Gods & Emperors (Legionary 5)

by Gordon Doherty

  They walked on, and Pavo felt his stomach knotting as they drew nearer to the principia area. The imperial tent was more like a manor of linen and silk, with a spacious stretch of pasture for the emperor’s mounts and an outdoor dining area under a canopy of olive trees. Posted like palisade stakes around this were the white-robed candidati, some still bearing the dark smears of kohl under their eyes and scented, waxed, long hair that they had adopted from their time on the Persian frontier, all clutching their gold-threaded spears and white shields etched with golden Chi-Rhos. Pavo halted instinctively when he came to within a few paces of the two with crossed spears by the tent entrance.

  ‘Centurion Pavo speaks for the XI Claudia,’ Agilo said.

  The pair retracted their spears then Agilo gestured for Pavo to enter, alone.

  Inside, a pleasant, sweet scent hung in the air – no trace of the dubious body odours or stale wine aromas normally found inside a soldier’s tent. Likewise, there was none of the robust chatter, clatter and laughter – heavy silence reigned. The tent was cavernous and in near-darkness, with just a single bubble of orange candlelight guttering deep within, outlining the draped sheets of silk that divided the interior into rooms of sorts. Pavo stepped towards the room with the orange light, sweeping a sheet of hanging, near-transparent linen to one side to enter. In this room, he noticed the candlelight was joined by a row of tiny orange embers, glowing on the end of cones of incense on a wooden bench. A lone figure sat before the bench, on a timber chair. A figure that could have been mistaken for just an ordinary man had Pavo not come across him in this surround. Valens wore no trappings of his position: the purple cloak, the white-steel armour and the wreath were absent, a simple rough-woollen tunic and soldier’s boots worn in their place. He was somewhat slumped, his legs stretched out before him. Two wine jugs and a cup rested on a small table by Valens’ side and on the floor by his feet lay two discarded leaves of paper – letters, Pavo guessed, going by the broken wax seal on each. The candle sparked and crackled as Pavo stood there, unsure if the emperor was even aware of his presence.

  ‘Domine?’ he said at last.

  Valens did not look up, merely gesturing to the spare wooden chair in the shadows by Pavo’s side. Next to it was another small, round table decked with a loaf, a silver platter of grapes, cheese and a gilded cup of water. Despite the hasty and delicious meal of lamb that afternoon, his appetite was still not satiated and the fare looked tempting, but he guessed that now was not the time to cram his mouth with bread. He sat though, and saw the deep crags and furrowed lines upon Valens’ face. Time seemed to have clambered across the emperor’s features in the short spell since he had returned from the Persian frontier.

  ‘You summoned me, Domine?’ Pavo ventured with a bow.

  ‘I did,’ Valens said, his voice low as if it had been some time since he had last spoken. ‘I wanted to ask you about your ventures in the north.’

  It struck Pavo as an odd request. ‘Certainly, Domine. Though I fear I will just be repeating that which Agilo has already detailed. And I presume Bastianus too – he would have led the debriefing?’

  Valens’ eyes snapped up onto Pavo. ‘Ah, Bastianus,’ he said with a barely-disguised scoff. ‘Tell me: is he as good as they say he is… as he himself proclaims to be?’

  Pavo cocked his head to one side. ‘Better,’ he said instantly. ‘He knew how to counter the raiding warbands, as you knew he would.’ A wry grin touched his lips then. ‘I wish he had been in Thracia two years ago – he might have handled things more wisely than some others who were in charge at the time.’ His mind flashed with images of the Count Lupicinus – the feckless dog whose actions had in part triggered the Gothic War. Pavo noticed the emperor’s fists clenching and unclenching as he digested this. He shuffled a little to sit a little more upright, wondering if the emperor’s annoyance was because of his manner or words.

  ‘Do you know why I called you here tonight?’ Valens asked.

  ‘As you said: to hear what happened in the north,’ Pavo replied.

  Valens shook his head with a glint in his eyes. ‘Because I know the calibre of your legion. And now I realise that I know you, Centurion. I remember the scrawny recruit you were when you came to my palace, torn and battered.’

  Pavo’s mind raced back to that time: the mission to Bosporus had gone horribly wrong with the Claudia pinned there by a Hun army. Only he, Sura and a handful of others had escaped from that faraway land and back to Constantinople to alert Valens to their plight. ‘I will never forget those events, Domine. Those times and the ones which followed have been the making of me.’

  ‘You, you and your legion… are unique,’ Valens continued. ‘Selfless and dogged. I wanted to hear what happened in the north… but not from the lips of men who might seek to use the outcome to further their own ends.’ He waved a finger as he spoke, and Pavo realised that the wine was part-fuelling the exaggerated gestures and stark words. ‘I summoned Bastianus from the west to aid me… yet I suspect that he came here to outshine me.’

  Pavo saw the emperor’s face flush in anger. ‘Domine… you trusted Bastianus when you summoned him to Thracia. Why do you now doubt him?’

  Valens sighed and threw his hands up before letting them collapse on the arms of his chair again. ‘Who could possibly doubt a victorious general?’ he chuckled, pouring himself more wine. ‘He has done everything he claimed he would and more. I heard the acclaim to which he returned to the camp – far more heartfelt than any applause I have enjoyed in recent times… not that there has been much of that.’ Valens sat forward again, picking one of the leaves of paper and tracing a finger over a fold. Pavo noticed the eagle emblem on the broken wax seal and recognised the paper as Bastianus’ message detailing the victories over the Goths – sent ahead of their return to the camp earlier that day. He wondered what overblown language the charismatic general had used in the letter. The man had certainly rubbed some soldiers up the wrong way when first they had set out to tackle the Goths, and he wondered if the same had happened here. But how to convince an emperor of that? It was then that he recalled that moment, crouched in the mud flats by the River Hebrus, covered in filth and ready to storm the Greuthingi camp. ‘You wonder what motivates Bastianus, Domine? Well, he told me when we were out there.’

  Valens looked up, the veil of inebriation fading. ‘Go on.’

  ‘He is weary of the West: a tangle of spies and informants, as he put it. He came to serve you in an effort to rediscover the virtues of serving a leader he could respect. Bastianus won fine victories in the north. But you were the one to identify and summon him. In any case, it matters not who is lauded for driving the Goths together at Kabyle. When we returned here this afternoon, the men camped close to my legion spoke excitedly not of you or Bastianus, but of the chance to end this terrible war.’ A silence followed, then Pavo added: ‘But to answer your question: Bastianus is your man, Domine. If you truly value me and my legion as you claim to, then my word should be enough to set your mind at rest.’

  Valens sat back, slumping again, his eyes appraising Pavo – as if looking for some telltale twitch or nervous shuffle. It lasted an eternity before the emperor sat forward, palmed at his eyes and laughed dryly. ‘Silence the voices in my head,’ he said, ‘lest they drive me to suspect my own reflection.’ He swept his hands around the tent. ‘It is easy for a man to drown in his own thoughts, especially when he is surrounded by the trappings of an emperor. You probably think me a fool? A man with infinite riches and mighty armies, bested by his own imagination, so unable to deal with the weight of his station that he must ask a man of the ranks for reassurance?’

  Pavo shook his head. ‘Respectfully, Domine… you are a man. Even the best of men suffer self-doubt. And, Mithras knows, you have been given stiffer tests than most.’

  Valens’ brow furrowed.

  Pavo shuffled in discomfort. ‘I… I remember the tidal wave that once struck Constantinople.’

  Valens blinked. ‘You re
member that? I mean, all who dwell in the City surely do, yet you must have been but a boy?’

  ‘I was young, aye. But I was there, on the Propontis shore just outside the sea gate nearest the land walls. I saw you on the corner tower when the wave struck. What man wouldn’t have doubted himself, his gods, even, at such a sight?’

  Valens fell silent, smiling sadly, his gaze growing distant. The candle spat and crackled for some time and neither man spoke. ‘I saw the mess left behind by the wave: the city’s southern wards were desolate: broken galleys lay in the streets, bodies crushed under them, ruined houses all around. I tried to steel myself to it all, but I heard the words being whispered: the wave was an omen, a curse upon the runt-brother of the Western Emperor; Valentinian’s puppet in the East; the illiterate, heretical fool from Pannonia. They sparked rumours that I was to abdicate, and spread them gleefully.’

  ‘But you did not,’ Pavo said. ‘And now, over a decade later you rule the East, still.’

  Valens arched an eyebrow. ‘Yet the whispers have never let me be. Omens have plagued my reign. In Persia, we were to raid the Shahanshah’s spice caravan. At camp one morning a sunbird pecked at my food; before I could even react, it flew away, only to drop from the sky, stone-dead. Poison, we assumed, but then I had already eaten most of my meal and suffered no illness. My army marched with great unease for the rest of that mission. Then, when I returned to the capital, I ordered the old marble walls of Chalcedon to be taken down and brought across the Hellespont to form a new bathhouse in Constantinople. I was briefly lauded for such investment… only to find etched upon one brick an ancient prophecy, telling of an emperor who would build a mighty aqueduct and then suffer a ruinous invasion of barbarians.’ His eyes grew misty as he recalled part of the verse:

  ‘A mighty horde in shining armour and helm,

  A warlike race from a distant northern realm,

  Shall cross the Danubius’ swift silver water,

  Teeth bared in fury, swords red with slaughter.

  Thracian hearts should quake and pray,

  For the invaders will bring night to end their day.’

  ‘Does it sound familiar?’ the emperor asked.

  Pavo gulped. Six lines that described the last few years faultlessly.

  Valens chuckled without mirth. ‘I was soon accused of cursing the empire with my building programme and the baths were shunned by the people. And there have been many more such incidents over the years. Just a few months ago, I came across a mysterious corpse on the road into Antioch, a dead man who looked very much alive,’ he pinched and shook thumb and forefinger as if exasperated that this was not the case. ‘And you might imagine my army’s reaction when I mistook him for a living, breathing man and tried to talk with him.’ He fell silent, his eyes glazing over. ‘There is a pressing, dark voice that every man endures within his own mind. A voice that insists you are wrong, unworthy and irredeemable in your every effort. Now a strong man can chasten such a voice within the confines of his own skull and appear unaffected to those with whom he subsists. But these bleak signs that have littered my reign… they have been loud, widespread heralds of ill-portent that have led every soul in this empire to doubt me. How can I convince myself they are wrong? Do you know some of the things that have occurred under my rule, Centurion? Things I have explicitly mandated?’

  Pavo’s thoughts combed back over his time in the legions. He recalled the night in the Syrian Desert, spent with the remnant few of the Maratocupreni tribe. Izodora, their leader, had told him of Valens’ brutal campaign to wipe out the tribe after some of them had taken to brigandage on the empire’s desert trade routes. Hundreds of the Maratocupreni had been slain and some were burnt alive. ‘I have heard stories. Some apocryphal. Some that I believe entirely.’

  Valens studied Pavo for a moment. ‘I envy you, Centurion,’ he said. ‘You have the gruesome honour of looking your foe in the eye before you plunge your blade into his chest. I doubt it gives you pleasure of any sort, but at least you know that it was him or you. Sitting on the imperial throne, I enjoy no such luxury. A single gesture of the hand can begin a war, condemn countless thousands to their deaths or to starvation and a life of terror. I often wonder how the men who have worn the purple before me kept their minds.’ His eyes drifted to the second leaf of paper, still on the floor by his feet. ‘Some, I think, might be driven to dark places… ’ He stooped to pick up the letter, then handed it to Pavo.

  Pavo took it, recognising the seal. ‘Emperor Gratian?’

  Valens nodded.

  Pavo’s eyes darted over the text. He had heard chatter that afternoon of Gratian’s army being just a few days away from Melanthias, but the words before his eyes said nothing of the sort.

  ‘You are the first to have read this after me. And you will not speak of it to another soul,’ Valens said softly, then added darkly: ‘after all, you know full well what I am capable of.’

  Pavo took the meaning and took it well. He turned his attentions to the letter. His eyes widened as he read, and Valens summarised: ‘My nephew boasts of victory over the Lentienses and their Alemannic allies. He talks of pursuing them doggedly across the Rhenus and grinding their villages into the mud. He tells me how his armies now call him Alemannicus Maximus. Yet nowhere… nowhere,’ Valens hissed, ‘does he offer a hint of apology at his lateness. Those men out there live in expectation and hope that Gratian’s army will come and together we will bring the Goths to heel. Indeed, I shared those same hopes and expectations. The first day of July he would be here, I told them. Yet here we are at the month’s Ides and all he deigns to tell me is of his adventures far, far to the west.’

  Pavo’s eyes narrowed, scanning the letter, trying to discern exactly when Gratian might arrive. When Gallus and Dexion might arrive. ‘But he is coming?’

  Valens snorted. ‘Seemingly.’ He took the letter back, crumpled it in his fist and shook it. ‘He now assures me he will be here – perhaps by the end of the month, once he has sufficiently rested at the city of Sirmium following a… ’ Valens unfurled the paper and scanned it swiftly, ‘…fierce fever caused by the chill river spray.’ He looked up. ‘He is clearly in no mood to break a sweat. His tone speaks volumes. My nephew is a troubled boy, you see. My brother had a dark side, and I fear his boy has not only inherited every last scrap of it, but nurtured it too. He was seduced by the promise of power when he was barely out of his crib, then tortured by the prospect that it might be snatched away as he grew into boyhood. He is like a blade that has been quenched with icy water then tempered with white flame. Lethal, ruthless. He has certainly been blunt in dealing with his rivals and opponents in the West. Some say he sees me as his greatest rival. I didn’t want to believe it. Until… this,’ he shook the crumpled paper and tossed it to the ground.

  ‘You don’t think he will come to support you?’

  ‘I can only pray that he does, as much as I resent his ways, as much as I read of his successes with a jealous eye,’ Valens chuckled bitterly. ‘For without his legions, Fritigern’s army dwarfs the forces we have here. As it stands, you, Bastianus and the others have risked your necks for the past month, herding the Gothic horde together… for nothing. For I cannot, will not, risk the Army of the East alone against Fritigern’s vast body of Thervingi spearmen and those vicious Greuthingi cavalry.’

  The cool hand of a wraith passed over Pavo’s skin. What if the Eastern Army truly did wait for a phantom host of reinforcements? Where were Gallus and Dexion if not on their way east? ‘Yet we are to march into the heart of Thracia, regardless?’ he asked.

  Valens stared past Pavo’s shoulder to the edge of the tent, as if seeing through it. ‘We will march imminently… but only to position the army, not to engage. We will move west to Perinthus, then we’ll follow the Via Militaris to the supply fort at Nike. It has been well stocked with the remainder of the Egyptian grain and there we will pick up fresh provender, then proceed to Adrianople. There, we will be within striking distance of Fri
tigern and his horde, but as long as we remain under the protection of that great city’s walls, he will not be able to attack us. I’ll tell my legions that we will rendezvous with the Western Army there. They need to believe. I will tell them what they need to hear for now. I can only pray that my nephew does not let ambition rule his thinking. He might yet come.’

  ‘Then let my prayers join yours, Domine,’ Pavo said. Gallus and Dexion now seemed more lost than ever.

  When eventually the emperor dismissed Pavo, he saluted and left. Walking back through the camp, he saw Thracia as a vast board, the armies there like carved pieces. He saw a dark hand hovering over the board, ready to pluck and move the pieces to its liking. The hand of Emperor Gratian? It seemed absurd: would one Roman Emperor truly toy with the fate of his peer?

  As he stumbled back to the XI Claudia tents, seeing his brothers eating and bantering together, he remembered his chat with Bastianus on the Hebrus’ banks that dark night of the thunderstorm. The Magister Peditum’s words came to him and sent chill, winter fingers across his skin:

  What are we, but pawns of our Gods and Emperors?

  Chapter 14

  On the Ides of July, Gratian’s flotilla docked at Bononia – a grey-walled port-town in the Diocese of Dacia, nestled upon a steep bank that commanded the passage of ships along the Danubius. This place was one of the few that had held out against the Gothic invasion as a tiny island of Roman control – but that was more to do with its peripheral location than its defences or garrison. The Western Emperor’s three-thousand strong vanguard column spilled from the fleet and across the stone wharf. The town’s thin garrison – mainly citizens carrying what weapons they had fashioned themselves – hailed the boy-emperor and his force as saviours, women rushing to bring Gratian and his courtiers baskets of fruit, others throwing handfuls of petals before him as he rode through the streets. In amongst that storm of vivid crimson blooms, Gallus watched Dexion by the emperor’s side. One of us must die, he had avowed, over and over.