‘How in Hades did we end up with this part of the plan?’ he hissed, glancing down at the dung-smeared features of his friend.
‘I might have… er… ’ Sura started, ‘told him that I was… a decent climber back in my Adrianople days.’
‘A decent climber?’ Pavo whispered suspiciously. Sura rarely – if ever – stooped to describing himself as merely ‘decent’ at anything.
‘Well,’ Sura added sheepishly, ‘I actually said I was known as the Mountain Man of Thracia, that I taught people how to climb. That I had taught you.’
Pavo shot him a fierce glower, then realised he was almost at the parapet. He heard the Goths meet and then part again, just feet above him. Now Sura scaled up to his side. ‘Ready?’
‘Ready.’
The pair hoisted themselves up and over, onto the battlements into a crouch. The myriad of voices, laughter and clacking cups from within the fort grew sharp and all-too-close, but they couldn’t afford to pay the many Goths down there a scrap of attention, for they only had a few moments of invisibility while the two sentries were strolling away from this midpoint of the walkway. With a silent hand gesture, Pavo went for the one on the left and Sura for the one on the right.
Pavo crept until he was but paces behind the man, then launched himself, wrapping a hand around the Goth’s mouth and his other arm around the man’s neck, compressing it with all his strength. The man struggled mutely, dropping his spear – Pavo stuck out a leg to help dampen any noise as it clattered onto the battlement. The Goth was strong like a bull, and Pavo feared he didn’t have the strength to hold him, but like a stiff wind dropping, the sentry suddenly fell limp, passing out. He turned to see the other sentry in a heap, Sura rubbing his forearm where he had smashed down on the back of the man’s neck. They looked at one another, nodded, and each dragged the sentry they had felled into the corner towers nearest. Pavo sat his sentry against a wall then plucked the helm from the man’s head and untied the leather cuirass, donning both and taking up the spear. A moment later, he emerged back onto the walkway, strolling towards the midpoint as if nothing had happened, Sura strolling towards him likewise, also donned in salvaged Gothic garb.
As he walked, he shot furtive looks around the fort’s interior, taking in every detail of the place. The layout was as it always had been, but the signs of neglect were hard to miss: all round the inside of the fort walls stood the barrack blocks. The whitewashed walls were flaking and stained and the timber shutters were rotting. Many Gothic warriors were clustered in the porches, eating, drinking, laughing and playing games as the legionaries had once done. By the fort’s southern gate, the Goths had erected a makeshift, lean-to timber stable, where a clutch of thirty or so powerful warhorses munched on fodder. Further in, the sand-floored training ground was thick with weeds, and a large group of Goths stood there around a spit of meat, cooking over a small fire to the rasping tune of the pipes. The fabrica – a tall, square building – glowed with the light of fires within. It was from this workshop the Greuthingi raiders they had ambushed at the River Hebrus had obtained their Roman helms. Beside it was the horreum: this towering grain silo was listing, neglected and its timbers were split, revealing the faint yellow of the Goths’ ample grain supplies within. More Goths milled around near the praetorium – once the home of Gallus and the Claudia leaders before him. The roof of this stocky, simple villa was sagging and badly in need of repair. In the heart of the fort, the red-roofed principia building glowed with the light of an open fire in the courtyard just inside its entrance, and every few moments roaring laughter spilled from there. This place had once been the fort stronghold, the chambers to the rear of the inner courtyard housing the legionary pay chests, the eagle standard and smaller unit banners and the weapon stores. The six alert and brawny Gothic spearmen posted around the entrance to the principia suggested it housed something equally valuable to the Goths. Pavo’s thoughts spun as he recalled Bastianus’ brief:
Put a snake in his bed. Steal his bread and his coins.
He scanned the other three parapets to be sure none of the sentries there had any suspicions, then leant over the wall and whistled. In reply, two more black-painted grappling hooks leapt up and dug into the edge of the battlements. Cornix and Trupo climbed up first, whipping bows off of their backs as soon as they were on their feet. Bastianus and Zosimus came next, then Quadratus and the others. They swiftly moved into the stairwell of the northeastern tower, and Pavo pointed out the grain silo and the well-guarded principia.
‘Perfect!’ Bastianus said, his face gleeful. ‘Now, you two keep patrolling,’ he waved Pavo out of the stairwell onto the battlements where Sura still walked, ‘and be ready for my signal. You’ll know it when it comes,’ he added with a manic smile.
Pavo did as he was instructed, he and Sura continuing to walk the battlements. From the corner of his eye, he noticed the group stealing along the eastern walltop, silently felling the sentries there and Zosimus and Quadratus taking their place. A moment later and the rest of the group carried on and did the same on the southern walkway. There, a small spark of orange glowed briefly, then with a dull twang, two fiery streaks sped silently up into the air, arcing down and thudding into the timber grain silo near that wall. Not one Goth noticed, but a moment later, the desiccated and splintered timbers erupted in an angry conflagration and panic broke out.
‘That’ll be the signal then,’ Pavo whispered as the silo lit up the night sky like a god’s torch.
Shouting and jagged curses filled the air as hundreds of Goths poured from the barrack blocks, flooding towards the blaze in confusion, some snatching up water buckets and fighting the flames. But the blaze had taken hold firmly, and their efforts failed to stem its growth. Now more and more warriors flooded to the scene, two carrying water troughs from the makeshift timber stable. Pavo noticed how those guarding the principia looked on, eager to help but refusing to shift from their posts – until one man in a fine mail coat rushed from within, followed by a clutch of servants. He barked at two of the sentries who went with him as he strode towards the blaze. Just four men remained guarding the principia. Pavo froze in his patrol. It was time. He made for the stairs in the northeastern tower, beckoning Sura with him.
‘Hold on,’ Quadratus grunted from the end of the adjacent walkway.
Pavo swung to the big man, who tossed something to him – a pole of some sort, wrapped in cloth – then slunk back into the stairwell. Pavo realised what it was, grinned, strapped it to his back then hurried off down the stairs to the fort floor.
Despite the chaos of shouting and dancing flame and shadows, the four Goths guarding the principia entrance remained steadfast, feet rooted by the arched entrance.
‘How in Hades do we get past them?’ Sura spat, crouching with Pavo just a few strides away behind a hay bale lying on its side.
Pavo scanned the nearest side wall of the principia: the windows were narrow and barred, and the stonework was smooth and surely hard to climb. When a waft of smoke from the blazing grain silo drifted past them, he cocked an eyebrow, looking from it to the stack of more hay bales – three high – near the sentries. He noticed the torch guttering on the wall of the nearest barrack block, and stole over to pluck it from its sconce. He held the flame a hand’s-width from the bale they were hiding behind, then looked at Sura. ‘Ready?’
‘And they say I’m the insane one,’ Sura hissed.
Pavo touched the flame to the hay bale. It went up with a whoosh. He and Sura booted at it, sending it bouncing across the front of the principia. They ducked behind a parked wagon to watch as the four guards gawped, eyes following the flaming mass as it crashed into the heaped bales, instantly lighting them too with another fierce whoosh, and toppling them.
‘Wodin’s balls!’ one cried. Two of them leapt out of the way of one falling bale, another staggered back, his cloak catching light, and the last danced back, fighting with the third bale, jabbing it with his spear to bring it to a halt, blinking and r
etching from the smoke.
‘Now!’ Pavo hissed, seeing the four were distracted. He and Sura stole inside the principia, tucking into the shadows of the porticoed courtyard within before the guards returned to their positions, still coughing and spitting, snarling at one another: ‘Where did that come from?’ one spat.
From inside, Pavo edged his head out of the shadows to see the four men had once again adopted their sentinel-like stances at the entrance, backs turned and unaware of the breach. He looked around the courtyard, seeing the cooking fire in the centre – scraps of half-eaten meat and hastily discarded wine skins still lay around it where the men in charge of this fort had moments ago been enjoying a feast. The pair motioned in unison towards the doorway at the rear of the courtyard – the principia’s inner sanctum. They padded into the grey, gloomy tribunal hall. Pavo glanced to the pulpit on his right – where once Gallus and a long time ago, Nerva, had addressed the men of the legion. Ahead of them on the far side of the hall, three doorways beckoned. The room on the left side was the weapon store, while the one on the right served as an officium, for the legion’s clerks to work. But the central door led to the chamber they both knew and knew well – the sacellum, the regimental shrine. A single torch glowed in there, guttering and casting a deep red light. The pair stepped inside. Gone were the eagle standards. Gone were the rich ruby-red drapes that had once hung here. The altar at the back wall lay shattered – the ultimate insult from the Gothic conquerors. But there before the altar sat a small chest, etched with Gothic markings.
Pavo and Sura crouched before it and prized the lid open. Their faces were uplit with an amber light: beautifully worked golden torcs, silver diadems, gem-encrusted goblets and more – not plundered Roman items but age-old Gothic treasures by the look of it. ‘Mithras!’ Pavo whispered. ‘Bastianus wants us to unsettle the Goths? Let’s see how they feel about losing their gold.’
‘I’m with you. But how do we get it out of here?’ Sura cooed, his eyes shooting from the treasure then over his shoulder: the doors, the courtyard and the guards at the arched entrance.
Pavo considered the weighty chest. There was no way they could heave this out of the principia let alone the fort without the Goths spotting them and their departing treasure. He noticed a neat pile of small haircloth sacks in the corner, and an embryo of an idea began to form.
But before it could take shape, barking, angry voices sounded outside: the Gothic leader by the sounds of it. Faraway one moment then much closer the next - at the principia entrance. Coming this way and fast. Sura shot Pavo a look of terror. They were trapped. Stone walls, ceiling and floor. No way out bar the direction of the swiftly approaching voices.
Pavo’s eyes swept around the chamber again and again, backing towards the rear wall, his hand instinctively going for his sword – the only option, surely. When his heel clipped the edge of a flagstone that sat slightly proud of the floor he almost lost his footing and was about to curse the slab. Then he realised why it was that way. He clasped a hand to the cloth-wrapped pole Quadratus had given him. His eyes narrowed and flicked to the nearing voices.
‘Pavo?’ Sura whispered, spatha half-drawn, ready to go down with a fight.
‘Sheathe your sword,’ Pavo said.
When the flames were finally dowsed, Reiks Ortwin strode to and fro before the smoking, ruined silo, his nostrils flaring at the choking stench and in acute rage. He stopped to scoop up a handful of the burnt grain, weighing it then tossing it down with a snarl. Those negligent fools with their roasting spits at the edge of the old Roman training area had caused this, he was sure. A few of his men were already busy sifting through the mess, picking up meagre handfuls of unscorched grain and filling sacks with it.
‘Leave it – it is ruined. What is not burnt is now soaked,’ he snarled.
He swung away from the scene and strode back towards the principia, his head swimming with nagging voices. Fritigern had stressed to him the importance of the Durostorum camp: it, along with the main one at Kabyle, was a pillar supporting their hold over Thracia. That was why he had been entrusted with the grain that was supposed to see almost half of the entire Gothic horde through the summer and the following winter. Yet it was gone. All gone.
He barged past the four spearmen guarding the principia entrance and set eyes upon his half-eaten meal by the fire in the courtyard within. His belly still rumbled yet never had he felt less hungry. Wine, he thought, wine will soothe the pain. As he stooped to pick up his discarded wineskin, he smiled, imagining how he could pin the blame on those careless fools cooking near the wagons. Perhaps a grand execution would help divert the scorn from him? Yes, he mused, uncorking the skin and gulping heavily from it, I can have them roasted alive, perhaps. Mid-drink, something caught his eye – something within the chambers to the rear of the principia. He frowned, turning to the dull red glow coming from the Roman shrine room. He had taken great delight in striking a hammer upon the altar in there when they had first occupied the fort. It had felt wondrous, and it had raised a raucous cheer from his men. Never had he felt more powerful than when standing before that broken monument. But what was this thing in there that had caught his eye: something tall and motionless, something that didn’t look right – not at all. He edged towards the room, welcoming the instant presence of two flanking guards who had also spotted the oddity. They stalked towards the shrine room until they saw exactly what it was: in the spot before the broken altar where his treasure trunk was supposed to be, a legionary standard stood proud, wedged into the cracks between the flagstones. A silver eagle, wings spread, glinted from the top of the staff and a ruby-red bull banner hung from the standard’s crossbar, the raging animal triumphant.
No, he mouthed, staring at the banner, willing it not to be. The gold Fritigern had entrusted to him was gone. This, he could not pin on lax sentries. This, and no doubt the fired grain had been the work of legionaries.
‘Guards!’ he thundered.
Pavo and Sura were crouched in utter darkness when they heard the thunderous cry and then the clatter of boots running to and fro before eventually fading.
‘They’ve bought it,’ Sura whispered.
‘Maybe,’ Pavo replied. Gingerly, he rose from his crouch, feeling his shoulders push against the cold flagstone above them. With a grunt, he rose a little more, and the slab on the sacellum floor rose just a fraction. A sliver of dull red light split the darkness and they peered out from their hiding place in the sunken half-chamber where once the legionary pay chests had been kept. The principia was deserted. He could see all the way from here, through the tribunal hall and the courtyard to the arched entrance. ‘The guards have left their posts too,’ he whispered.
With great care, he and Sura stood up, lifting the slab on their shoulders, then carefully placing it down. The Claudia standard lay on the floor nearby, the wooden shaft broken after the raging Gothic Reiks had snapped it across his knee while they hid, just a few feet under him. Pavo carefully worked the silver eagle from the top of one half of the pole and detached and rolled up the ruby pennant.
Next, they hove the treasure trunk from the pit too – but this time it was far lighter, for they also lifted out a bunch of six haircloth sacks filled with the Gothic spoils. They strapped three treasure sacks each to their backs: the burden was considerable, but years of marching in full legionary garb with kit and tent poles saw them right. Sweeping their cloaks over the sacks to hide them, they each put on their Gothic helms once again, shared a look of trepidation, then strode for the courtyard and the arched entrance. Beyond, Goths were rushing here and there.
‘We’ve got to look purposeful,’ Sura muttered. ‘No dithering, no nervous glances,’ he said with a slight wheeze under the burden of the treasure sacks.
‘We just head straight for the stables,’ Pavo agreed.
They paced out of the principia and the scene around the fort floor was even more chaotic than when the fires had been blazing. The reiks in charge of the place was c
lutching at his fair locks, wrenching at them, swinging this way and that. ‘Legionaries have infiltrated the fort. They’ve made off with the ancestral treasures!’ he yelped, all composure having deserted him. All around him, his bodyguards jostled, trying to get a straight order from their leader. Up on the walls, sentries had flooded around the walkway, peering out into the night in search of fleeing Roman thieves. For an instant, Pavo felt a pang of dread for his comrades, but a glance around the battlements confirmed that Bastianus and the others had escaped.
‘Find them!’ Reiks Ortwin cried, shaking with panic, flapping a hand to the fort’s southern gate. ‘Get riders out there!’
‘Be quick,’ Pavo hissed, hurrying towards the stables. The hand in charge there barely gave them a second glance, merely offering them the reins of the first two mounts. The pair climbed onto the saddles, the gates opened, and they rode into the plain of Durostorum. As they wheeled round to the left, towards the wheat field and the moored trireme, the sound of many more clopping hooves sounded behind them.
‘You!’
Pavo and Sura shared a breathless glance, before twisting to look back. Six Gothic scout riders stared back at them. Pavo was sure his heart was about to leap from his mouth.
‘Search northeast,’ one of the riders snapped, flicking a finger towards the wheat field, ‘we’ll ride south.’
Pavo nodded in assent before the six rode away.
He and Sura heeled their stolen mounts into a gallop through the wild crop field. As they pulled away from the Gothic-occupied fort, he felt elation rise in his breast. They sped on towards the bireme’s hidden mooring and spotted Bastianus and the others, lying flat and hidden on the hillock, urging them on, mouthing cries of delight, eyes and teeth sparkling in the moonlight. This ragged band had done it: cast a spear firmly between Fritigern’s feet. The fate of Thracia was tilting once more back into Roman hands. The Gothic War could be won. He thought of Gratian’s army marching from the west. Maybe, just maybe, Gallus and Dexion were marching with them, ready to spearhead the push for victory.
Gods & Emperors (Legionary 5) Page 23