian’s guest that evening.’
Gallus felt an even darker mood settle across the table: even the two nobles shuffled uncomfortably on their seats.
‘He came in good faith, hoping to strike some truce with your emperor,’ Clothar continued through a mouthful of meat. Then he slowed, chewing carefully, decisively, his colourless tongue lashing out across his lips. ‘But Valentinian had one of his agents put a cord around Gabinus’ neck as he ate. Choked the life from him,’ Clothar’s nostrils flared and his sunken eyes came alive with wrath, his shoulders squared and he stood a fraction from his seat like some corpse rising from the grave, ‘then tossed his body to the dogs!’
The end of the tale echoed around the hall. Gallus imagined a Quadi tribesman stealing up behind him with a taut cord readied to be wrapped around his neck in retribution. He did not flinch.
Clothar slumped back, then laughed mirthlessly. ‘If you do not wish to eat now, I understand,’ he purred. ‘For your minds will no doubt be on what fate I have in store for you?’
Gallus remained tight-lipped. He mocked the first gnashings of fear in his belly and refused to look away from Clothar’s steely stare.
‘The Roman garrison we bested to take this place and your fortress-city on the southern banks . . . we took a few hundred alive. They have kept me entertained for some time – I believe you saw my means of making two legionaries from one, outside? Well, your emperor is always keen to raise more numbers for the legions, isn’t he? I was merely helping him in that respect,’ he said with a hoarse chuckle, then leant forward again, the feral grin returning. ‘But the thing is . . . I have run out of subjects.’ He glanced to the leather bags lying by the doorway, Gallus’ plumed intercisa and Dexion’s white-plumed helm visible. ‘So to have two officers walk into my clutches is a fine thing indeed. At first light, the treetops will be bent down once again, and two officers will become four . . . ’
Gallus stared through the high barred opening at the wisps of freezing mist that flitted by outside. This dank, dark and featureless chamber was to be theirs for the night and at dawn they were to be led out for execution at the grim elm trees. The chamber’s thick wooden door had been locked hours ago. They had sat in silence at first, then the fort began to echo with the howling and snarling of dogs and the wailing of some poor soul. That had finished some time ago, and Gallus guessed there were only a few more hours until dawn.
Dexion sighed, his eyes closed and his head resting against the cell wall. Gallus wondered what this one pondered in these, his final few hours.
‘Why did you leave him – and the others – behind, sir?’ Dexion said at barely a whisper.
The
words were like a brand on Gallus’ neck. He could not meet Dexion’s eye as they echoed around the room. ‘Pavo and the Claudia veterans? Because I needed them to remain at the pass, not to die out here on this miserable journey of ours,’ he said at last.
Dexion did not reply. ‘Then I am disposable?’ he joked weakly.
‘No, you are a hardy soldier and I needed just such by my side. The Succi Pass requires a legion if it is to be held. The Claudia do not need me: Zosimus, Quadratus, Pavo and Sura, they could all lead my legion. They will lead the legion and they will hold the pass. That’s why I left them behind.’
‘That and, I suspect, because you care for them,’ Dexion suggested tentatively.
Gallus looked to Dexion, unflinching. ‘A tribunus who cares for his men will find himself beset with grief,’ he said, the truth of it lancing his heart. ‘I chose the best men to stay behind, and the best man to come west. These choices have to be made, and if that means some men might die, then it becomes a choice of whom. The choice of a tribunus . . . a choice without a trace of glory or honour.’ His words trailed off with a bitter edge and he ran his hands across his face to rid himself of the prickling shame.
‘I understand,’ Dexion said quietly. ‘Back at that burnt-out villa, when Pavo and Sura were trapped inside as the Goths approached, I had no place questioning you. My emotions took hold of me when I should have known better. As an officer, it is expected of you to send men to their deaths and carry on, unblemished. Indeed, when I was a centurion in the I Italica, I posted sixteen men to hold a fort gate when we were attacked by Goths. I knew as I spoke those words that those men were going to die. But they would gain us a sliver of time – enough to see the rest of the century out of the rear gate and to safety.’ He gazed into the shadows at the far side of the cell as he spoke, as if imagining their faces there. For just a moment, Gallus almost thought he could see them too. ‘I didn’t have much time to think about it, and I only realised afterwards that I had chosen the lads I did not know so well. I had spared the ones I considered my friends.’ He shook his head and chuckled coldly, his breath puffing in the cool air. ‘And the next time I saw my optio, he looked at me as a drunk might behold a cup of water. Pure, utter loathing. Why didn’t you put me on the gate? he said. They were just boys.’ He shook his head. ‘I may not have scars on my flesh from that battle . . . but some wounds are so deep that the scar lies buried within. Invisible.’ He fell silent, staring into the middle-distance.
‘It is said that a man’s choices define him,’ Gallus said at last. ‘And if that is true, it chills me to my marrow to think what I have become. But while I scourge myself over lost comrades, I know that not once . . . not once . . . has a man died needlessly or at least without good reason under my watch.’ His gaze grew steely. ‘But there are some who infest the empire like lice, burrowing, gnawing, feasting on the flesh of good men, breaking the spirits of heroes and dealing death like a black currency.’
‘You speak of the Speculatores?’ Dexion asked.
Gallus’ head snapped round upon him.
Dexion balked. ‘I . . . I know now why I should not have asked after your wife and boy,’ he said.
Gallus frowned, then realisation dawned. In these last days of arduous travel, he had found himself for once drowsy and quick to sleep whenever they stopped and made camp in the forests. Most days he had awoken fresh and revitalised, but some days, the nightmares had persisted until dawn. ‘I have often been told that I talk in my sleep. I presume that in these last weeks, I have been somewhat rambling?’
Dexion smiled sympathetically. ‘You spoke of the agents of the West. Not in any detail – just enough to make it clear that they were responsible. I do not wish to anger you again, just to let you know that I understand.’
Gallus beheld him with a sideways look. ‘Do you, truly?’
‘Perhaps not,’ Dexion conceded. A moment of silence passed, then the primus pilus added; ‘But tell me, give me a chance to understand.’
Gallus sighed and slumped. It seemed for a while that he was finished and would say no more. ‘Those parasites feasted upon the blood of those I loved,’ he said suddenly, breaking the silence. ‘They took a simple man’s life and wrung it, strangled it of joy and affection. They created me.’ His mind threw up a medley of images: the numb escape from northern Italy into the Eastern Empire; the haunted face he saw staring up at him when he stopped to drink from a stream; the gaunt, unfeeling husk he had become as the weeks had passed; the utter lack of pity as he tore his blade across the throat of the first speculatore sent to assassinate him – the blade sawing back and forth until it rasped against the cur’s spine and Gallus’ whole arm was wet with hot blood; the many more who had been sent to complete the task and died just as abruptly; Avitus, the little optio who had been sent to try once more, but who had turned, instead defending Gallus loyally until his death at Ad Salices.
‘All I know of the Speculatores is that they are dark, dark bastards,’ Dexion said, his face lengthening. His eyes darted and he licked his lips nervously. ‘Sir, you came West only to alert Emperor Gratian to the situation in Thracia, didn’t you? Assure me of this. Tell me you do not plan to confront him or these agents of his?’
Gallus gazed into the blackness of the cell. He wondered if, by dawn tomorrow, his torment would be over – brutally but swiftly by virtue of the elm treetops. Then, who would know his story? Who would care? In these final hours, perhaps it was time to speak the words he had never spoken. He recalled then the solemn confession of Carbo, moments before the troubled man had met his end. If I cannot face the past, then perhaps I should share it? He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. ‘I have no quarrel with the Western Emperor. But his agents? Well, let me tell you a story. When I am finished, you can ask me that question again.’
Dexion nodded uncertainly.
Gallus’ eyes grew glassy as he searched back into the past. ‘There was a senator called Nonus who lived in Italia, not far from the city of Mediolanum in the north. He was an affable old fellow who could talk and talk without drawing breath. He owned plush farmlands in the Po Valley and needed many workers to tend them.’ Gallus held out his hands, examining the chapped, rough edges of his fingers in the ghostly moonlight. ‘He might have bought slaves to till the soil and gather his harvest, but he did not. My wife and I were granted a small, single-roomed home on his estate along with other families. We rose at dawn, worked in the fields all morning, rested and drank cool water and ate bread in the shade of the olive groves during the hottest hours, then worked all afternoon too. I suffered not a lash on my back nor a cross word from old Nonus. He had a strong company of hired guards that watched his villa, but nobody supervised his farmlands. Trust was granted and rewarded. When it came to harvest time, Nonus’ fare was legendary – dates, olives, marrows, carrots, asparagus and the sweetest honey – all bounteous and delicious, for we worked those lands as if they were our own. The old senator paid us well and treated us as friends. We had the pleasure of dining with him at his home more than once: not some stuffy, pompous show of affectation, no, just a simple meal enjoyed with earnest friends.’
‘Later, when Olivia fell pregnant, she could not work. I worried that her condition might anger Nonus or stretch his patience. But instead, when I told him the news, the old man embraced me with tears in his eyes. He said he would make sure that the finest obstetrix would be there to help with the birth. His wife had been barren and died young, you see, so he had never had children. He told me on that day that he saw those who lived on his lands as the closest thing he would ever have to progenies of his own. Marcus was born the following summer, on a sweltering July afternoon. Nonus was there, his tears flowing again. Olivia hugged our baby boy and I cradled them both in my arms. In all my life, I have never known such a tranquil moment, and I longed for nothing other than those I had right there with me.’
Gallus paused as a long-forgotten pang of emotion caught him off guard then. A thickening around
his throat, a stinging behind his eyes. The hooting of an owl outside the cell brought the steeliness to the fore once again.
‘It was under a waning September moon that the Speculatores approached me. They came in the guise of wanderers, you see, a pair of them ambling across our farmlands dressed as common men. They said they were stuck without a place to stay and I offered them the hay bales in the barn by our home. They asked if they could have something to drink and eat before they retired and again I obliged, bringing them stew, bread and wine. We chatted in hushed voices so as not to wake Olivia and Marcus, and for all the world I could have believed they were who they claimed to be. Until one of them asked me if I had heard of Nonus’ recent activities in the Senate House. It seemed that he had spoken out against Emperor Valentinian’s policy of making war with the Quadi. I sensed it then – their true motive. I did not know the exact nature of what they were to ask of me but I knew it would be ignoble. And it was. Lead Senator Nonus to the cliffs by Lake Benacus, they whispered like friends seeking to help me, then walk away when you see our agents approaching. Then their friendly demeanour dropped from their faces. And if you consider defying us, one of them said then nodded towards the open doorway into my home. There, in the blackness, I could just make out Olivia and Marcus, sleeping on the bed. Standing over them was another figure, a third man in a dark red robe, his face masked in a veil. He twirled a small dagger in his fingers so as to catch the moonlight. It hovered just inches above their sleeping forms. The message was stark and unequivocal. They left after that. I spent the rest of that night, sitting by the bed, watching Olivia and Marcus, asleep, unaware. They knew nothing of the Speculatores’ visit. I looked out through the doorway and across the estate to Nonus’ villa – well-protected by his troop of bodyguards – and wondered if the old man had any inkling of what had happened, just an arrow-shot away from his home.’
Legionary: The Scourge of Thracia (Legionary 4) Page 30