He came to the end of the corridor and saw the vast throne room before him. The sight was striking: an ancient, gnarled and knotted pedunculate oak rose at the rear of the hall like a spine, and the timber structure and pitched roof had been built around and were supported by it, branches stretched out like beams across the rear wall and the trunk rose on through the ceiling. At the base of the tree was an ancient timber throne on a stepped plinth. A weary figure sat upon this chair, sporting a tightly-curled auburn beard and sleek, collar-length hair, streaked with grey. He wore thick animal furs on his shoulders. Priarius? Gallus realised, barely recognising the man, who looked a lot older and greyer than he had on the battlefield at Argentoratum a fortnight ago.
Gallus stepped into the hall, eyes darting to locate the king’s guards.
‘There are no more,’ the man said wearily. ‘All my guards are fighting their last at the doors.’
Gallus halted at the man’s words, sure it was a gambit. But he saw that indeed there were no others in the hall: just animal hides, shields and crossed spears mounted on the walls. The commotion of the dull, echoing fights at the doors came and went in waves, then the ceiling groaned and sagged, a shower of thatching fell, ablaze, drifting down onto the packed-dirt floor between Gallus and the king. The upper branches of the oak too had caught light as the flames licked inside. Gallus stepped forward cautiously, one eye on the ceiling and one on the king, embers drifting down all around them.
‘My people will slip from history today,’ Priarius said, his eyes fixed on the floor before him. ‘And all because I listened to the harping voices of my eager and overly-brave Council. I did not want for war with your empire. I did not seek to bring Emperor Gratian’s forces to my home like this, to crush everything I hold dear under his boot.’ The man’s eyes drew up jadedly to Gallus, every line on his craggy face thrown into sharp relief by the fiery faggots of thatching floating around him. ‘I presume you come to take me as a prize with which to honour Gratian? Then come, seize me or take my head. I am no warrior, just a foolish king who has consigned his people to the dust.’
Gallus approached the plinth. ‘I owe Gratian not a libra of honour. It seems the cur knows little of such a virtue in any case.’
This seemed to stoke a last mite of curiosity from Priarius. ‘Yet you come to my hall with your sword in hand?’
‘I do only what I must,’ Gallus replied, stepping up the plinth stairs. ‘Your village would have fallen today, regardless of my presence. I aim to bring about the end of the fighting as soon as possible. Only then can I see that Gratian upholds his word and marches this army to Thracia. Only then can I find opportunity to sink this blade into the ribs of the demon he rides with… the one who took from me all I had... my wife, my boy… my future.’
Gallus halted, standing before the king, Priarius and he sharing a moment of affinity, grey ash now settling on the shoulders and faces of both men.
‘Tell me, Roman, what is Gratian’s will: to have my head or to take me alive?’
‘He wants you alive,’ Gallus replied flatly.
Priarius’ eyes searched Gallus’. ‘And what fate is darker: death or Gratian’s prisons?’
Gallus’ mind raced with all that had gone on in the dungeons.
‘Your silence is answer enough,’ Priarius said. He inhaled deeply and nodded once. ‘Spare me the darkness.’
Gallus dipped his head once in understanding. He fixed his gaze on the trunk of the giant oak, then wrapped one arm around the back of the king’s head, pulling it into his chest, before thrusting his spatha into the man’s breastbone. Priarius tensed and then sighed. Gallus rested the corpse back against the throne and stepped away.
Tartarus or Elysium? The dark voice whispered in his mind as he stared at the blood on his hands and his tunic. With every life you take, you hasten towards perdition. He gazed through the bloodstains, barely hearing the dull clash of the struggle at the doors echoing through the corridors leading to the great hall. Then something crystal clear and oh-so close split the air, right behind him.
‘Emperor Gratian will be most displeased,’ the voice said.
Gallus swung on his heel to see a gaunt auxiliary – one of Merobaudes’ lot – had crept up on him. A fellow with a stark black beard that seemed to start just below his grey eyes. He felt a sharp jab in his abdomen and looked down to see the tip of the man’s curved sword point resting there. When he looked up again, slowly, his blood chilled.
Those soulless eyes had gazed upon him before, he realised, in his first days in the dungeons. This man was a speculator. The cur had watched on by Dexion’s side as Gallus had endured Lurco’s torture.
‘One move,’ Grey-eyes purred, then circled slowly, tracing his sword point roughly over Gallus’ tunic, taking the spatha to hold it in his other hand. ‘How did you do it? Nobody has escaped from those dungeons. Nobody.’
Gallus said nothing as the flaming clusters of straw fell all around them.
‘Now I have a dilemma much like yours with the dead king,’ he pointed with the spatha towards Priarius’ corpse. ‘Do I slay you, cut your belly open and let you watch as your gut ropes spill onto the floor… or do I take you alive, to Master Dexion, back to Augusta Treverorum? We could dig deeper into the ground, build darker, fouler dungeons below the existing one. Perhaps we could brick up the cell to ensure you never again escape?’
The man’s breath reeked of pungent meat, and Gallus sensed lust in his words.
‘Make your choice, Speculator, but make it a good one. For years I have been cleaning from my blade the blood of whoresons who made the wrong choice.’
The man’s face bent into a scowl. ‘Very well, time to get a little air in and around your belly,’ and he hissed through his teeth and tensed his twin swords.
‘Where is your shield, dog?’ a familiar voice said, halting him. Gallus and Grey-eyes looked to the main doorway to the great hall. There stood Dagr, wounded and blood spilling from his lips. He hoisted his spear and hurled it across the room. The tip crashed into Grey-eyes’ throat, just above the collar of his leather vest, throwing him back and pinning him to the trunk of the giant oak. Gallus looked to the dead speculator and then to Dagr. ‘You saved me?’ he spluttered.
Dagr fell to one knee, wincing. Gallus hurried down from the plinth and over to his side, crouching by him.
‘Aye, well, he was one of them, wasn’t he?’ Dagr half-spoke, half-rasped, his breath wet with blood. Gallus saw the grievous battle-wound near his armpit now, part-concealed by the arm of his tunic.
‘You knew he was a speculator?’ Gallus said.
‘Not until now. Not until I heard what he said.’
‘But you don’t know who I am. You know nothing about me,’ Gallus replied.
Dagr looked up, his face greying, and clasped a hand to Gallus’ shoulder. ‘At first, I wondered if you were one of them. But not for long. I know a good man when I meet one. I heard your words to the king. I know what drives you on. I c…can only respect you for that. Now be sure to do what you told P…Priarius you were going to… to do.’
Gallus frowned.
‘Save Th…Thracia and sl… slay the dark one… Dexion?’ Dagr said, a weak smile playing on his blue lips. With that, he slumped. Gallus caught him and laid him on the floor, but with a death rattle, Dagr was gone.
Outside, the clash of battle faded and was replaced by Roman cheering. Gallus took one last look around the great hall, the corpses and the eerie, encroaching light of the fire from overhead, then made for the side door. He would have to melt back into the ranks, and Dexion would surely be suspicious at having lost one of his brethren.
Chapter 11
A lone bireme cut through the foaming waters of the Pontus Euxinus, heading north. Pavo, standing at the landward side, gripped the ship’s edge, holding himself steady against the buck and sway of the choppy waters. Seasickness always seemed to be worse in the mornings. He tried fixing his gaze on points on the coast, which helped a li
ttle. However, when they passed one blackened ruin of what had been a Roman fort, then the abandoned and well-pillaged coastal town, he decided to turn his attentions elsewhere. The north of Thracia was a land of shades, it seemed, scarred with the markings of war and infested with Gothic invaders. And it was right into the depths of this realm they were headed. Part of him yearned to see Durostorum again, wanting to believe that it would be as it had once been: a Roman town with the XI Claudia fort adjacent; a peaceful border settlement; Felicia’s home. The cold, scarred soldier’s skin enveloped him then: his memories of Durostorum were fond, but memories and no more. The town was overrun with Goths, the fort too… and Felicia was dead. Bitterness lanced through him as he wondered again which cur within the Gothic hordes had cut her down. ‘The truth is I’ll never know,’ he whispered. ‘I can never avenge her,’ he added, sliding down to sit, back resting against the galley’s edge.
But to the old fort they would go, and it would be the last – and hopefully decisive – act of their mission, for it was early July. Bastianus had used the month given to him by Valens and it was almost time to return to Melanthias… to return in time for Emperor Gratian’s arrival from the West. In time for Dexion and Gallus’ arrival, he mouthed, lifted from his gloom by the thought. The scroll from Narco had been ruined whilst wading up the River Hebrus, but the message upon it would never fade until it came to pass.
…Dexion has reached Treverorum. He will return in time to ensure the emperor’s victory…
He smiled, then looked aft towards the circle of soldiers sitting on deck playing dice, eating and bantering. Just this one vessel and its ten fighting men – he, Bastianus, Agilo the explorator, Zosimus, Quadratus, Sura, Trupo, Cornix, Libo and Rectus – were the chosen ones. The few who would wander into the jaws of the Goths’ secondary base camp.
This small group had ridden at haste from the ruins of the Greuthingi camp on the Hebrus, coming to a small hidden rural jetty south of Gothic-occupied Deultum three days ago. Bastianus had withheld the fact that they would be travelling to Durostorum by boat, and Pavo – expecting to travel the rest of the way on horseback, perhaps along the Via Pontica – had beheld the waiting ship like a cat might eye a bath. Three days – so far – of eating, throwing up over the side, enduring the roaring laughter of Zosimus, Quadratus and Sura, eating again, throwing up again, being mocked mercilessly again, then not bothering to eat much at all after that. He groaned, ran his fingers though his freshly-cropped hair and tried to appreciate the fresh sea air. He heard Bastianus and Agilo chatting, and turned to see that they had strolled to the prow to gaze ahead.
‘It’ll be like cracking a walnut,’ Agilo mused, his red foxskin cap in his hands.
‘There is a town and a fort,’ Bastianus replied, ‘they’ll be bedded into both, I imagine.’
Pavo rose and approached the pair. ‘Durostorum’s walls are perfunctory, no more. The fort is the real stronghold.’ Bastianus and Agilo turned to him, intrigued.
‘We can talk all day about our plans, Agilo, but this man and the Claudia lads know what they’re talking about,’ Bastianus grinned. ‘You have plans of the fort layout?’
Pavo shook his head, then tapped his temple. ‘Only up here. But that should be enough. I can tell you of its approaches, its walls, towers, barracks, stores… and cells. I can assure you that it will not fall to an assault,’ he flicked his head back towards the eight soldiers on board, ‘certainly not to a small force like this.’
‘We’re not going to break the walls, Centurion,’ Bastianus said, ‘we’re going to slip inside them.’
Agilo pulled a quizzical look. ‘And then? Surely if Fritigern is using the place as a stronghold, he will have a stout garrison there?’
‘He will, no doubt,’ Bastianus agreed. ‘But we won’t be taking them all on. No, we do just enough to show Fritigern that we can penetrate even his main camps. Every man has a breaking point. We have to find his,’ he punched a fist into his palm, ‘to force him to reunite his damned horde.’
Moonlight bathed the Danubius’ hinterland, but only keen eyes would have spotted the lone bireme moving slowly upriver under power of oars, hugging the southern banking. The gentle lapping of oars ceased as the ship moored behind a slight twist in the river, shielding it from the sight of any onlookers to the south. Ten soldiers in dark garb slipped from the ship’s side and splashed through the eelgrass and shallows, before scuttling from the waterside and up a grassy hump where they settled onto their bellies to behold the sight before them: the plain of Durostorum.
A strip of poorly tended wheat crop stood between them and the grey, lichen-coated northern walls of the XI Claudia fort – the old place resembling a slumbering, stony titan. The town of Durostorum itself lay just west of the fort. The town sported ghostly orange bubbles of light on its walls. Pavo noticed though that the fort had been spared a keener watch than the town – while the torchlight on the town walls was still, the sentries on the fort battlements were marching back and forth vigilantly scanning the land outwith.
‘Seems you were right, Centurion,’ Bastianus said, lying prone on his belly. ‘The fort’s the place they guard most keenly. That’s where the grain is.’
Pavo nodded, his eyes combing this grey-walled bulwark and the town. So many memories flooded back to him. He cast a quick glance along the line of men, meeting the glassy eyes of Zosimus, Quadratus and Sura, the only men remaining from the days when this had been the Claudia’s home. None of them said a word. No words were needed.
‘I’ve counted the sentries’ routine,’ Agilo whispered, ‘We have a gap of maybe forty heartbeats when the northern wall is unwatched.’
Pavo watched as, indeed, the two Gothic sentries pacing that wall walked towards each other, met in the middle, shared a moment of muted chat, then walked back towards their respective corner towers, leaving the midsection unwatched for that short spell before they turned to face one another again. Each was clad in a baked red leather vest and iron helm and carried a spear.
‘Then it’s on your call, explorator,’ Bastianus said.
Agilo nodded then watched the sentries, his lips moving as he counted silently, one hand raised, a finger extended and ready to be dropped.
Bastianus looked to each of the officers along the line. ‘Ready?’
‘Yes, sir,’ they hissed in reply.
‘Right,’ Bastianus said, ‘one last thing, we need to disguise our faces again.’
Sura was first to react, unclipping a haircloth sack from his belt and smearing his face in pungent horse dung. It was clearly fresh, with wisps of steam still rising from it. All near him recoiled. ‘I got this from Agilo’s horse,’ he said, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder towards the hidden bireme as he worked the last of the dung in around his nose and eyes then through his blonde hair. ‘There… done!’ he whispered with a smug look on his filthy face.
‘What in the name of the gods is wrong with you?’ Bastianus gasped, gawping at Sura, then scooping up a handful of earth to blacken his own features. ‘Horse shit when you’re sneaking up on horses. Otherwise, earth.’
Libo and Rectus struggled to stifle laughter as they wiped dirt on their faces. Trupo and Cornix too. ‘Smelliest whoreson in Adrianople?’ Quadratus quipped, flicking his head towards Sura.
‘You’re one to talk,’ Sura said sourly, steam still rising from his face.
‘Go!’ Agilo hissed, ending the squabble and chopping his raised finger down.
At once, the ten were up and flooding across the stretch of ground between the hillock and the fort’s northern wall, ploughing through the wheat stalks. They kept low, hugged the darkest shadows, moving like spirits, making not a sound apart from the crackling of breaking crop stalks.
Thirty seven, thirty eight, Pavo counted as he scuttled, his eyes flicking between the shadowy blind spot at the foot of the northern wall, still some twenty strides ahead, and the parapet high above. The two Goths striding up there were almost at the corner towers an
d about to turn back to face one another, and they would surely see anything moving down here. Thirty nine, forty, forty one, he mouthed, panic welling in his breast as he saw the leftmost Goth turn on his heel, his gaze coming round and out across the countryside.
‘Down!’ Agilo hissed. At once, the twelve dropped to the ground amongst the wheat stalks. Pavo lay on his belly, propped up on his elbows, clinging on to the breath in his lungs, sure the Goth was about to spot them, imagining the still-quivering wheat stalks acting like waving hands, desperate to attract attention. His heart pounded in his chest and he even wondered if the sentry might hear it. The Goth stopped for a moment, and Pavo was sure the man’s eyes were upon him. Fear threatened to throttle him then, until Bastianus’ pledge to the small group came back to him.
We will be swift as deer, silent like hawks, unseen like shadows in the night.
The Goth saw nothing, and carried on, marching towards the centre section of the wall. They lay there for so long Pavo felt his arms tingle and grow numb. At last, the pair met and turned away again, and Agilo’s sibilant order sounded. ‘Go!’
They rose, scuttled on out of the stalks and into the blind spot, backs pressed to the fort’s northern wall. Here, the muffled sound of chatter, skirling pipes and gruff laughter sounded from within. Many voices… a strong garrison indeed. Pavo saw Bastianus’ silent signal to Quadratus, who unhooked a loop of rope from his shoulder, took the iron grappling hook tied at one end – painted black – then spun and tossed the barb up. A faint chink of iron grinding on stone sounded, and all of them froze. From up above, they heard nothing. Then – the muted banter of the two Goths as they drew together. It lasted a few heartbeats and faded again.
Now Bastianus gestured frantically to Pavo and Sura. ‘Climb!’
Pavo steeled his nerves and took hold of the rope, looped it around his waist then planted one boot against the stonework of the wall. He let his arms take his weight and hoisted himself up, gingerly seeking out the next foothold. Moments later, he was halfway up, and Sura was just below him.
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