LEGIONARY
GODS & EMPERORS
by Gordon Doherty
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2015 Gordon Doherty
All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced in any form, in whole or in part, without written permission from the author.
www.gordondoherty.co.uk
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Also by Gordon Doherty:
THE LEGIONARY SERIES
The Roman Empire is crumbling, and a shadow looms in the east . . .
In the 4th Century AD, countless barbarian tribes surge against the Eastern Roman Empire's borders, driven by a dark horde that has arrived from the great steppe. On the Danubian frontier, the situation is critical: the crumbling, neglected forts and watchtowers along the riverbank are thinly garrisoned by 'mere' limitanei – the impoverished border legions. Pavo, a slave freed and sent to serve with the XI Claudia in this precarious land, finds himself thrust into a tumultuous sequence of events that will shape his destiny and the fate of the Empire.
1. LEGIONARY (2011)
2. LEGIONARY: VIPER OF THE NORTH (2012)
3. LEGIONARY: LAND OF THE SACRED FIRE (2013)
4. LEGIONARY: THE SCOURGE OF THRACIA (2015)
5. LEGIONARY: GODS & EMPERORS (2015)
THE STRATEGOS TRILOGY
When the falcon has flown, the mountain lion will charge from the east, and all Byzantium will quake. Only one man can save the empire . . . the Haga!
In the 11th century AD, the ailing Byzantine Empire teeters on the brink of full-blown war with the Seljuk Sultanate. In the borderlands of Eastern Anatolia, a land riven with bloodshed and doubt, a dark hero rises from the ashes of the conflict. His journey will be a savage one, taking him from the snakepit of Constantinople to the blistering heart of the Seljuk realm . . . all the time leading him towards the fabled plains of Manzikert.
1. STRATEGOS: BORN IN THE BORDERLANDS (2011)
2. STRATEGOS: RISE OF THE GOLDEN HEART (2013)
3. STRATEGOS: ISLAND IN THE STORM (2014)
This one’s for all of you who have marched with Pavo, Gallus and the XI Claudia from the outset. Thank you so much for reading my books, spreading the word and giving me the chance to live the life of a storyteller.
Sarah, Alun, Leni, Barry, Gavin and Jack: thank you for once again lending me your eagle-eyes prior to publication. A big thanks to Olly Bennet & Simon Walpole for their stunning and evocative artwork. Finally, a special thanks to Peter Donnelly, Simon MacDowall and Luke Ueda-Sarson: your studies of the late empire have been invaluable.
The Army of the Eastern Roman Empire brought to Thracia in 378 AD
See glossary (at rear of book) for a description of terms
Note that full and interactive versions of this and all the diagrams & maps can be found on the ‘Legionary’ section of my website, www.gordondoherty.co.uk
Structure of Legio XI Claudia Pia Fidelis
See glossary (at rear of book) for a description of terms
The Roman Empire, circa 378 AD
Gothic-Occupied Thracia, circa 378 AD
Prologue:
Antioch
April 3rd 378AD
Three scale-clad legions filed along the narrow, dusty gorge road. Mount Silpius and Mount Staurinus – each precipitous, burnt-gold and dotted with hardy shrubs – loomed over the path like watching titans, casting them in shade and sparing them from the heat of the fierce morning sun. The rumble of their boots and jostling armour echoed through the ravine as they went, every pair of eyes flicking anxiously to the steep, sun-bleached bluffs either side of them, every mind recalling the many tales of brigandage in these parts – legions crushed under falling rocks or showered with missiles and the corpses robbed of purses and armour. But on they went, eager to set eyes upon their destination: the mighty Iron Gate, eastern entrance to the imperial city of Antioch.
Emperor Valens rode at the head of the column, a light veil of sweat beading on his sun-darkened, age-lined features and his snow-white locks discoloured by golden dust thrown up from the ride. The path widened and the shade slipped away, the intense sun glowering down on them all once more. His cobalt eyes narrowed as they rounded a bend in the canyon, then he saw it at last: the fortified, shimmering limestone gateway up ahead. Its thick towers and iron-strapped gates stood like a mighty dam, blocking the route through this baked valley, while the sturdy curtain walls either side followed the rise of the mountains, claiming the high ground as part of the city. The men saw it too, and a murmur of excited voices sounded behind him.
A refrain of cornua on the gatehouse heralded his approach, the G-shaped horns glinting in the sun. He shuffled to sit straight in the saddle, his purple cloak falling back from the white steel shoulders of his scale jacket. This was it, he realised: after months of summoning his forces, the time to act was upon him.
He glanced back over his men. These were the last three regiments of his Praesental Army to be drawn from their posts around Roman Syria and gathered here at Antioch. All other available units had already congregated within the city’s walls or in the sprawling camp on the plains outside the northern walls; twenty seven thousand men all told. A vast flotilla of ships moored in the River Orontes waited to take them across the sea to their destination: the troubled Diocese of Thracia… and the Gothic War that raged there. Over the last few weeks he had witnessed the optimism and bravado of those already convened. They talked of the Gothic War as a minor trouble, a foregone glory. Yet not one of them bore Valens’ iron burden.
Every soul in the East lives or dies on your word. Every life rests in your hands.
He dipped his head a fraction, pinching the top of his nose between thumb and forefinger. Six thousand men would be left behind to garrison the desert forts and cities of the Persian frontier – just six legions to protect Rome’s most easterly territories against the Sassanid Empire. But the Sassanids were not his greatest fear. No, for while the Shahanshah and his armies made war much like the Romans, the Goths awaiting him across the sea were different. Savage, dogged, proud . . . fighting for their very existence. His mind raced over the flurry of correspondence that had come from Thracia in these last months: the mountain strongholds had fallen, the legions had been driven back into the cities… now some one hundred thousand Goths roamed Thracia under Iudex Fritigern’s command. The war to come would not be one of empires seeking glory. This would be a contest of survival. A feral game where precious life would be dashed in swathes.
Or, he reasoned, might there yet be parley?
Fritigern was a shrewd and at times ruthless leader, but one of the few Gothic noblemen who understood the meaning of nobility. An Arian Christian like Valens, Fritigern had sought treaty with the empire when he had first led his Goths across the Danubius and into Roman lands. His horde was to farm Roman lands and serve in the imperial legions, but that hope had crumbled in a mire of treachery and recklessness. Nearly two years of war had ensued, with the Goths seizing the Thracian countryside, penning the Roman citizens and the tattered remains of that land’s legions inside the major cities. The war had grown like a boil, and was now throbbing, ready to burst. It had to end, and like most wars, that likely meant one thing: a battle that would vanquish one side or the other. Yet he had rece
ived word, albeit indirectly, that the Gothic Iudex still yearned for treaty instead of battle. How much faith could he place in such anecdotal reports? Especially when he had despatched messengers to the Gothic Iudex in hope of instigating such talks himself – only for those couriers to seemingly vanish on their travels. Was parley a fanciful aspiration? Perhaps, he mused, but it would only be prudent to advance on Thracia armed with both regiments and rhetoric.
And if it comes to a clash of steel? he wondered, his shoulders tensing.
He thought then of his nephew, Gratian, Emperor of the West. He had sent numerous messages to Augusta Treverorum in faraway Gaul, beseeching Gratian to bring his armies to Thracia to aid the effort and to swing the balance of numbers. Gratian had once been an affable youth, but power and the struggle to hold onto it had changed him drastically and he had been cold towards Valens since rising to the Western throne. Still, reports indicated that the Western armies were mobilising in response to his pleas. Valens lifted his Chi-Rho necklace and kissed it in a gesture of hope. To have to plead with his nephew was an affront, but without the boy-emperor’s legions to supplement his own…
A clop-clop of hooves sounded, scattering Valens’ thoughts. He looked up to see two of his candidati range ahead of him with some urgency. These men – his ever-present, white-robed personal guards carrying spears and white shields etched with a gold Christian Chi-Rho – cantered to a spot in the road just ahead and dismounted. Valens slowed and stopped and the column halted likewise. He frowned as he watched the two guards: they stalked towards something on the roadside, kohl-stained eyes vigilant, levelling their spears and taking the stance of battle as if the sharp slope at the foot of Mount Staurinus was their foe. Valens eyed the pile of rocks there. He saw nothing of note. Then he blinked and gasped.
There, coated in the golden dust so as to almost blend in with the hillside was a man, without a thread to clothe him, sitting upright, his back supported by the sharp incline of the mountain. His gaze was fixed on Valens, staring, unblinking, a forlorn look in those gemstone-green eyes.
‘Who are you?’ one of the candidati who had approached him barked, looking over the rogue then quickly scanning the mountainside for any signs of ambush.
‘On your feet and speak, dog!’ the other candidatus pressed. The pair had been told to expect no civilian traffic on this road today.
Valens heeled his stallion into a cautious walk towards the scene, two more candidati hurrying to escort him. The stranger sitting at the roadside remained where he was, utterly motionless, heedless of the two candidati speartips now hovering under his chin, his piercing green eyes remaining fixed on Valens. He was a man in his thirties, Valens reckoned, though it was hard to tell, for as he drew closer, the countless welts, bruises and lacerations on the wretch’s skin became apparent. The fellow had been flayed without mercy. All over his face, his arms and legs and his torso were deep and recent gashes, the bloody wounds only hidden by a coating of the infernal dust.
‘On your feet!’ the candidati demanded once more, this time with a snarl.
Valens dismounted, raising a placatory hand to his guards before approaching the stranger then crouching adjacent. ‘Who did this to you?’ he asked, his voice dry and cracking. The man’s eyes told a sorry tale, such sadness they revealed.
A gust of warm wind swirled, casting more dust over the stranger. It was then that Valens saw how it coated the stranger’s staring eyeballs. The man did not blink or flinch. Only now, Valens realised he had been talking to a cold, dead corpse. His skin prickled with dread as he sensed the candidati – his most tenacious protectors – backing away, eyes widening as they looked at the corpse and then him. Behind him, he heard the three legions break into a concerned murmur. Words of prayer were spoken by many of them. He stood, feeling as naked as the dead man, devoid of his authority. He closed his eyes to compose himself, but was assailed in that darkness too: from somewhere deep in the recesses of memory, he heard something that had haunted him for years. A distant roar of rushing water. Then he saw it, coming from the blackness behind his eyelids: a colossal wall of foaming, lashing seawater, quickening towards him, eager to swallow him whole. It thundered closer and closer, towering higher and higher until he thought he could see nor hear nothing else. When its shadow fell over him, he grew blind with panic.
‘Come, Domine,’ one candidatus whispered in his ear, breaking the spell, routing the memory at once. He blinked his eyes open, seeing the sun-baked ravine and the worried faces of his ranks, hearing just their whispers and the croaking of insects. Cold sweat trickled down his ashen features. ‘We should not linger here,’ the candidatus pressed.
Valens saw how the guard shot anxious looks to the muttering column and the city walls, where the garrison soldiers on the gatehouse were straining to see what was happening.
‘We should hurry,’ the candidatus added, ‘lest the men begin to whisper of this as some grim portent for the expedition to Thracia.’
Valens nodded, then silently mounted his stallion and waved the column on towards the Iron Gate. As he rode, he looked to the gates, to the garrison, and let the cornua chorus sail around him, hoping it might lift his heart. But try as he might, he could not rid himself of that image of the corpse’s plaintive gaze… nor the dark memory of the onrushing, ravenous tide.
Part 1
The Splintered Horde
Chapter 1
Pavo felt the sun on his neck and the summer breeze swirling around his legs. He twisted round, eyes combing the horizon. The golden plains and shaded dells of Thracia surrounded him. Larks sang, cicadas chirruped and the grass shook where a breath of warm wind feathered through the stalks. Yet not another man in sight. Was this really Thracia? The land that had troubled the minds of every Roman for nearly two years? Where were the marauding Goths and their vicious allies? Where were the legions to stand against them?
‘It’s over?’ he whispered, seeing the pale blue sky unblemished with smoke, the crops hale and untouched by plunder. ‘The war is over?’
A momentary elation surged through him. He inhaled the hot summer air and laughed aloud. The merriment echoed across the land and then died. The elation ebbed; what was joy when there was no other to share it with? So many had been lost in the war. Some – he thought of his beloved Felicia – were at peace now. Others were wandering in limbo. Neither dead nor alive. Lost, missing. ‘Gallus, Dexion, I know you are out there, somewhere,’ he whispered. The tribunus who had guided him like a father and the half-brother he had only so recently been reunited with had . . . vanished. ‘If the war is truly over then I will do all I can to find you.’
‘It is not over,’ a weak voice spoke from just over his shoulder.
He swung round. A hunched old woman stared up at him, her thin, silvery hair framing a pale, puckered and ancient-looking face, her milky-white eyes at once seeing nothing and everything. He did not start or flinch, knowing he was safe in her presence, for it was she who had given him Father’s phalera all those years ago. Since then she had come to him only in dreams, fleetingly in moments like this.
‘The war has yet to reach its blackest phase,’ she said sombrely.
‘Then why am I here, what is this?’ Pavo asked, spreading his arms, looking all around him.
‘It is as much as I can offer you,’ she said, then raised a trembling arm and extended a gnarled finger past Pavo’s shoulder, to the west.
He knew that there was nothing to be seen that way, but turned to look anyway. His breath and his heart stopped as he beheld what had appeared there: on the gentle western hillside was a farmhouse. A modest villa with whitewashed walls and red tiles on the roof. To one side was an abutting barn with a thatch-covered gable.
The door to the farmhouse lay open and by it sat a dog. A handsome, silver-pelted creature with wintry-blue eyes and not a pinch of spare fat on its body. Then he realised it was not a dog, but a wolf. The creature was guarding the farmhouse, he presumed. Inside, he saw a shape in the g
loom, thrashing on the floor. His blood turned to ice: for as the shape writhed, he saw its twisted talons swiping out. Then came a weak, pained screech.
‘An eagle… what does it mean?’ he asked.
The crone did not reply and he knew she was gone. But a breath of warm wind caressed his back, as if guiding him towards the farmhouse. He climbed uphill.
‘Hello?’ he called out. No reply but another screech from the eagle. The wolf watched his approach, those blue eyes trained on his. ‘Easy, boy,’ he said, knowing that these creatures – if feral – could be deadly. But the wolf seemed welcoming – its ears pressed flat against its head and pointing downwards – and let him enter. He stepped into the farmhouse and beheld the hearth room within. The eagle lay on the centre of the floor. It was pure, striking white, and he saw that it had a broken wing. But it had ceased its thrashing – now exhausted. It was dying, he realised. He knelt by its side for a while until it breathed its last, the wings falling limp. ‘Sleep now,’ he whispered.
He made to stand, when a low growl stopped him. He looked up to see that the wolf had followed him inside. Its demeanour had changed: now its muzzle was wrinkled and its teeth bared, back legs coiled as if ready to spring. ‘Easy!’ he repeated. But he realised the wolf was not growling at him, but at something… behind him.
Swinging up and round, he saw that a tall shadowy form had crept up on him – like a giant draped in a night-black blanket, shapeless and menacing, wisps of dark smoke coiling from it. He staggered back from the figure. ‘You?’ he gasped, recognising the ethereal form. This shadow-man had been there all those years ago at the slave market, watching while Pavo had been sold into servitude as a boy. ‘Did you not hear me when last you infested my dreams? Show yourself or be gone!’
Gods & Emperors (Legionary 5) Page 1