‘Ya!’ Pavo cried.
Fritigern gazed down upon the cowering Reiks Ortwin from his raised seat in the open ground of the Kabyle acropolis. The man lacked many of the qualities of the other reiks’ of his Council, but he had foolishly assumed that putting him in charge of the Durostorum camp – many miles from the nearest Roman force – would give him little means with which to make a mess of things. But that was exactly what the trembling cur had done. And now the gathered circle of his Council would pick over the corpse of the Durostorum disaster, sharpen the bones and stick them into their Iudex’s flesh.
‘The legions seem to have found a new way of fighting,’ Alatheus said, deciding he had held his silence long enough, striding from the circle and turning slowly to meet the eyes of each man at the gathering. ‘They have run our warbands out of southern Thracia and now,’ he gestured towards the kneeling Ortwin, head bowed, ‘they have outmanoeuvred us, fallen upon our rear and torn the hamstrings of our northern base.’
Fritigern wrung his hands together. Many spoke of the tall grain silos in the Durostorum fort as a surplus. Only those gathered before him knew the truth – without that grain his people would suffer famine this winter. Perhaps, if it was rationed carefully, it might-
‘We cannot, must not delay,’ Saphrax bellowed, cutting across Fritigern’s thoughts. He strode out into the circle like Alatheus, chopping his hand into his palm with each word. ‘To delay would be to starve. We do not even have the gold to buy replacement grain now.’ At this, Ortwin visibly slumped even further.
‘And my riders’ patience has grown thin,’ Alatheus pressed, his eyes boring into Fritigern. ‘Any more delays…’
Here it comes, thought Fritigern, that immutable threat.
‘…and I cannot guarantee that the cavalry will remain within the Alliance. Already, groups gather at the stables and talk of what fortune they might find were they to ride alone. Perhaps to the west, perhaps across the sea.’
Fritigern eyed the pair, imagining the unending pleasure he would have in staving in each of their skulls with a blunt object. But for once, he found no words to fend off their argument. There was no option left, the grip on Thracia was slipping. And the messages he had sent to Valens? They had been ignored, it seemed. The Emperor of the East preferred war to parley.
His warbands were already converging on Kabyle – camping all across the central Thracian plain like returning prodigal sons. His only tack now was to once again assume direct control of these groups, to harness the beast, to steer the enormous roaming band of spears, bows and swords. He imagined the united horde and saw in his head a gnashing dog, on a leash one moment and then attacking him the next.
Then what? He thought. War with Valens?
He sought reason desperately. Was there hope still that the two great leaders might talk on some sun-scorched battlefield, that swords might remain sheathed? It was the most slender of hopes, and one that could only be tested by bringing both armies nose to nose. He stood, seeing the retorts and counter-arguments waiting on the lips of Alatheus and Saphrax, but this time, they would not be needed.
‘Send messengers to all the Thervingi warbands on the plain and those still roaming further afield. Take word to the Greuthingi riders out there too. The horde is to gather here. Have them form a great camp on the grounds southwest of the city.’
Alatheus and Saphrax’s faces lit up in glee. A thunderous roar filled the acropolis.
‘Have them train and hone their weapons,’ Fritigern cried, struggling to be heard over the chorus of excitement. ‘But once gathered here at Kabyle, no man shall advance towards the Romans until I give the order. Do you understand? Do you understand?’ he cried. Only those closest to him heard.
Never in his entire reign as Iudex of the Gothic Alliance had he felt such a lack of control.
Valens eyed the letter again, the lamplight in the tent dancing in his eyes.
The warbands of central Thracia have been vanquished, herded like cattle to the north. More, we have both ascertained the location of and infiltrated Fritigern’s secondary stronghold: his stout watch at Durostorum could not deter my forces as we found a way inside those walls. The place was a crucial possession: holding grain and tribal treasures. Now, the grain supply has been ruined and we have recovered more plundered Roman coin than we can even carry – were it not for the trireme we would have had to bury it across the countryside. This, Domine, is a moment to savour. My success outshines even the glorious campaigns I enjoyed in the west. Feats such as this can inspire the legions at Melanthias and…
His cheek twitched at the wording and he slumped in his chair, choosing not to read the rest.
‘Something is wrong, Domine?’ Traianus said.
Valens checked himself and donned a mask of equanimity as best he could. He had been the one to summon Bastianus, despite protestations from Traianus and others, after all.
‘Bastianus’ successes are surely joyous news?’ Victor said.
Valens wondered if the Sarmatian-born officer had deliberately inflected the term Bastianus’ successes. A subtle rebuke for calling the westerner to Thracia?
‘Domine?’ Saturninus added. ‘Shall we advise the legions that we are at last ready to march? Everything is poised as we might hope: Fritigern’s horde has congregated, our legions here are eager and, crucially, Emperor Gratian will be here within days now, surely? With his numbers to supplement ours we will be strong enough to face the horde and end this war.’
Valens felt the air in the tent thicken, the invisible iron burden pressing on his shoulders. The Gothic horde was clustered at Kabyle. The legions were indeed eager and restless here at Melanthias. Every day they spoke of Bastianus’ reported victories and of Gratian’s approach with a vast army of reinforcements. The latter issue drew his gaze, askance, at the other letter that had come in this morning, folded on the small table by his side.
Curse you, nephew, he mouthed. Curse you, boy!
‘Domine?’ Saturninus repeated, gesturing to this second letter. ‘It is as you say, is it not: Emperor Gratian is but days away?’
Valens’ throat drained of moisture. He was never a good liar, and that lie had been momentous. ‘Hmm, yes… yes,’ he said, disguising his discomfort by taking a long gulp of unwatered wine. ‘His original estimate of the first day of July was a little ambitious. He is late already!’ he said with an uneasy and uncharacteristic chuckle. ‘But he will be here… very soon.’
The men of the consistorium seemed not to notice his discomfort.
‘Then we should arrange to rendezvous with him – somewhere closer to Fritigern and his horde. Give the word and I can have the army ready to move out within days,’ Traianus pressed.
‘The men are eager to leave this place behind, Domine,’ Victor added.
‘Everything is in place: the Goths are ripe to be tackled,’ Saturninus agreed.
Valens nodded faintly, looked to the two letters once more, then lamented the absence of another. Three messengers he had despatched to Fritigern. Three times he had received no form of reply. Did the Gothic Iudex truly favour a bloody clash instead of talks? It seemed that now he could only answer that question by coming face to face with the legendary leader.
Valens met the gaze of his men, knowing his next words might just be the greatest risk he had ever taken. He heard a faint hissing in his ears. It grew and grew to become a rush of water, conjuring memories of the violent tidal surge. He saw images of the towering, lashing, silvery wall of water, felt his skin grow cold. Before the memory could paralyse him as it had done so often before, he beat a fist against the arm of the chair, dispelling it, then beheld his Council.
‘Mobilise the legions. It seems fate wills us to march. The Ides of July are but days away. By then, we will leave this place and march into the heart of Thracia.’
‘What route shall we take, Domine?’ Traianus asked.
Valens looked up. An odd silence fell, as if the gods old and new were listening. A b
ead of sweat darted down his forehead.
‘Northwest. To Adrianople.’
Part 2
The Crimson Fields of Adrianople
Chapter 12
Emperor Gratian’s flotilla moved downriver, the Danubius’ potent, churning currents hauling the fleet of thirty ships at a good pace. Three triremes led the way, with the imperial flagship – a mighty hexareme with six banks of oars that towered high above the waterline, shading the vessels nearby from the watery July sun – came next, followed by a collection of triremes, biremes shielding lighter liburnians and lusoriae carrying the supplies, horses and fodder. The steady sound of lapping oars and the rhythmic boom-boom of the hortatores’ drums echoed in the hot summer air and gave the fleet a truly imperious aura.
Aboard one shabby lusoria near the rear of the fleet, Gallus sat on a pile of grain sacks, carving into a piece of salted meat with his dagger, lifting slices to his lips and chewing absently, his gaunt, bearded face shaded by the wide brim of a battered old archer’s hat – he had taken to wearing this whenever his helm and armour were stowed. All the time, his eyes were fixed upon the hexareme up ahead: Emperor Gratian sat aft of that grand vessel, dining on goose and wine, surrounded by his Heruli. No more delays, he thought, the river will speed us to Thracia... his eyes narrowed when the black-robed figure of Dexion approached the emperor... and hasten you to your end, Speculator.
It had taken days for the Western Army to finally move on from the ruins of Rauberg. One of Gratian’s men had ‘bravely’ hacked the head from King Priarius’ corpse and brought it to him. The boy-emperor had insisted on a day of rest at the site of the Lentienses’ broken home, then another of feasting and games, watching without remorse as the surviving Lentienses who had surrendered in good faith were executed before him. Those days had been tense, with Gallus barely daring to blink let alone try to sleep, ever aware of Dexion’s presence. The speculator had begun acting strangely after the battle at Rauberg, those tawny-gold eyes nearly catching his on more than one occasion. The man had been all over the ranks, asking questions, meddling in units he had no business with. One of his brethren had died on the floor of King Priarius’ hall, but surely that alone was not enough to explain Dexion’s heightened watchfulness. No, the speculator had surely gotten word of what had happened at the dungeons of Treverorum. That camp on the site of the Lentienses’ ruined home – little more than an open grave – became a foul place. Day and night he watched the shadows that crept around the place, knowing that any one might be Dexion himself or another of his minions – how many agents did he have planted within the ranks? Sleep was not an option, and so he found his nightmares stealing into his thoughts even in daylight: images of the twin gateways of Elysium and Tartarus – his family calling to him from the former but his spirit being dragged towards the latter, where the moaning of the dead heralded his arrival. Every sound and sudden movement had him jolting, hand constantly shooting towards his swordbelt.
And so it was a relief when the Emperor of the West finally ordered his army to break up that grim camp and at last begin the journey east, but more so when they had come to the upper Danubius. There, Gratian had ordered the army to divide: Merobaudes led the bulk of the Western army on foot along the river’s southern banks, while Gratian’s Heruli, the Celtae and a few divisions of archers boarded the fleet waiting at the fortified river-port of Lauriacum. It was clearly a move designed to show Merobaudes his place: wading through the thickets and suffering saddle sores and blisters whilst his superior dined on the majestic Hexareme. To Gallus’ relief, it also meant that during each day on the water, he was isolated from all but the men on this rickety vessel.
He looked up, the shade from the brow of his hat peeling away as he squinted into the sun. It was not yet midday. We could reach Aquincum by nightfall, he mused, eyeing the passing beech trees on either riverbank and judging the fleet’s rate of progress. Under oar, another four days would see us sail past the city of Sirmium, then three further days would bring us to Bononia. He imagined the town sited on a sharp bend on the Danubius in northern Thracia and visualised the rapid march into lower Thracia that would see them united with Valens’ army. Seven days after that and the armies will unite, he averred, seeing the ruby-red banner of the XI Claudia in his mind’s eye. The image sent a surge of vigour through him. ‘By the last week of July, Thracia might be saved,’ he said, the words escaping his lips as a dull mutter. But something snagged in his thoughts: The last week of July? Much later than planned – and the delay had been entirely of Gratian’s choosing.
‘What’re you thinking, sir?’
Gallus looked up, seeing the sturdy, curly-haired auxiliary, Sorio, gathering up a length of rope before him. This one was the optio of the century – until recently Dagr’s second in command. ‘Just thinking about what lies ahead,’ he replied. ‘And don’t call me sir. You’re the officer here. I’m a man of the ranks and no more.’
Sorio stacked the looped rope by the mast and shrugged. ‘When the emperor sent us up the slopes of the Rauberg, we were not meant to survive… but we did.’
‘Dagr was a good leader, aye. I barely knew him, but I miss him anyway,’ Gallus replied.
Sorio laughed, wiping sweat from his brow. ‘Dagr was a decent leader. You are a fine one. You are the only reason I’m still alive.’
Gallus sensed upon him the gaze of others working on the decks. Their eyes confirmed Sorio’s words.
The man looked downriver with Gallus. ‘It seems the plan is to sail to Bononia then await Merobaudes and his lot there,’ he mused. ‘While we’re waiting I imagine we’ll be tasked with replacing depleted ranks and officers. I won’t be asking to take Dagr’s place. I’ll be putting you forward for that… sir.’
A rumble of agreement sounded from the other auxiliaries. Smiles formed on gap-toothed mouths, grubby faces and unshaven jaws.
To Gallus, the well-meant acclamation felt like a blazing torch being shone upon him. Men on adjacent galleys turned to see the source of their merriment. He stood, pulling the hat’s brow down, stepping over to the optio and speaking in a low burr: ‘Sorio, if you have any respect for me, do not take this any further. Take the post of centurion if and when it is offered to you.’
‘Ha!’ Sorio replied. ‘Not a chance. I-’
Gallus grabbed his bicep. ‘Listen to me,’ he growled.
‘Sir?’ Sorio said with a tremor, his eyes widening with fear. A fair few on the boat seemed to have noticed the sudden turn of mood. But before the situation could spin out of control, a series of cries and a wail of cornua split the air from the hexareme. From beyond a bend in the river, unseen horns sounded a triumphal paean in reply. A deafening hiss sounded as the oars were squared. The boat groaned as it slowed, a fine spray soaking Gallus as he grabbed the mast to balance. ‘We’re stopping? Why?’ he growled, striding along the deck to the prow, eyes scouring the foremost vessels for some clue. Up ahead, beyond the flotilla, he saw a break of the northern bank where a tributary river poured into the Danubius.
‘The River Granus,’ Sorio whispered, looking with him at the tributary.
‘Then that’s Commercium,’ Gallus replied, pointing to the outline of a small unwalled town on the southern banks opposite. It was a sprawl of ramshackle insulae and wooden shacks, fronted by a crumbling timber wharf. ‘Why in Hades would we want to halt here?’ he added. He had never been to the place, but had heard many tales of the grim frontier trading-town. Thinly-garrisoned, it was said to be a haven for thieves, barbarians and rogues. The question was answered by a warbling address from a man in a silk gown, standing aft of the hexareme.
‘Oarsmen, rest your limbs. Soldiers, set down your burdens. In honour of our great emperor, the fleet will suspend its movements for the day here.’
‘It is barely midday,’ Gallus hissed under his breath. ‘A half day of sailing is to be squandered?’ Worse, this meant the forces onboard each ship would be thrust together for the entire afternoon and evening. Av
oiding Dexion’s gaze amongst thirty thousand men in a marching column had been hard work. Doing so amid the few thousand who would pour from these ships and into the town’s tight lanes and cramped squares was another challenge entirely.
The orator on the hexareme extended a hand towards Commercium, pointing to the one solid looking structure within the town – a tall, fortified tower near the wharf – only a few years old by the look of it. ‘And we will remember the efforts of our emperor’s father, for it was Valentinian who saw this mighty watchtower erected during his reign. Some say he even carried the bricks on his own, noble back.’
‘And I mixed the mortar with my cock,’ Sorio scoffed.
Gallus noticed a few furtive eyes on neighbouring vessels and cast Sorio a sidelong look. ‘Be careful with the tongue, optio. You never know who’s listening.’
Gallus sat in the shade at the corner of the tavern, noting every movement within the low-ceilinged, smoky enclosure. The place was filthy – so much so that the small patches of wall that were not soot and dirt-stained looked positively untidy. Cups clacked as wine and ale sloshed over the sides and the auxiliaries caroused with the locals – themselves a motley bunch of pox-scarred and mean-eyed individuals. There were a few women, sitting on men’s knees, shrieking with laughter and gulping ale as if trying to drown in the stuff. One well-inebriated woman sat unashamedly bare-breasted on a haggard fellow’s knee: there were grubby handprints on her white flesh where several in the drunken rabble had tried to charm her with a quick grope. One man was on all-fours in the corner, stuck in what seemed like an eternal cycle of dry-retching, before finally ejecting a bellyful of steaming bile.
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