Gods & Emperors (Legionary 5)

by Gordon Doherty

  Chapter 9

  Colias the Goth raised a hand, bringing his warband of a thousand Thervingi spearmen to a halt under the cruel midday sun. These last weeks of June had been hotter than any this land had ever experienced. The parched central Thracian plain – some thirty miles east of Adrianople – which they had traversed that morning ended here. Which way now? A hot, weak breeze ruffled the scorched golden grass around his ankles and he licked his desert-dry lips and surveyed his options: the silvery Rhodope Mountains to the west, rugged green-gold hills to the north… or a narrow gorge, straight ahead. It was a shallow, tight corridor, with sheer bluffs of white rock on either side. The floor of the still and silent arroyo was studded with yellow broom, purple rhododendron bushes and huge, ancient-looking and moss-coated shards of fallen white rock. It seemed like a pleasant corridor, and perhaps they could even march in the thin strip of shade offered by the leftmost gorge wall. Vitally, it would lead him and his thousand spearmen to the banks of the River Hebrus before the end of the day. But still he peered at it with scepticism. He had learned to treat all things this way.

  His head throbbed and his swollen tongue poked out and traced his desiccated lips again, as if trying to make up his mind for him. Grain was the precious resource Fritigern had compelled his warbands to seize from the Romans and stockpile, but today, it was all about water. He thought of the full water barrels they had possessed just yesterday – full enough to slake the thirsts of his warband for several days. Yesterday they had raced across this section of Thracia to which Fritigern had assigned them, and had intercepted and raided a reckless and somewhat hopeful Roman wagon train that had dared attempt a transport of cattle, wine and arrows between two of their walled settlements. Colias had never felt more in control as he ordered his men to take the food and weapons for themselves. The men had been eager to slay the Romans but he had let them flee. Let them go – more mouths for the Romans to feed, he had reasoned with his warriors. In truth, they were merely old men and boys and he had no wish to murder them. They had made camp, eaten hearty meals of fresh bread and goat stew followed by foraged berries and the wine… lots of the wine, knowing that there would be plentiful water with which to soothe their doubtless thick heads in the morning. When morning came they had awoken, furry-tongued and bleary eyed. Colias had heard an angry dispute at the water barrels as he approached with his cup. Men who had been closer than brothers the previous night with wine warming their blood, now stood nose-to-nose and snarling like rabid dogs. He shouted them down, the sharp tones doing nothing for his pounding head, then pushed past them to see what had happened. The barrels stood there, seemingly undamaged. But the patch of dry, baked earth upon which they had been set up was no longer dry or baked, but dark and damp. One of his men had knocked upon the barrel as if to demonstrate, the hollow echo confirming what had happened. The timbers are split, his man had confirmed, prodding with a knife at the base of the barrel where the wooden staves were parted and the water had flooded out. One badly riveted barrel he could forgive, but for all six to have shed their water overnight… now that was a cruel trick from Allfather Wodin himself… or someone else. He eyed the gorge ahead once again, then looked back over his shoulder to his warband. Nearly a thousand heads baking under their leather or iron helms, barely shading drawn faces, black-lines under their eyes and puckered lips. They clung to their spears for support more than anything else, and the chorus of rasping breaths told him all he needed to know. With water, he would have taken them north, across the hills and the open heath beyond at a more leisurely pace. But with without water, this gorge was the only viable route.

  ‘Forward,’ he croaked, waving a hand overhead, leading them down the gently sloping ground that led into the gorge with a crunch of boots on gravel and scree.

  As often happened when he grew weary, his mind drifted back to his old life, when he had once served as a centurion in the empire’s legions. He and his fellow Goth, Suerdias, had garrisoned the city of Adrianople bravely. It had been their home back then, before the outbreak of war. Yet in the first days of conflict, the Roman populace had violently ousted the Gothic legionaries from the city walls. His teeth ground together as he recalled the vitriol of Adrianople’s citizens that day. They had hurled spears, rocks and buckets of waste at him and his men, killing several. Aye, well, I have spilled plenty of legionary blood since, he mused with a stubborn smirk that quickly dissolved into a troubled frown.

  They marched on through the gorge, sighs of relief sounding when they entered the shade down there. Even the chatter in his mind fell silent for a while as the echo of boots took over. A modicum of peace. But when a small rock tumbled down the cliff-side, tossing up tiny puffs of dust as it went, his warrior’s instinct kicked in. He was sure – he just knew – something had moved up there on the gorge side. But there was nothing there. He raised a hand to halt his warband. The crunch of boots ceased almost instantly and the sudden silence grew deafening. His eyes swept around in distrust and his hand and a thousand others grappled spears and longsword hilts.

  Then came a sound that almost totally disarmed him. The plonk of a cork and the thick, luscious glug-glug of water toppling from some vessel. A series of gasps sounded from his men as they looked all around to locate the source of the noise.

  ‘That’s it, get rid of it, all of it,’ a rowdy voice demanded. The words echoed through the gorge. ‘Every last damned drop.’

  Colias looked this way and that before his eyes locked upon the three figures who emerged on top of the northern bluff. Romans, he mouthed. Instantly, he and his thousand spearmen’s weariness was cast off. They turned to face the northern gorge top, spears clacking as they were levelled to point up there at the trio. One – a bald, pox-scarred officer with an eyepatch and a wild, lop-sided smile-cum-grimace – mopped sweat from his brow with a rag. Two young legionaries stood by his side – one a dark, hawk-faced lad and the other blonde-haired and rosy-cheeked – emptying amphorae of sparkling water onto the ground up there.

  ‘Legionaries? How?’ he growled. These men had snuck up on his flank in silence. The legions did not creep up on his kind – they moved like herds of cows, all din and clamour. But this odd trio wore legionary tunics and belts but no clanking armour – nor a jot of iron to catch the sun and betray their position. How long had they been tracking his warband?

  The bald, savage-looking one beamed down at him and spoke in a voice that pealed like a bell through the gorge. ‘But damn, it is hot, eh?’

  ‘Is it him?’ Bastianus whispered over his shoulder to Pavo.

  Pavo nodded. ‘It is Colias of the Thervingi. Once Colias of Adrianople,’ he whispered back.

  ‘And you’re sure about him?’

  Pavo’s eyes narrowed on the lead Goth down in the gorge. Colias and his kinsman, Suerdias, had once served in the garrison of Adrianople as centurions. But when the Gothic War broke out, the populace had turned upon the distinctly un-Roman pair and their legionaries, chasing them from the city, driving them to defect to Fritigern’s growing horde. ‘He was once loyal to the empire. As loyal as they come.’

  Bastianus pursed his lips as if musing over this, then turned back to the Goth and his warband standing down in the gulch floor, gesturing towards the amphorae being drained by Pavo and Sura. ‘Water! We have too much of the bloody stuff, you see,’ he continued in a voice loud enough to be heard in faraway Persia. When he winked at Pavo and Sura, they took their cue. Sura dropped his vessel in exaggerated fashion, allowing it to shatter on a shard of grey rock. With a shivering reflection, the remaining contents soaked the stone and the earth and dribbled down the face of the bluff with a melodic trickle. ‘Ah, it slipped,’ he said sarcastically.

  Pavo held up his amphora and drank deeply, letting the water spill over his face, soaking his linen tunic.

  ‘You,’ Colias snarled, his face bending into a bitter scowl. ‘You took our water.’

  ‘No, we have our own. We did, however, test the integrity of your ba
rrels,’ Bastianus said with a nonchalant snort and a quick hitch of his crotch. ‘You were sound asleep. Soft leather, you see,’ he said, lifting one leg to show off his boot, ‘all too silent.’

  The Goth’s spear hand trembled. Pavo knew what was coming next. The war cry, the thousand spears would race back out of the gorge and come round onto this bluff to snare them. The man had almost lost his head to anger, he realised. Swiftly, he tossed down his amphorae and snatched up the rag of red cloth strapped to his belt and swished it overhead. The action stilled the Goth and his men for a moment, and then they were stilled utterly when a wall of bodies sprung up around the three taunting Romans in response to the signal: a line of seven legionary centuries dressed in tunics, wearing dark felt caps in place of helms and bearing ruby-red XI Claudia shields, Zosimus and Quadratus leading two of them.

  Pavo hooked the cloth back on his belt and took up his spear and shield from Rectus, who brought them to him, then fell into place with Sura at the head of the centremost century. ‘Ready!’ he cried in unison with Zosimus and Quadratus, their voices almost matching Bastianus’ in volume. He watched the Goths’ eyes, knowing that this was the crucial moment: their eyes darted and they looked to one another. He imagined the thoughts in their heads: the Romans have the high ground but we have greater number.

  Once more, Colias seemed ready to take that chance, but a shout from Zosimus across the corridor brought a rumble of boots from the top of the opposite gorge wall. The Goths’ faces fell as they turned to look up over their shoulders. Seven more centuries of Romans looked down on them from that side. A century of sagittarii – having dispensed of their armour – stood with their bows nocked and drawn. Herenus and his century of funditores flanked them on the left, slings loaded with shot, raised and spinning with a waspish rasp. A century of the emperor’s precious ballistarii stood on the right, their crossbows loaded and latched, their keen eyes trained along the shaft, targets sighted. Beside them stood a century of the Lancearii javelin throwers, wearing jerkins and boots, javelins raised and ready. Three more Claudia centuries completed the line there. Pavo heard the expulsion of breath down on the gorge floor. Finally, as if to end the matter, the heat haze at the far end of the canyon swirled as an ala of two hundred unarmoured equites carrying spears and bows emerged from the bend beyond, jostling into place at a canter, sealing off the Goths’ route that way. Agilo the explorator led this mounted force. Finally, a further three centuries of Claudia legionaries spilled down into the gorge behind Colias, clacking their shields together, two-high, to form a deep and solid, spear-tip punctuated wall, sealing off any hope of retreat. Now Pavo saw the Goths’ shoulders slump.

  But Colias still had fire in his eyes. ‘Three more warbands roam just a few miles north. The outrageous din of your voice will have alerted them.’ he said, stabbing a finger at Bastianus. ‘You might have enough time to save your necks if you run.’

  ‘Ah,’ Bastianus chuckled, utterly unperturbed, before rearranging his crotch again. ‘Would that be the same three warbands we tracked and trapped?’ His face creased in a theatrical mocking smile. ‘Think about it. You haven’t heard from them for days, have you?’

  Colias’ top lip trembled then curled back, revealing gritted teeth. ‘You stole into our camp last night. You could have slain us then, in our sleep, yet you did not. Why? Why do you revel in playing games with men’s lives? Come then, you’ve had your fun, now cut us down as you did the other warbands,’ he snarled, ‘but we will take many of you with us into the afterlife!’

  ‘Cut you down? By Mithras, we will if you make us,’ Bastianus retorted like an angry bear, drawing his spatha with a zing. ‘Or,’ he added, ‘you can throw down your spears, slake your thirsts, then walk away from this war.’

  Colias snorted, taken aback.

  ‘The three other warbands chose that option. They laid down their weapons, and right now they are being marched to the south, escorted by three of my centuries. They’ll serve in the Greek islands and in the Peloponnese or be shipped to Africa.’

  Colias snorted and bristled. ‘You expect us to embrace the offer of slavery?’

  Bastianus shook his head. ‘You’ll be drafted into the legions. We need men… to protect other parts of the empire, to keep the peace and prevent other wars like this.’ The scarred general crouched on one knee now, as if trying to block out all others and talk only to Colias, his lone eye trained on the man like an eagle peering down from its eyrie. ‘We need men like you, Colias. Colias of Adrianople.’

  Colias blinked at the use of his name and the reference to his old life. But the narrow eyes returned. ‘Why should I trust you? How do I know you would not simply take our weapons then cut our throats – just as the Roman curs tried to do that day in Adrianople when they turned upon me and my Gothic century?’

  ‘You’ve served us before. Things turned sour, aye,’ Bastianus mused. ‘But war tarnishes the most glittering of things, does it not?’

  Colias noticed a fair few of the men with him shuffling in discomfort.

  ‘How many of those in your warband were part of the Adrianople garrison with you?’ Bastianus asked. ‘Men who knew peace and purpose within the empire before the war? Today, I’m offering you that once more: a home, a place, a purpose.’ His avuncular tone ended when he raised his spatha and appraised its gleaming, honed edge with a hard eye and added: ‘Make the right choice, Colias.’

  Colias’ features were wrought with indecision. He looked round the noose of Roman soldiers once, twice and again. Finally, he sighed and threw his spear into the earth before him, where it stuck and quivered. ‘Our war is over,’ he called over his shoulder to his men.

  Colias and his men were stripped of their weapons and marshalled by Agilo and his riders. The Goths’ doubt and distrust was slowly assuaged only when a few contubernia of Zosimus’ Claudia legionaries descended into the gorge, taking them water to drink.

  Pavo finally let the tension in his shoulders ease. Over the last week, Bastianus had led this heterogeneous ensemble, not like an army marching to battle, but like bandits, criss-crossing lower Thracia, doubling back, keeping their route deliberately erratic. They scuttled through long grass, forded rivers, and slipped over hills like fast-moving asps. Agilo always rode ahead, scouting and pinpointing Gothic warbands, then signalling back to the column with a flash of sunlight from a bronze disc. Four thousand Thervingi had been disarmed so far. He eyed the damp dust by his feet at the edge of the bluff where he had emptied the amphora as a taunt. The day was theirs, and water had been spilled in place of blood. Could a war be won by such means? He knew the answer even before Bastianus sidled over, gazing down at the Goths in the gully.

  The Magister Peditum spat into the dust and wiped the sweat from his brow. ‘I reckon we’ll need two centuries from your lot to escort them south – down to Perinthus where we sent the others.’

  Pavo nodded. ‘I’ll organise it.’ He glanced over the small army of unarmoured Claudia legionaries, missile troops and horsemen. Another one hundred and sixty men to escort this lot on top of the centuries who had taken the other warbands south. The small army was growing swiftly smaller.

  ‘No, we can’t,’ Bastianus said.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘You’re thinking we can’t carry on like this,’ Bastianus clarified. ‘And you’re right.’

  Pavo looked all around the horizon. ‘There are many warbands still out there.’

  Bastianus grunted in agreement. ‘Too many. Soon, we’ll have to get our swords wet.’

  Just then, Agilo walked his horse up and along the edge of the bluff, having ridden from the gorge floor.

  ‘Give me good news, Agilo,’ Bastianus said.

  Agilo shook his head. ‘Same as the others, sir. They don’t know.’

  Bastianus’ gaze fell to the Goths being questioned down on the valley floor. His good eye narrowed like a man considering a dark course of action and he drummed his fingers on his sword hilt. ‘You’re sure?’ h
e said in a low, ominous burr.

  ‘I’m sure,’ Agilo said firmly.

  Bastianus spat again. Pavo sighed. Each of the warbands they had captured had been questioned about the location of Fritigern’s secondary camp and the vital grain stockpile it reportedly held. Each of them had been equally vociferous in insisting they knew nothing. Fritigern has told only a select few of its whereabouts, one had sworn – even when a heated blade had been held near his eyes.

  ‘Then it is simple: the hunt continues,’ Bastianus mused.

  The following day, the patchwork force – now reduced to just fifteen hundred men – finally broke from their pattern of moving across fields and hills and risked marching along the Via Militaris instead. This section of the road was in grievous disrepair – sections of flagstone buckled and jutting. All eyes combed the low, golden hills along the roadside in case of ambush. Pavo’s eyes were keener than most. By his reckoning if they stayed on the highway then they might come within sight of the Narco waystation sometime tomorrow. He squinted into the setting sun, seeing a flash of light there: it was Agilo galloping in from the north, a plume of dust billowing in his wake. The explorator went straight to Bastianus, divulging his findings from his latest foray ahead before dropping back to ride near the column’s rear.

  Then he noticed that Quadratus, Zosimus and Sura were marching together. He jogged forward to draw level with the trio, who were already deep in conversation, muttering and making disguised gestures towards Bastianus.

  The Magister Peditum was sitting bolt upright on the saddle, humming some tuneless ditty, laughing sporadically as he went as if in some jestful conversation with himself.

  ‘Pissed as a plague rat, surely,’ Zosimus reasoned.

  ‘Insane,’ Quadratus said instantly, summoning then spitting a lump of rubbery phlegm with a snort, then he added with a nod at Sura; ‘definitely worse than you.’ He turned to Pavo. ‘What do you make of him?’