‘Thank you, sir, I understand,’ Pavo offered.
‘Just remember, lads, no matter what this mission throws at us, every single one of us will be there by your side, sword in hand, ready to bleed for you,’ he leaned forward, the candlelight flickering in his eyes, ‘to die for you.’
The huddle of legionaries welcomed the statement with a unified roar of approval. Those who had been asleep in their beds groaned rather more disapprovingly. Gallus nodded to Pavo then turned and left them. It was a stony, cold nod, but Pavo’s chest bristled with pride.
Chapter 37
A vulture soared on a zephyr, high above the neck of the peninsula. The skies were clear, but so was the ground – not even a hint of blood or scraps anywhere. The vulture drifted on across the mountainous ridge, crossing over into Bosporus. At once, the ground turned from grey green to deep crimson. Circling below, thousands of fellow carrion birds eyed the growing pile of carcasses in growing impatience. The vulture swooped to join them.
‘Pile them higher!’ Apsikal barked at his soldiers. ‘Noble Balamber will only be happy when the Tengri the sky god can taste their blood…and the Romans can see the tip from their cities!’ He strolled amongst the gore-spattered troops, swiping at bloodspots on his own mail vest as he went. Seven thousand bodies, stripped of armour and jewels. These Goths were no match for Hun warfare. A victory won with only a few hundred casualties on their side. The Hun juggernaut was unstoppable, he enthused, turning to take in the sea of yurts filling the plain to the horizon. Horses whinnied at every remaining spot of open grass, feasting on the sparse pickings jealously. He strode over to his mount, stroking its ears as it munched. ‘Not long now,’ he whispered. ‘Soon you will be feasting in the gardens of the Roman Emperor.’
Apsikal looked up at the tent of Balamber; a large enclosure, but certainly not embellished in any way – he was too wily to let his love for jewels and riches show. The Huns did not live under a king, but the strongest noble held power just as great as one. The men feared Balamber absolutely, but they loved him too. Being a horde leader, seeing Balamber’s wrath first hand almost daily, Apsikal knew only of the fear, and it was time to report on the battle. He could not stall any longer. To lie and live, or tell the truth and die? His heart thundered.
He ducked as he entered the inviting warmth of the hide tent. The setup inside was simple; areas were sectioned off to make the entrance lobby he stood in, a room for his concubines and a council room. Oil lamps flickered in the gloom, casting dancing shadows across the stern figures of Balamber’s personal guard. They parted without a sound as he approached.
Apsikal felt as though he was descending into an underground labyrinth as the curtains flapped behind him and a scent of burning meat curled around his nostrils; the council room was darker still and only a dim outline of Balamber was visible at the far end, slumped on his rudimentary throne – a simple timber bench on a raised platform. Apsikal approached gingerly, stopping at the foot of the platform. He looked up at the shadowy outline of the man; the man who had led their people through poverty and famine, moulding them into an army that nobody in the east could resist.
‘Noble Balamber,’ Apsikal spoke, his voice trembled. Moments passed with nothing but painful silence. Then Balamber shuffled to sit upright, to his full and towering height.
The first thing Apsikal noticed was the intensity in his leader’s eyes. Was it fury? Like Apsikal and most of the Huns, Balamber wore a snaking moustache and kept his flowing, jet-black hair tied back into two knotted tails. His nose curled over the top of the moustache, the rising and lowering of which was usually a good indicator as to his mood. On his cheeks he wore the three distinctive childhood scars seared into his flesh by ritual-abiding parents many years ago – designed to introduce the young to pain and to discourage beard growth. Wrapped in a dark-red robe, Balamber simply rested his hands on the arms of the throne, and stared.
Apsikal gulped. ‘Our business is complete with the rebel Goths, Noble Balamber. We have stripped their carcasses of useful materials, and desecrated their bodies, as you commanded.’
Balamber gave the merest of nods.
Apsikal unravelled a tattered scroll listing the inventory of bloody takings from the massacred Goths. Being one of only three literate members of the horde had sealed his rise to prominence. He drew a deep breath to ream off the highlights of the takings, but Balamber raised a hand.
‘Are they dead?’ He asked, his face devoid of emotion, all apart from his eyes, now almost burning holes in Apsikal. ‘All of them?’
Apsikal cleared his throat. The question he was dreading. Genocide was the order he had been given by his leader, and he had failed to complete the order in full, albeit by the merest of fractions.
‘They…’ He cleared his throat again. Lie and live, tell the truth and die. ‘They had a detachment of light cavalry, Noble Balamber. They managed to despatch a few of them before we shattered their lines.’ Apsikal paused as his leader shifted forward on his seat, his moustache lifting as his lips pursed.
‘Fewer than twenty of them escaped, Noble Balamber, and that was after several hundred fled. We brought them down in swathes with a single volley of arr…arrows…’ Apsikal stuttered to a halt.
‘Then those twenty will be dead and their skulls added to the pile before we move from the camp at the end of this week,’ Balamber asserted, his voice steady, fingering the gold cross hanging on a chain around his neck. ‘And you will complete your orders this time. Gold piled higher than the corpses outside awaits us if we succeed here, along with the keys to the Roman Empire!’
Apsikal nodded and two beads of sweat coursed down his forehead.
‘For if you do not fulfil my expectation this time, then the finest armour from the pile outside will be melted down and poured down your throat.’ He pounded a fist on the arm of his throne.
Apsikal dropped his head and fell to one knee.
‘I will not fail you this time, Noble Balamber.’
Chapter 38
A stinging, torrential rain battered the fleet. Towering waves strove to raise each of the creaking hulks towards the sky and meet the full force of the storm. Then, an inevitable collapse back into the dark-blue abyss followed each of the ascensions. On board the Aquila, the crew lay scattered across the decks like twigs in a rainstorm, desperately clinging onto frayed rigging, shattered decking and crumbling masts. The storm had come from nowhere; one minute the sun baked their skins as the remiges rowed, the next, the sky had blackened and the fury of Poseidon was upon them.
Grasping a piece of worn rigging, Gallus blinked the frozen water from his eyes, willing his numb fingers to manipulate the loose end of the rope into a hoop. He staggered his attempts to save himself with barking orders to the flailing men on the deck. Every time the ship dropped into the trough of a titanic wave, he grasped the rope, praying that the other end was fastened securely enough, steeling himself against the screams of the less fortunate. Finally, the rope slipped into a loose knot. He braced himself as he waited for the next crashing impact, eyes shut tight, when a hand clamped itself around his ankle.
‘Sir!’ A desperate voice gasped.
Gallus blinked at the exhausted figure of Felix. ‘Felix, thank Jupiter!’ He roared above the noise, throwing down the remaining rope to his optio and grasping his wrist. ‘Brace yourself…’
Again, a wall of salty, perishing water collapsed down on top of them for long enough to once again make them doubt whether their ship had went under or capsized – at least two other ships of the fleet had done exactly that.
Gallus coughed as the swell tumbled from the decks. ‘Felix, what have you got for me?’
Felix spluttered, shivering violently. ‘Sir, we only caught broken signals from the rest of the fleet in front before the storm hit us.’ He stopped to retch, before lashing himself to the mast as Gallus had done. ‘I don’t know any more than anyone else – but it doesn’t look good,’ he chattered, nodding to the upturned hull nearby. ‘We’
re being torn to pieces out here, sir.’
Gallus grimaced. ‘Damn the senate, Felix, damn them!’
‘They ordered us to set to sea yesterday?’ Felix roared.
‘All wrapped up in that deal between the dux, that fat cretin Tarquitius, the emperor and the Goths.’
Felix spluttered in incredulity. ‘What in Hades does the senate know about navigating the Pontus Euxinus. Bloody idiots!’ He raised his fists to the pitch-black sky as the next wave crashed down on them.
Gallus coughed. ‘Whatever happens, just make sure we don’t lose sight of the main body of the fleet!’
Chapter 39
Valens waved away his candidati as they rushed to his side. They looked on anxiously as their emperor strode to the palace stables in non-ceremonial full battle gear.
‘No, wait a few moments, then follow behind me,’ he barked. He mounted his prize stallion, his functional if rather unbeautiful armour clanking as he did so. As he made to ride out of the palace grounds, he stopped in thought, before turning again to the candidati. ‘Muster a fifty and bring them to the senate building, but give me a head start.’
Spurring his horse into a trot, the candidati hastily opened the front gates of the palace to reveal the Augusteum – the ornate square punctuating the heart of the city. A continuous roar rippled overhead from the nearby Hippodrome where the spring games had begun. The crowds swarming at the square-side markets outside parted. As he cantered through them, his people either stared up at him in awe or pumped a fist in the air, crying a salute. Valens had no business with the people of Rome today. Today the senate would be the focus of his attentions. By dusk they would know that one man alone ruled the empire.
He looked up as they approached the senate basilica on the eastern side of the Augusteum; one senator was lazily sipping wine by the marbled doorway, laughing as he watched two beggars fighting over scraps of bread. When the rabble of the citizens following Valens reached him, he glanced up. His eyes grew saucer-like as they locked with those of Valens and he hurled his half-empty cup to the floor and bolted off back into the senate chambers. Two urban guards shuffled quickly to their posts by the door, their chins and chests thrust out.
Valens chuckled, slowing as he approached the doorway. ‘At ease, men,’ he spoke gently, eyeing the cracks in the marbled arch of the doorway as he dismounted. Much to be repaired, he mused. His footsteps echoed in the cool entrance hall as he walked under the languid gaze of busts of emperors past. Then he set his eyes on the chapped and scarred timber door ahead – the senate hall. Valens stopped short of pushing the door open in his stride; he could hear the echoing babble of approval and disapproval. In a moment, they would be louder than a pack of carrion birds.
He shoved both huge doors and they boomed as they crashed open into the hall. Valens marched to the centre of the senate floor.
The hall still echoed with the current speaker’s half-finished sentence. Valens scanned the rest of the room; he saw a sea of stunned faces, open mouths and bulging eyes.
The interrupted speaker felt the weight of obligation to speak first; ‘Emperor,’ he uttered. ‘What brings your honourable presence to our floor today?’
Valens gazed into the stunned audience stonily. ‘Today, my senate, I bring you an announcement which is overdue, and entirely necessary. For the good of the empire itself, I will afford no debate on the matter.’ Valens allowed the ripple of murmuring to break before continuing. ‘As of this moment, The Senate of Constantinople is suspended.’
Like a pack of vultures seeing their scraps disappear, the senators rose to their feet. The outraged roars rattled through the hall. The senator whom he had interrupted mid-speech dropped his veil of obedience and launched into a similar tirade, stepping backwards to merge himself into the advancing crowd of angry senators.
Valens stood motionless and completely alone in the centre of the floor, allowing his gaze to wander to the opening at the top of the hall where a disc of crisp blue sky peeked in. Far more emperors had been slain in hot and cold blood in the name of the senate than had died at the hands of the barbarians over the centuries. Nevertheless, Valens held his nerve until he heard the reassuring clatter of the candidati pouring into the room behind him. He breathed a disguised sigh of relief as the fifty filed in to form a circle around him. Then it all happened in a blur; one zealous senator lurched forward, unarmed, and three spears perforated his torso. Blood showered the rabble of toga-clad men and a tortured scream filled the hall. Valens closed his eyes. Why did it always come down to blood, he despaired. He waited for the chamber to fall back into silence.
‘This measure will be in place until the empire has re-established firm control over its borders. This building is to be abandoned by sunset today. Any member of the senate who is found in political practice within the city,’ he hesitated, this was where the hard line would be drawn, ‘will be executed.’
The silence was intensified by the sea of gawping faces. With that, Valens turned on the spot and walked out as he had entered the chamber, head held high, and eyes set firmly forwards. The candidati poured out in reverse formation, the last two pulling the chamber doors shut. The members of the disbanded senate looked to one another for a voice, all the while the body on the floor cooled in its own blood. Moments passed like this before they erupted in a fit of anxious squabbling again. All except one.
Senator Tarquitius remained still amongst the mayhem, his eyes fixed on the blood-stained floor. Until now, the emperor had always had an air of malaise in his dealings with the senate. A soft touch, even. This, together with Tarquitius’ senatorial status had been a fine foothold in the power ladder. In one motion, that had been torn from him, like a sandstorm stripping an oasis. His eyes narrowed as a bitter taste swirled in his mouth. His services were now on offer to the highest bidder. Sod the emperor, to Hades with the bishop; nothing would stop him from regaining power.
Chapter 40
A rich orange dawn yawned over the still sea. Scattered across the placid surface, a shattered hulk of timber bobbed gently, punctuating the pepper of debris all around it. The Aquila bore at best a half of its original mast, and the hull bore small vertical fissures that drank in the seawater greedily regardless of their size. All across the deck, bodies lay sprawled, deep in an exhausted sleep or blue in the face, chattering and vomiting. A few bedraggled legionaries wandered around the deck waking their colleagues; dawn was upon them and sleep would have to wait.
Pavo rocked, holding his knees to his chest, shivering at the unshakeable cold that still dogged him. His frozen body had stopped him from falling asleep, and his brain raced over and over the chaotic events of the night before. They had fought like lions to pull down the sails and hold the rigging in place in order to ride out the worst of the storm, but the sheer muscle of the winds had broken the back of the fleet despite their efforts. On the horizon, Pavo made out the outline of one of the other ships. How much of the fleet had survived was unclear. Of the forty triremes that had been sailing in perfect formation the previous day, only that single one had been left in sight of the flagship by the end of the storm.
Gallus emerged from below deck, hauling a sack of wheat bread loaves with the help of the beneficiarius. The centurion’s arms were scrawled with fresh cuts and encrusted in dry blood, and his eyes rimmed with the kohl of exhaustion. Then an aroma of broth drifted over the deck – broad bean and nettle he reckoned – not exactly the cuisine of emperors, but damn, Pavo thought, it did smell like it.
‘Okay ladies, we’ve pulled together some eats. Line up, get your bread from me then back of the deck for some soup. We’ve got some serious repairs to do if we don’t want to end up in the drink, so you need all the energy you can get – no excuses!’ He directed his last statement to the group of vomiting legionaries.
Despite the centurion’s tone, the soldiers merely looked around, contemplating the order, eyes shot with utter exhaustion. Pavo, all too aware of the precarious angle of the waterline o
n the hull, leapt up, disguising his burning joints and the nausea in his gut. He grabbed a loaf, nodding firmly to Gallus, before trotting over to the soup cauldron. The legionary ‘manning’ the soup bore an exhausted stare into the horizon and barely blinked as Pavo grabbed the ladle from him and muscled into his position. Clanging the ladle against the rim, he shot a glance around the deck.
‘Soup’s up!’ he boomed. The metallic twang lifted the heads of the weary legionaries. As they began to converge on the welcome source of warm food, Pavo nodded sternly at Gallus. The centurion, emotionless as ever, gave him shrewd eyes and a faint nod in return.
Wiping his bread on the side of his iron food bowl, Pavo savoured the hot, peppery thickness as he dropped the last morsel into his mouth. He sighed, dropping his bowl and arms to his side to rest back against the side of the ship, then closed his eyes.
‘What a lucky draw this was, eh?’ Sura, murmured beside him. ‘Torn to pieces overnight, then double stints on the oars.’
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