‘But can the empire fund such an initiative?’ Gallus gripped the battlements.
Traianus cocked an eyebrow. ‘Can it afford not to? In times past, emperors would baulk at stripping the empire of its dignity and its rich heritage in the face of neccesity. Even Emperor Valens hesitated before giving me this order.’ He turned to look Gallus in the eye, ‘But the order has been given. Churches and palaces are being stripped of gold as we speak.’
Gallus’ eyes widened, and he turned to squint back over the shimmering city; sure enough, workmen spidered across the domes and rooftops, and the tink-tink of chisels and hammers rang out. Even the churches were being stripped of their gold and silver Chi-Rho crests. So the Christian God truly does aid our cause, he thought, wryly, thumbing the idol of Mithras in his purse. He twisted back to look to the north, now the realm of the Goths. Then, memories of the wail of their war horns echoed through his mind. His train of thought ended with an icy shiver.
‘But you should ease your mind of the troubles of this land,’ Traianus continued, ‘for a short time at least. Emperor Valens asked me to take note of the better men in your legion. He has a job for you elsewhere. A place where trouble is rife.’
‘Sir?’ Gallus frowned.
A roar of drunken joy erupted across the sun-baked courtyard attached to the inn, rivalling the cry from the nearby Hippodrome. The crowds bustling through the market stalls of the Augusteum twisted for a moment, peering over the ivy-clad half-wall to see the source of the joviality; a circle of bandaged men in legionary tunics, crowded around one table. Then, with a decisive thud, cups, ale and wine fountained up into the air from the midst of the circle.
‘Whoreson!’ Zosimus spat, wrenching his hand from the arm wrestling contest.
Laughter broke out as Quadratus grinned back at him, a hundred hands slapping the big Gaulish centurion’s back.
‘Easy!’ Quadratus winced as one well-wisher slapped a little too hard on his stitched shoulder blade.
‘Rematch!’ Zosimus demanded, stabbing a finger into the table as Felix started handing out winnings from the gambling pot.
‘Leave it out,’ the primus pilus called back, ‘even I could beat you.’
At this, Zosimus roared. ‘Right, get over here!’
A roar of laughter erupted once more at this, and a perplexed-looking Felix could not fend off the other legionaries as they swept him back to the table to make good on his assertion.
Sitting at a table in the corner, Pavo looked on. A smile touched just one side of his lips as he watched them. Then it dissolved as he realised who he had picked up this habit from. He swirled his cup and took another swig of the bittersweet ale, then turned back to Felicia, nestled beside him. Her blue eyes sparkled as she looked up to him, and she had applied a striking ochre to her lips, stark against her milky skin.
‘You’re beautiful,’ he stroked her hair, pleated into two tails, ‘even more so now that you’re smiling again. It seems like a long time since I’ve seen you so happy.’
She placed a hand on his knee. ‘It’s been harder than anything to let go of it, Pavo, harder even than losing Curtius in the first place. But I have let it go, and it feels like a dark cloud has been blown from my heart.’ She looked around to check no others could hear her, then glanced to the twenty five brimming cups of ale at an unoccupied table – the legionaries’ tribute to optio Avitus. ‘I don’t take any comfort from Avitus’ death. Had he survived, I can only hope that I would still have been true to my new convictions.’
Pavo nodded. The drinking had begun with a solemn toast to the little Roman. And beforehand, he and Felicia had decided that Avitus’ past as a speculatore was to remain a secret. More, Pavo had kept Avitus’ final revelation to himself; to tell Felicia that Curtius had been killed en route to assasinating Gallus would only stain her memories of her brother. No, what was done was done, and Avitus was gone. The little Roman had fought like a lion as a legionary since those days – perhaps, Pavo mused, to repent for some of the sins he had commited at the order of his shadowy superiors?
‘He wanted you to know how sorry he was,’ Pavo said, his mind drifting to that moment in the heat of battle when Avitus had bled his last. ‘Neither your father nor Curtius, nor Avitus for that matter, would have wanted you to live in bitterness.’
She did not reply, instead closing her eyes and nodding with a gentle smile. A single tear escaped her closed eyelids. ‘I’ll never forget them,’ she spoke softly, ‘but now I have you, Pavo.’
Then she rested her head against his chest. He nuzzled into her amber locks and wrapped an arm around her, breathing in her sweet scent. He closed his eyes. This was it, he thought. Felicia was his woman and the rugged veterans of the XI Claudia were his brothers. Neither were his blood, but all were his family.
But they’re not Father, a voice whispered in his mind again.
He blinked open his eyes and realised he was unwittingly thumbing the bronze phalera through his tunic. He frowned; every legionary from Illyricum to Constantinople would be vital in the war against the Goths, it seemed. His future lay in these lands. But Traianus’ words burned in his thoughts.
In the east, in the desert salt mines, many live on to this day . . .
His mind flitted to the dunes from his dream. What if . . . ?
‘We have our home here now,’ Felicia spoke, her voice half-muffled as she pushed against his chest, ‘and perhaps one day we could open an inn, just like The Boar in Durostorum?’
He kissed the top of her head and rubbed her shoulders, the idea soothing his thoughts.
But what of Father? The voice came again.
He pinched at the top of his nose, screwing up his eyes to clear his mind.
Then, a cry erupted from the cluster of legionaries and Zosimus stood, arms in the air, roaring in victory, his face beetroot-red. ‘Yes!’ He cried.
The winnings were handed out. Then a rather merry Sura bounded over and sat, causing the table to shudder. Pavo caught his cup just as it was about to spill, then shot his friend a grin, which Sura returned with interest.
‘Made a killing,’ Sura said with a hint of a slur to his voice, extending his hand to reveal a pile of folles. ‘Next round is on me! Pavo, you need some more ale by the looks of it.’
Pavo shrugged, eyebrows raised, feeling the sweet giddiness of the first cup swirling behind his eyes. ‘Aye, make it a large one,’ he grinned.
‘Felicia?’ Sura asked.
‘I’ll stick to water, thank you,’ she replied, a hint of disapproval in her voice as she glanced up to Pavo and then back to Sura.
Pavo smiled as Sura swaggered back to the bar and pushed through to get served. Then he noticed from the corner of his eye that a tall, lean figure had entered the courtyard.
Tribunus Gallus swept his wolven glare around the scene of his drunken legionaries. Instinctively, Pavo sat straighter, squaring his shoulders. He moved his ale cup out of view, hoping the Tribunus might not see him, tucked in here at the corner of the courtyard.
‘XI Claudia!’ Gallus barked.
At once, the crowd turned to Gallus and stiffened to attention. The Tribunus’ nose wrinkled as he eyed the spilled ale cups and then glared at the isolated figure of Sura, halfway back from the bar, standing in his best legionary rigidity with a foaming cup of ale in each hand.
‘Come dawn the day after tomorrow, I want you to muster at the northern city barracks.’
Pavo and the legionaries of the XI Claudia shared nervous glances. Was the next stage of the Gothic War upon them already?
‘A vexillatio is to be identified and despatched to Antioch . . . ’ Gallus turned to the corner of the courtyard to look Pavo in the eye. For just a heartbeat, the Tribunus’ lips were touched with that elusive hint of a smile. ‘We’re going east!’
Pavo’s heart thundered. He glanced to Sura, then to Felicia.
The phalera burned on his chest.
The End
Author’s Note
&n
bsp; Dear Reader,
Firstly, I’d like to thank you warmly for reading my novel – support from readers like you means everything to me as an author. Next, I’d like to share with you my approach to blending the story of Legionary: Viper of the North into a very real and pivotal point in late antiquity;
In the 1st century AD, far to the east of the Roman world, somewhere near modern-day Mongolia, something happened that would tilt the course of history irreversibly. Aggression and overpopulation on those windswept and craggy steppes saw a horde of hardy, nomadic horsemen known as the Huns begin an inexorable migration westwards. They seemed set on chasing the setting sun, sending entire peoples into flight as they moved west. This triggered what historians now describe as ‘The Great Migration’, a momentous gravitation of population from the east towards Europe. The Huns’ mastery of archery and mounted warfare saw them subjugate almost every tribe they came across in the steppes and then Scythia. The Roman historian, Ammianus Marcellinus, tells how peoples such as the Alani, the Agathyrsi, the Anthropophagi, the Budini, the Geloni, the Melanchaenae and the Neuri all fell under the Hunnic yoke over the next few centuries. These tribes were then pressed into service for the Hunnic advance on the next westerly target: Gutthiuda, land of the Goths and the last buffer between the Huns and the Roman Empire.
In late 376 AD, the Gothic armies were fractured, with many rival ‘Judges’ competing for ultimate power. But when the Huns appeared en-masse on their northern borders, they at last set aside their differences. After countless years of squabbling, the many disparate factions were at once forged together in the fires of adversity, with Fritigern emerging as their leader. But, caught unawares by such a ferocious army of invaders, the unified Goths quickly realised that they could not stand their ground and fight. So, like every other people who had found themselves in the Huns’ path, the Goths fled for their lives, to the south, to the Danube and to the Eastern Empire.
The limitanei legions garrisoning the forts along the River Danube were understrength, underequipped and ill-prepared for any major border activity. Added to that, they found themselves as the guardians of Thracia and Moesia after Emperor Valens had summoned the bulk of the field armies of those provinces to the Persian frontier. So when Fritigern and a sea of Gothic warriors and families appeared on the northern banks of the Danube appealing for sanctuary, the legions had no option but to allow them entry. The exact number of Goths that arrived that day varies from source to source; some suggest up to one million, others estimate more conservatively at around one hundred thousand. Even at the lower end of the scale, this represented an unprecedented unification and mobilisation of the previously disparate Gothic tribes and posed a massive problem for the Roman province of Moesia Inferior. Ammianus, writing some years after the event, describes the Gothic crossing of the Danube as fervent and troubled;
‘The crowd was such that, though the river is the most dangerous in the world . . . a large number tried to swim and were drowned in their struggle against the force of the stream.’
Emperor Valens is thought to have applied some retrospective spin to this tumultuous event, lauding the Goths as ready-made reinforcements for the patchy border legions. In reality, however, it was the first of many dark days for the empire. Famine soon gripped the overpopulated refugee camp and the surrounding Roman settlements. But it was the deeds of certain Romans that cast the darkest shadow; in the absence of the imperial field armies, it was left to a certain Comes Lupicinus to receive Fritigern and his people on the day of the crossings. Ammianus describes Lupicinus as; ‘a loathsome general . . . the source of all our troubles.’ Indeed, it is thought that Lupicinus’ actions and those of the men under his command triggered the subsequent Gothic revolt. Their ill-treatment of the Goths at the initial refugee camp near the Danubius – including the barter of rotten dog meat for Gothic slaves – is well documented, and is thought to have sparked Fritigern’s march upon Marcianople in search of food. Then, at the city, Lupicinus’ botched assassination attempt on Fritigern (the historical texts suggest the assassination attempt took place at a banquet within Marcianople, so I admit employing a poetic licence in my alternative presentation of this event) destroyed the last vestige of allegiance, prompting the enraged iudex to rally his armies and declare war upon the empire. Thus, the Gothic War had begun.
As Fritigern and his hordes rampaged around the Moesian countryside, many more Goths flooded over the Danube to seek refuge from the Huns and to swell the iudex’s army. Added to this, many Gothic soldiers serving in the imperial ranks deserted their legions to fight alongside their kinsmen. Indeed, Suerdias and Colias of the garrison of Adrianople are cited in historical texts as noble centurions who initially had no intention of betraying the empire until the governor of the city forced their hand, demanding they leave;
‘At first they remained loyal to Rome but the situation changed when they were ordered to move east . . . out of fear that they would join Fritigern.’
It is thought that the governor’s order was part-borne of misguided resentment, as his villa had recently been ransacked by Goths. But it was a costly misjudgement. A baying mob of citizens under the governor’s employ tried to expedite the departure of the Gothic garrison. Cornered by this armed rabble, the Goths had no option but to fight back, so Suerdias and Colias led their legionaries in slaying many of the hostile citizens. Enraged and disenfranchised, the pair and their men then raided the city’s imperial warehouses of arms and supplies then left with haste, proceeding immediately to join Fritigern’s ranks.
The Battle of Ad Salices, otherwise known as The Battle of the Willows, took place in the spring of 377 AD and was the first major field battle of the Gothic War. The site of the battle is unknown, but it is thought to be within twenty kilometres of Marcianople, near the edge of the Haemus Mountains on a plain with a small willow grove. Ammianus describes how the Goths lined up with their rear ranks taking advantage of the nearby high ground, and had a circle of wagons serving as a form of barrier or bunker. He explains how the hostilities began with a lengthy exchange of missiles before the infantry of the two sides clashed. Then he writes of how the Roman left wing faltered before being reinforced at a critical moment. The encounter is thought to have been particularly bloody, with Ammianus writing that;
‘ . . . the whole place was filled with corpses . . . some lay among them still half alive, vainly cherishing a hope of life, some of them having been pierced with bullets hurled from slings, others with arrows barbed with iron. Some again had their heads cloven in half with blows of swords.’
He goes on to say that the battle only ended when; ‘At last the day yielded to the evening and put an end to the deadly contest.’ The battle was deemed to be a draw, and served as a bloody precursor of the many clashes that were to come.
While my depiction of Traianus’ early military career is fictional, it is accepted that he led the army despatched from the east to fight at The Battle of the Willows. It is recorded that he held the position of ‘Magister Peditum’ at this point in his career, but it appears that this post and that of ‘Magister Militum’ became interchangeable in the later 4th century. Thus, I have decorated him with the latter title to achieve consistency and reduce confusion as to his rank. Put simply, he answered only to Emperor Valens. Also, Count Richomeres was almost certainly involved in the battle from the start, so for my take on his minimal part in the clash I again acknowledge a dose of artistic licence.
Regarding locations; Athanaric’s citadel of Dardarus is fictional, but most probably such a fortified settlement existed after he and his people moved into the heart of the Carpathians seeking more defensible land. Likewise, the grim landmark of Wodinscomba (translating roughly as ‘Wodin’s Hollow’) was invented to illustrate the climate of tension between Fritigern and Athanaric. Apart from these two places, all other features on the map pages give a realistic overview of the lay of the land at the outbreak of the Gothic War – a war that lasted for years and saw the fate
of the Eastern Empire hang in the balance.
So the story has only just begun and Pavo and the legionaries of the XI Claudia will most certainly be back for more. I hope you anticipate reading the next volume as much as I look forward to writing it! Until then, please feel free to visit my website where you can find out more about me and my work.
Yours faithfully,
Gordon Doherty
www.gordondoherty.co.uk
Glossary
Ala; A unit of Roman cavalry, numbering anywhere between a few hundred and a thousand.
Aquilifer; Senior eagle standard bearer of a Roman legion.
Ballista; Roman bolt-throwing artillery that was primarily employed as an anti-personnel weapon on the battlefield.
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