Gods & Emperors (Legionary 5)

by Gordon Doherty

  Suddenly, the groan of creaking timber sounded, startling him. He glanced up at the stairwell doorway. Trogus, the mastiff-like guard with a jutting brow stood there, scowling at him. Gallus steeled himself: this one relished the chance to goad and insult. But then Trogus ushered a small figure in: a Hun slave girl. The light from the sconce danced across her face, revealing features Gallus still found somewhat fearsome. She was not without feminine grace, but her broad, flat and yellow-tinged skin could not help but remind him of her ferocious kinsmen.

  With a grumble of rusting iron, the cell gate was rolled back and the Hun girl was shoved inside where she stumbled and fell, the water in the clay jug she carried spilling as the gate was locked once more and the guard watched over them. She was barely twenty, Gallus reckoned, mutely helping her to rise and kneel beside him. The girl nodded once in thanks, then gestured for Gallus to sit back, which he did. She was the only sliver of humanity in this Hades-like realm. He almost scoffed at the irony: after years of fighting for the empire, to find a crumb of solace in the presence of a Hun within the imperial dungeon.

  She took a piece of clean cloth and soaked it, then dabbed it against the open wounds on his torso. She had been to tend to him three times before, just like this – usually after the torture had been most brutal. For a moment, he considered asking her to knock the flint piece towards him, but he could see that Trogus the guard was watching them vigilantly.

  ‘You know why they send you down here to tend to me, don’t you?’ he said instead, staving off the urge to wince at the stinging of the cleansing rag. ‘It is merely so I do not expire before they take their blades and whips to me again.’

  The Hun girl looked up at him coltishly for just a heartbeat before looking away as if embarrassed at meeting his eye, her long, charcoal hair sliding across her face like a veil. She had spoken not a word to him in any of her visits. He could only wonder at what kind of life had seen her end up here.

  ‘Anyway, I wish I could thank you for your kindness,’ he said, wishing he had taken the time to learn the basics of the Hunnic tongue.

  She looked up, this time over her shoulder. The guard there was readying to open the cell gates to usher her out again. She turned back to Gallus and whispered: ‘You can,’ before standing and leaving the cell.

  Two simple, tiny words, spoken in stilted Latin, but two words spoken in good faith. A tiny droplet of light in this dark existence.

  Trogus stepped in for a moment, noticed the flint piece on the floor and lifted it, smirking at Gallus. ‘You know this was no oversight?’ he said. ‘Lurco had it placed here, just beyond your reach – to test you… to madden you.’ He kicked a shower of dirt over Gallus’ face.

  Gallus felt a fiery anger spread from within. For an instant, he lost control and lurched for the guard. Fear flashed in the man’s eyes for an instant as Gallus’ hands shot for his throat, before the chains yanked taut and wrested Gallus to a halt, the iron cuffs biting on his wrists.

  With a throaty laugh, Trogus tossed the flint piece into the darkness of an adjacent cell, hooked a hand around the Hun girl’s arm and left.

  Sleep with one eye open and a dagger in your hand, Speculator…

  Dexion shook the words from his head as he emerged from the dungeons into the eastern end of Augusta Treverorum’s palace complex. He strode across the night-cloaked palace gardens and with every few footsteps, he heard the words again.

  …one eye open and a dagger in your hand…

  He swatted the threat away again. There was a moment of placid silence, then the persistent voice struck up again, changing tack, this time sounding mournful and anguished:

  You killed my wife and my boy. You slew Felicia, your brother’s woman

  They were Gallus’ words, but this wasn’t Gallus speaking. He had heard this voice before. In fact, in his youth, he had heard it often and back then, he had listened to it all the time. Conscience, the Speculatores had called it when they had taken him in. Throughout his years of adolescence, they had indoctrinated him in their ways: training him in combat, diplomacy, stealth and subterfuge. More, they had taught him how to master his own mind, how to suppress emotions, snuff out feelings. Feelings are weaknesses, the elder speculator had said often. Emotions are a bane. Master your conscience. Tether it and banish it. And so he had.

  During his tutelage he had found and raised an abandoned mongrel pup – jet-black with a streak of white on its forehead. The dog was loyal, sleeping by his feet, running with him when he trained and barking to warn him of danger. The creature adored him and he it. Yet one day the elder and the other speculatores had come to his chamber. The elder placed a knife in his hand and gestured towards the dog, who looked on with interest, head cocked and tail wagging. Show me and your brethren just how far you have come, the elder had said. He recalled the surge of panic, fear and disbelief, the feverish urge to run, to call the dog with him and to escape such a foul proposition. Hot tears had stained his cheeks as he backed away towards the chamber window with the dog. The gardens were a short leap away and they could surely both outrun this coven of elders.

  Those were the last tears he had ever shed and that was the last time his conscience nearly swayed him, for something had happened: all those years of tutelage steered him, like a fatherly arm around his shoulder. All thoughts of right and wrong vanished, he became numb, and he stepped forward, closing the shutters on the window. He saw the elder’s face light up, and he felt nothing when he knelt beside the dog. He heard the pained yelping as he thrust the blade into its breast, saw the trusting eyes and the light dying in them. The dog fell limp with a final whimper, its hot blood soaking him, and still he felt… nothing.

  It was a revelation. Feelings had been his bane since boyhood. Day after day he had tormented himself, asking why: why had Father left them, why had Mother died? He had built a dank torture chamber within his own head – far more grim than the dungeons of Treverorum – in which he battered himself with every thought, hated his every action, blamed every bad turn on himself, saw every scowl or sour look from passers-by as a judgement on his unworthiness. Then that day, with his dead dog in his arms, his feelings died… and he was free. And so it had been ever since.

  He inhaled the night air, wove through the network of flower beds and flitted up a broad set of marble stairs to the palace’s main entrance. Inside, he strode through galleries and corridors, before he came to the palace banquet hall. In the centre of the room, the evening feast was in full sway. The light from scented oil burners danced across the red and gold-veined ceiling and cast shadows over the tessellated floors and porphyry colonnade lining the edges of the room – such a contrast to the dark subterranean vaults. A lilting melody sailed around the cavernous chamber from the timpani and flute players on the rostrum in one corner. Gentle chatter ebbed and flowed in between the gurgling of pouring wine and clacking of cups and plates at the heart of the chamber. The feasting table was laden with bounty: mullet, eels, stuffed pheasant, bread soaked in red wine, countless cheeses, fat dates, hen’s eggs, milk and honey along with bright platters of fruit. Far too much food for the twenty or so dignitaries gathered here.

  Emperor Gratian sat at the head of the table, laughing gently as some tale was shared amongst the guests: a tall, weathered and broad-jawed man in blue military robes and leather wrist cuffs with tidy grey hair and a close-cropped beard was recounting some story about Gratian’s dead father, Emperor Valentinian. Gratian, the delicate-featured young emperor – of just nineteen summers – fawned over the man’s tale, his clear, flawless skin and pure-blonde locks perfectly groomed and his purple silk robe draped on his slight frame without a crease, his pale-blue eyes fixed on the storyteller.

  Dexion noticed then a pair of guards standing nearby in the arches of the colonnade – not brethren of the Speculatores, but chosen guardsmen for the throne room, dressed in dark red tunics with bright shields and tall spears, each sporting long, fair locks and one with a moustache. They were Le
ntienses – one of the tribes of the Alemannic Confederation east of the River Rhenus. Their kind hadn’t yet been formed into a legion like the fiery-haired Heruli who guarded the palace’s outer walls, but that might happen soon enough, he reckoned. They were fierce but supposedly loyal. Their job was to remain sentinel-like and try not to spoil the feast with their presence.

  Dexion made to step from the shadows of the colonnade and enter the main area of the feasting hall but, like a hawk sighting movement, Gratian’s eyes switched to him, pinning him where he stood. With the faintest shake of the head, the emperor gave the order for him to remain where he was, watching on from afar.

  Very well, thought Dexion, resting one shoulder on a green-veined marble column and listening in to the conversation. Now Gratian was regaling the diners with a tale of his own.

  ‘My father was a character, was he not? Valentinian the Great, they called him,’ Gratian said, pulling a face and drawing out the appellation.

  A chorus of laughter erupted from the diners. The handsome, bearded general laughed at this too, albeit guardedly.

  ‘He once attempted to capture Macrianus, King of the Bucinobantes, in the dead of night. But he and his elite soldiers made such a racket on their approach to the king’s hill fort – distracted as they were stealing petty coins from the nearby homes of Macrianus’ tribesmen – that the king awoke and escaped. Valentinian the Great? I ask you, how do men stumble across such ill-fitting titles?’

  The rest of the men at the table erupted again in well-rehearsed laughter. The bearded general did so to, but through a taut smile. Even from here, Dexion sensed the man’s discomfort.

  A slave to feelings and emotions, Dexion thought, a fool.

  ‘Come now, Pelagius,’ Gratian raised his cup to the general, ‘you served my father well and with distinction. He spoke highly of you, you know. It is a great shame it has taken so long since his passing for us to meet like this.’

  Pelagius bowed his head. ‘The shame is all mine, Domine. I have been engaged with the legions on the Rhenus for each and every day of the last two years. My life’s purpose is to protect you and your realm.’

  Gratian smiled in a placatory fashion, and the angelic expression seemed to sweep the hint of tension from the room. A placid lull ensued – more clacking of cups and that soothing flute melody mixed with a series of gentle conversations. Dexion watched on, his eyes keen: the boy-emperor chewed his food as he listened to some courtier by his side, but his gaze flicked back to Pelagius every few heartbeats.

  ‘Do you know of the affronts my father had to suffer during his reign?’ Gratian said, ostensibly to his courtier, but loud enough to make it clear that every man at the table should listen. All other conversations instantly died. ‘He and my dear Uncle Valens grew up in Pannonia. The high-born of the old regions mocked them for this: Valentinian the Fool, they called him – for are not all Pannonians slow of wit?’

  Pelagius did his best not to react.

  ‘And do they not still level such insults at Valens, even today?’

  Dexion could see Pelagius’ jaw working vigorously, chewing a piece of meat. Anger, pride… like poison in your veins, he mused, recalling when he had once known such poxes.

  Gratian continued: ‘I witnessed the distress this caused my father. That is why I ensured I was given a fine education. No man will ever call me a fool.’ The boy-emperor set aside his plate and his gaze now returned firmly to Pelagius. ‘For I have been sure to sweep the board of any who might trouble my reign. My brother, Flavius, was championed by some as a better candidate for the Western throne than I, yet where is he now? He lives as a recluse in Mediolanum where I put him. He oversees Italy and Africa for me and is grateful for my protection. Truth told, he was fortunate to keep his life.’ With a slight flick of Gratian’s hand, the music faded. The sounds of slurping and chewing ebbed with it, a steely silence descending on the hall. ‘For many of my opponents did not. Those who had been loyal to my father yet championed other men to succeed him enjoyed quick deaths. The more recalcitrant amongst them… did not. Take Comes Theodosius, Champion of the Iron Mountains, Hammer of the Alemanni and Pacifier of Britannia. He thought he could challenge my dynasty. Absurdly, he thought he was shrewd enough to do so without being implicated. So when I had him arrested and dragged from his villa in Mauritania, he seemed surprised.’ Gratian held up a hand, three fingers splayed. ‘Three blows, it took. Three blows with a bad axe, before his head came away from his shoulders.’

  Pelagius shuffled in his seat, the air of might gone from him. His face was pale and drawn and his proud shoulders had rounded a little.

  And now fear and regret creep in to weaken you further, Dexion mused, folding his arms, such emotions a mere echo in his memories.

  ‘Domine, I… ’ Pelagius said.

  ‘You were once loyal to my father, Pelagius. You used to meet with him every spring and autumn, as I understand it?’

  Pelagius nodded. ‘I did, but back then there was time to-’

  ‘Yet you have been unable to spare a single moment in over two years to come and pay tribute to your new master?’ Gratian continued as if Pelagius had not spoken, then dipped his brow a fraction, his pale blue eyes burrowing into Pelagius and the angelic look utterly gone. The silence that followed almost crackled in the air as all eyes watched the confrontation.

  Dexion saw streaks of sweat dart across Pelagius’ forehead now. ‘Domine. Te-tell me what I can do to m-make this right.’

  Gratian glowered for a moment longer, then lifted his head up and smiled. ‘Do as your life’s purpose bids,’ he said, taking a ring from his finger and tossing it across the table. ‘Protect me. End the threat that I see in you.’

  Every other diner at the table stared in horror at the ring as it settled before Pelagius. A small, glinting shard of silver like a fang jutted from it. Pelagius looked to the dagger-sharp point, then to all the watching faces – most horrified, but one or two barely masking smiles of triumph – then to Gratian in appeal. Gratian merely flicked his gaze beyond Pelagius to Dexion, watching from the shadows. Pelagius slowly turned to follow the emperor’s eyes and saw the speculator standing there. Dexion realised his dagger belt would be catching the torchlight. That would be enough.

  Pelagius’ gawping features lengthened even more as he realised his fate was sealed. He took a few desperate breaths, then his throat bulged as he gulped, reaching out to pick up the ring. His hands trembled as he slid it on to his forefinger then as he raised his hand towards his neck. He pressed the fang to his jugular and his lips quivered as he tried to mouth some sort of prayer, while those sitting nearby shuffled away, knowing what was coming next.

  ‘Get on with it – before my wine grows warm,’ Gratian said flatly.

  Pelagius nodded once then let out a juddering, weak sound, his arms shaking. With an animal groan, he tore the ring forward. There was a moment where nothing happened: Pelagius’ eyes bulged, looking round the ghoulish onlookers. A dark gout of blood spurted from the deep gash and sprayed across the table, staining the cloth, the food and the guests opposite. Pelagius gurgled and gasped, clutching at the wound in futility. More gouts spurted forth, the diners scrambling away as the general toppled from his chair and onto his knees, then pitched to the ground, thrashing as the blood became a pinkish foam. Moments later, Pelagius was still.

  Silence. Then a solitary pair of hands clapping. A hard, slow clapping.

  ‘Obedient, after all,’ Gratian said as he applauded, then lifted a square of silk to dab some of the dead man’s blood from his robe. ‘But did he have to make such an unpleasant mess?’

  It was several hours later, and the hall had been cleared of food, guests and Pelagius’ corpse. The bloody pool of the dead man’s blood had been mopped up and now Dexion was standing by the enthroned Gratian. The only other souls in the chamber were the two Lentienses guardsmen and a fat courtier.

  ‘Gallus hung from chains for hours today,’ Dexion reported in hushed tone
s. ‘Tomorrow, Lurco will take him to the precipice of death once more.’ Once, such words might have stung his lips as they emerged, set his skin aflame with shame. Now, he felt nothing. Nothing.

  ‘Good, good,’ Gratian said, his chin cradled on the V of his thumb and forefinger as he stared thoughtfully into the shadowy corners of the room. ‘But now, let us talk of the matter that won’t leave us alone,’ Gratian said, his voice suddenly booming. ‘This Gothic War in Thracia that my uncle pleads with me to attend with my armies. Where are we in our schedule?’

  Dexion noticed the fat courtier frowning in concern, glancing from the emperor to the two Lentienses guardsmen, sure that each of them could hear the emperor’s words clearly. Indeed, the moustachioed guard wore the painfully obvious look of a man pretending he wasn’t listening.

  ‘Domine, perhaps we should retire to your tablinum to discuss such matters?’ the courtier said in a hushed voice.

  Dexion could not help but chuckle. This simple fellow did not understand what was going on, and there was no point in trying to enlighten him: it would be like explaining colours to a blind man.

  Gratian carried on, ignoring the advice. ‘As I understand it, my Praesental Army is already making good headway towards the upper reaches of the River Danubius. Merobaudes, my brave Master of Horse, leads those thirty thousand men through Raetia as we speak. God goes with him and will surely help chase the Goths out of Thracia. But very soon I too must set off in his wake, taking what remaining few legions I can spare from these lands. My dear Uncle Valens’ prayers will be answered. Thracia will be saved. Thracia must be saved… ’ he nodded thoughtfully.