by Scott Bury
Javor stepped behind Photius and tucked his grandfather’s sheathed dagger under his trousers. He touched his amulet, making certain it was still out of sight under his tunic. Then he straightened to see the riders had come much closer in just a few seconds.
They took Javor’s breath away. Their armour burned golden in the sunlight and their bright red capes fluttered wildly behind them as their horses rushed closer.
Alarmed, Javor reached for his sword, but Photius’ hand on his wrist told him not to. The older man seemed pleased by the strange armed men rushing toward them, almost smiling as they got within easy spear range and then closer, pulling up just out of sword-thrust from the walking trio.
Their horses were bigger than any Javor had ever seen, and they wore bronze armour on their foreheads and chests. Leather straps ran from their mouths, and others crossed their chests, meeting at more bronze armour plates.
The riders were the most magnificent men that Javor had ever seen. Their polished steel armour, overlapping plates over their shoulders and torso, shone like silver in the sun, and gorgeous scarlet capes billowed out behind them, fastened at their shoulders with bronze disks. Steel armour protected their lower legs and forearms, and their shining iron helmets were trimmed with what Javor thought must be gold. Each had great long flaps on the side, and Javor thought of a hound’s ears. But he didn’t laugh.
Each horseman held out a spear, one pointing at Javor and the other at Photius. “Halt!” said one sternly in a voice like a bear’s. “Who approaches the border of the Empire?”
While he didn’t understand the language, Javor could by now recognize it as Latin. Photius answered. “I am Photius of Constantinople, son of Clementus, Roman citizen.” That part, Javor understood, but not much of what followed. “I am returning after extended travel beyond the borders on official reconnaissance.”
“And your companions?” The spears did not waver.
“This is Danisa, daughter of a chief of the north whom we rescued from barbaric rites. And this is Janus, my bodyguard.” Javor was startled by the lie about his name, but didn’t show it. Photius, though, looked pleasant and completely at ease. He lies well. “Can you tell me, good sir, how far are we from the River Danuvius?”
Under the helmet, deep brown eyes brooded. Then the horseman who had spoken raised his spear till the tip pointed straight up; his companion copied him. Apparently they were accepted as, if not friends, at least not immediate threats. “It is still several leagues south.”
“And whom am I addressing?” Photius asked in his politest voice.
“I am Manius Meridius, Equite with the Fifth Legion. Come with us to the fort,” said the lead rider. The two men made clicking sounds and the horses turned as if man and horse were one animal. They began an easy walk back along the road. Javor, Danisa and Photius had to hustle to keep up.
“I am, I admit, somewhat surprised to see the fort occupied,” said Photius conversationally to the leading horseman, who didn’t reply. “It was not the custom, I believe, for Imperial garrisons to occupy emplacements outside the borders.” Still no reply. “How long have you been in this region?”
“Legate Valgus brought us hither these twelvemonths,” said Manius Meridius.
“Oh really?” Photius raised an eyebrow at Javor. “I have been away for some time. And who did you say your commander was?”
“Legate Decius Valgus,” the Equite grunted.
“And, I take it from your uniforms, you are an Imperial cohort, rather than an auxiliary?”
“Obviously.”
“Oh, are you Laconic, then?”
“Quiet, or I’ll bind you.”
Javor was glad of the Roman’s order for silence. He concentrated on the fortress.
It suffered with every step closer. Imposing from a distance, the grey stone walls were weathered and crumbling in several places, although the new inhabitants had tried to make repairs. One wall had completely toppled, and Javor saw dark streaks on the stones. Burned? A screen of logs had been erected in its place, their tops sharpened.
But the gate remained intact—remained, to Javor, very imposing. A ditch surrounded the walls, spanned by a new-looking wooden bridge that was really just a series of planks joined with iron braces. Javor was looking at the first drawbridge he had ever seen. It had no railings on the side, nothing to prevent someone or something from toppling over the side.
The bridge ended at a very stout-looking solid wood gate reinforced with iron. On each side were massive stone columns, and over it a stone platform held stern armoured men. More soldiers stood on either side of the gate, spears ready and shields at their sides. At a nod from Meridius, the guards moved aside, still standing stiff at attention, and the gate creaked open.
Inside the fortress, Javor was struck by the quiet of the place. There were more people than he had ever seen together in one place before. The inside of the fort was really a fully functioning village, with craftsmen and a forge and bakery and kitchens—but hardly any human voices. Men, women and children walked here and there, gathered near walls, stared at the newcomers. But they barely spoke. They stayed near walls and doorways and only furtively moved to the open areas.
Javor heard the gate rumbling and scraping shut behind them again, the clop-clop and slapping of the door-wardens driving donkeys to turn the great spoked wheel that moved the gate, heard the clopping of Meridius’ horse’s hooves and those of Danisa’s, Photius’ and his own feet in the dust, rustling and clattering as people moved about their business, jingling of fittings and armour, and only sparse, hushed conversation. It’s like they’re hiding from something outside the walls.
The legionnaires dismounted. With the silent legionnaire behind them holding his spear, Meridius led the three travellers to a high inner building, also made of crumbling stone, also temporarily repaired with logs or planed wooden boards. It was a grim-looking affair with a row of stingy-looking openings for windows high above their heads. It was the first time that Javor had ever seen a two-storey building.
Four legionnaires with spears stood on either side of high double doors that opened onto a wide stone landing at the top of three broad steps. Above them was a wide opening for air, covered with a screen made of thin wooden strips. On either side were painted insignia of the Imperium. It seemed that the original builders had made hasty attempts to make the place look grand, then abandoned it. The overall effect was sadness.
One door scraped open as Meridius approached. “Wait here,” he said without pausing, and disappeared inside. The guards formed a circle around Photius, Javor and Danisa, holding their spears butt-down and not looking directly at the prisoners. Why did Photius want to come here? Photius smiled at the guards complacently. Javor could feel his grandfather’s dagger under his trousers.
He could not take his eyes, though, from the guards’ polished armour. I have never seen any metal shine so bright. He could see his own reflection in the silvery breastplate ...
“Back up, country boy!” growled a Legionnaire. Javor realized he was so close to the man, his nose was almost touching the armour. Several legionnaires looked very uncomfortable.
They didn’t have to wait long. Meridius appeared in the doorway, holding his helmet under his arm. “The Legate wishes to see you.” He held up a hand as they stepped forward. “You must leave your weapons aside.”
Javor felt alarmed again at this—they would be completely at the legion’s mercy. But Photius complacently put down his long bow, shrugged off his pack, unbuckled his sword belt and dagger and placed them all at the feet of one legionnaire. He then smiled at Javor. Javor shrugged, then put down his pack and weapons, too. But he kept the dagger under his trousers and the amulet around his neck. Danisa, weaponless, looked at the legionnaires calmly.
“What about the staff?” Meridius growled.
“Surely you wouldn’t deny an old man his walking-stick?” said Photius, and at that moment, he looked even older and more frail.
“If you walked over the Montes Serrorum, you don’t need a walking-stick indoors,” Meridius growled. “Come!” he barked and turned on his heel, not doubting that the travelers followed.
Photius leaned his staff against the side of the door, and Danisa and Javor followed him into a wide, open room. The air inside was stuffy, occasionally alleviated by a draft from the open windows and screens high above. On either side of the doorways, staircases—the first staircases that Javor had ever seen—rose to galleries that ran along opposite walls, just under the small, mean windows Javor had seen from outside. He was fascinated by the semi-cylindrical shapes of the columns that rose up the walls to support the barrel ceiling, lost in shadows.
Light filtered in from the high windows and the screened opening, and was bolstered by torches flickering in sconces on the walls and a brazier burning in the middle of the room. Beyond the brazier was a small stone platform, and on it was a great wooden chair with a high back. On either side were Roman standards, red and purple and gold on ornate poles, and beside them were two more fully armed legionnaires, standing at attention.
The man standing before the chair seized Javor’s attention. He was not tall, but robust and solidly built, dressed in gold-coloured armour that reflected the light from the torches. A smooth red cape hung from his shoulders. His bare forearms were thick and muscular. His chin was square and smoothly shaven, his nose broad, his dark hair cropped very short. Javor thought he was magnificent, but Photius noted that the armour, though polished, was dented, the leather straps worn, the cape threadbare.
Meridius marched forward, his footsteps echoing, stopped directly in front of the dais with an extra stomp and saluted. “Legate Valgus, the armed travellers.” He stomped again and stepped to one side.
“Thank you, Centurion. At ease,” ordered the man on the dais in deep, accented Greek, a voice used to being obeyed. He turned to the travellers. “I am Decius Valgus, called Adjutor, and I am Legate of this cohort. Who are you and why are you travelling heavily armed in these lands?”
Photius bowed, and Javor copied him clumsily; but Danisa stood tall and proud, regarding the Legate without expression. “I am Photius of Constantinople, son of Clementus and a citizen of Rome,” he repeated. “This is Janus, my assistant and bodyguard. And the maiden is Danisa, whom we rescued from a barbaric rite some weeks ago.”
The Legate looked at them intensely, then sat slowly on the great chair. Javor felt he was being measured. “And what are you doing beyond the Empire’s borders, especially in these wild areas overrun with barbaric hordes?”
“We are mystics, my lord, traveling on behalf of the Empire to seek knowledge from beyond the borders,” Photius answered earnestly.
Wow—what a lie! Javor thought. Did he just make that up now, or has he been keeping that one in store for situations like this?
Valgus’ eyes narrowed. “What are you, missionaries? Out converting the Slavs? Or are you hoping to convince the Avars to give up raiding the Empire and turn the other cheek?”
Photius chuckled and shook his head. “No, Legate Valgus. We are seekers of a deeper, older wisdom. We have been adding to our knowledge through our travels in the wild North.”
“The locals here say those regions have always been haunted,” the legate answered, his eyes sharp.
Photius nodded. “Yes, there are old tales in Constantinople and throughout the Empire of strange happenings in these regions. That is why we travel: to prove or disprove any of these stories.”
“Your young bodyguard here looks like a local.”
“He is only accoutered so. He has been with me for some time, now.” At that comment, a look that Javor had never seen before crossed Valgus’ face.
“Then why are you so heavily armed?” Valgus demanded in a voice that made the hairs on Javor’s neck stand up.
“As you yourself said, these are dangerous lands, and dangerous times. We are merely seeking to protect ourselves,” Photius answered politely.
“Have you been troubled by the barbarians?”
“From time to time, but we have managed to survive,” Photius said vaguely.
“And the girl? What about you, young lady—why are you jeopardizing your virtue by travelling with two men?”
“As I said, we rescued her—” Photius tried to interrupt.
“I asked her.”
Danisa looked at Photius, then at Valgus before answering. What is she going to say? What will the Romans do if she contradicts Photius? Javor wondered.
“I have little choice,” she answered in flawless Greek. How did she learn that? “I was tied to a cross and left in the road for wild beasts or anything worse. These men—actually, the young one—rescued me. I have been with them since. Where else can I go?”
“And as for your virtue…” the Legate prompted.
Danisa’s eyes flashed and her lips grew even thinner. “I am a hetman’s daughter. I can guard my own virtue, thank you very much!”
Valgus just nodded slowly, then turned toward Photius again. “Tell me: after your travels, do you believe the land is haunted?” he asked searchingly.
Photius weighed his answer. “There is much yet to learn about these lands, which were abandoned so long ago by the Empire. There are tales that have grown in the retelling, until the demons are sufficiently fearsome to make the heroes sufficiently impressive.”
Valgus peered at them for a long time, his chin resting on a fist. Then he stood again, and Javor noticed that he seemed to have a little difficulty rising, although his face showed nothing of it.
“Tell me, wise man, are you a healer? Have you skills in the arts of medicine?”
Photius looked concerned. “Why yes, Legate. I trained at the Collegium in Alexandria. But has this garrison no surgeons?”
“Come with me.” Valgus stepped off the dais and strode across the hall to another staircase near the back.
Javor and Photius followed, but Meridius blocked Danisa. “You stay here. This is no matter for girls. Tullus, bring her something to drink.” One look at the legionnaires convinced Danisa not to argue.
At the top of the stairs, Valgus led Photius, Javor and Meridius to his personal quarters, a small room lit by a wide open window. Late-summer sunlight streamed in, making it much warmer than the hallway. Almost in the middle of the room stood a gleaming, polished wooden table with ornate bronze legs. It was the most beautiful thing Javor had ever seen. Behind it were another chair whose style matched the desk, and a cabinet of open shelves, filled with scrolls and other items that Javor didn’t recognize. Another door was on one wall.
Valgus sat on the chair and motioned for the visitors to stand in front of the desk. He nodded, and Meridius closed the door, leaving them alone.
“What do you know about tales of dragons?” Valgus demanded.
Javor felt stabbed with shock. Photius’ face betrayed nothing. “Do you mean the Draco Legions? The Cohors Sarmatorum? Are you not part of that legion?”
“Do not play games with me, old man. I’m not talking about a legion with a dragon totem. I’m talking about dragons! Huge monsters! Surely you’ve heard of them—the people in these regions talk about them all the time!”
Photius looked thoughtful. “Every race, every nation has tales and legends of dragons,” he said. “Although very few people can claim to ever having seen a dragon. Dragons are, as far as I can tell, extremely ancient beings, bearers and representative of the most ancient and potent power in the world. There are those, particularly in the East, who hold that the dragon is the earth, itself …”
“A dragon has been raiding the villages in these parts,” the Roman interrupted. Javor hoped, again, that his face didn’t show the shock he felt.
Photius remained cool. “A dragon? Raiding? Here?” He sounded skeptical. “Have you seen it?”
The Roman nodded, his face grave, eyes never leaving Photius. With obvious difficulty, the Legate rose to his feet again and began to unbuckle his armour. As his fingers tug
ged on the straps on his left side, he winced unconsciously. “I with to show you something, Photius of Constantinople. Something beyond the skills of the Empire’s military surgeons.” The armour clattered to the ground, and Javor wondered at the carelessness with which Valgus let it fall. Under that, he wore a military red tunic. After unbuckling a belt, he pulled the tunic off, leaving only a thin, long white shirt and an undergarment wrapped around his waist and between his legs.
Is he going to get completely naked in front of us?
Valgus slowly pulled the shirt over his head, wincing and grimacing. He was left in just his loincloth and white bandages wrapped around his midsection. Red stained the left side, below his arm.
“Help me take off these bandages,” he said, and Photius untied the flat knot at the side, then began unrolling the long strips of cloth going round and round Valgus, gradually revealing a muscular torso, tough-looking as if it were carved of wood, crossed with scars. As more of the bandage came off, Photius and Javor could see a deep, fresh red gash along the Roman's side. Blood dripped slowly, oozing into the cloth bandage; one drop fell and stained the floor. Javor noticed several such stains, faded to a rusty brown.
Photius bent down to peer closely at the cut, gently touching the pink, swollen skin near it. Valgus gritted his teeth, but did not complain or wince.
“When did you receive this wound?” Photius asked.
“Almost ten months ago, in the autumn.”
“What! But legate, this wound is fresh!”
“So it appears,” agreed Valgus. “But believe me, I received it almost a year ago.”
“What gave you such as wound, that did not kill you, yet will not heal on its own?”
Valgus pulled his shirt and tunic back on, but left the armour on the floor. He pulled on a rope that hung from a hole in the wall beside his desk. Javor heard a bell ring. A soldier came in immediately. Without a word, he picked up the discarded bandage and the legate’s armour and left.
“Tell me how you received this wound,” said Photius when the man had gone.
Valgus sat down, looking tired. “A year ago, my cohort was stationed in the fortress at Trajan’s Bridge over the Danuvius. Our assignment had been to patrol north of the great river, to keep it clear of barbarians and troublemakers and to protect the border. We are the outer screen of the Empire’s defences, if you will.