‘Centurion?’ Dexion said testily.
‘That… that’s Agilo’s,’ he said, then looked up at the freckled scout with a scowl.
The young explorator’s nostrils flared and his lips played with some form of an answer.
‘You said Agilo stumbled into a gulch on the ride back here?’ Quadratus continued before he could speak. ‘So how did you get th-’
In a flash, the young scout swept out his semispatha and slashed for Quadratus’ chest.
Soldier’s instinct took hold and Quadratus leapt clear of the blade, rolling to the side, further into the tent before hurrying to right himself. But the young lad was cat-like, sweeping a leg round to knock Quadratus from his feet and onto his back before leaping to sit astride his chest. He and the scout rider strained to gain control of the semispatha, the blade trembling in the ether between them. ‘Sir, help!’ Quadratus, prone, gasped to Dexion, somewhere behind him. But no help was forthcoming, so Quadratus summoned every grain of strength into his oak-like arms, honed in years of battle and in all of those arm-wrestling sessions with Zosimus. He forced himself to sit up, the blade gradually edging up and towards the young lad’s throat, the reflected candlelight throwing his expression of growing panic into sharp relief. ‘You chose the wrong legionary to pick a fight with, you little shit,’ Quadratus growled, as the blade’s edge came within touching distance of the rider’s skin.
But a sudden cold streak passed through his back, barging him forward, throwing the young scout off and sending the semispatha clattering to the tent floor. Looking down in disbelief, Quadratus saw the blade of Dexion’s fine sword bursting through his chest. Blood erupted from the wound, then the sword was withdrawn roughly. Quadratus fell back like a stone, panting wetly, blood bubbling from his lips, tasting the coppery wash in his mouth. ‘You… you bastard,’ he whispered, seeing Dexion stalking round to look down on him, wiping his blade clean.
Dexion’s tawny gold eyes were unblinking and all emotion had drained from his face. ‘And you, legionary, chose the wrong time to start asking questions,’ he said. ‘I must be present in the column that marches into the field tomorrow. Nothing can be allowed to stand in my way.’
As Quadratus’ life ebbed, he reached out to clasp his hand over the fallen pony toy, then thought of his comrades and prayed they would unveil this demon.
‘God of the Light, protect my brothers… ’ he whispered at the last.
Chapter 20
The crone looked wearier then ever as she despatched Pavo up the hill towards the farmhouse.
‘Do not look so sad,’ he said to her, knowing she would say nothing in reply. ‘I understand, you cannot tell me the secret of this dream. You need me to find out for myself – to truly comprehend it. This time, I will, I promise you.’ He turned away to ascend the hill.
‘That is why I feel so wretched,’ she said mournfully.
He halted, his flesh creeping, but he did not turn round.
This time he stopped at the farmhouse door to stroke the wolf between the ears. ‘Stay vigilant, boy,’ he whispered, then stepped inside. He edged around the pure-white eagle with the broken wing as it slumped and remained motionless. His eyes combed the hearth room, jaw stiff as if goading the shadow-man to appear. When he did, it was with a crescendo of fire and noise. At once, Pavo was cast onto the floor. A heartbeat later, the wolf lay sundered by his side and the black figure hovered over him, blade extended.
‘You can slay me every night,’ he challenged the dark one.
The shadow-man tilted its silhouetted head to one side, intrigued.
‘But it is a fool’s game, shade,’ Pavo laughed bitterly, ‘for when I wake, the dream is gone and you are nothing.’
The dark figure barely moved. Then, ever so slowly, it leant forward, stooping just a little and cocking the dark, shadowy head to one side of his as if to whisper in his ear. He refused to flinch, ignoring his crashing heart, the searing flames and the sweat shooting across his skin. He watched sidelong as the black figure’s head came to within inches of his face.
‘Yet when you sleep next, the nightmares will come to you again, and again… and again. Perhaps you should learn… to master your dreams?’
Pavo’s skin crept as if assailed by an army of ants. The familiar words were assured, confident. He twisted his head a little to look the black figure straight on. The fire flared behind him and for the briefest of moments, the shadow-man’s face was illuminated in the blaze.
‘No!’ he cried. ‘Dex-’
Hands gripped his shoulders and shook him violently, dispersing the dream. He was in his tent once more, sitting bolt upright in his bed. He gawped at the face in the gloom before him.
‘Dexion?’ he panted in little more than a whisper, blinking, seeing his brother crouched by his bed. For the briefest of moments, the nightmare and this waking reality seemed blurred, confused. Had one tainted the other, or were both true in their own right? What am I thinking? He mouthed, then palmed at his eyes and groaned. There was no trace of dawn’s orange glow outside their tent. His fuzzy mind was addled with traces of the wine from last night and his mouth felt like the inside of a marching boot.
‘Brother?’ Dexion said, his face bent in concern. ‘I heard your cries. I thought you were in trouble.’
Pavo glanced across the tent to Sura, snoring violently and heedless of it all. He remembered the taverns last night and that fiery wine. ‘Bloody wine,’ he muttered, shook his head and reassured Dexion. ‘They say I’m something of a shouter in my sleep. Seems like it’s worse when I drink pickled goats’ piss.’ He shuffled free of his brother’s steadying hands and stood, running his hands through his short hair. ‘It is not yet dawn – did I wake you from your sleep?’
Dexion’s expression darkened. ‘No, I was awake already. I rose early to prepare as best I could for the march into the field today. I planned to wake and gather my officers,’ he gestured towards Pavo and Sura then waved a hand towards one edge of the tent, beyond which the rest of the Claudia lads were camped. ‘But Centurion Zosimus is absent.’
‘Ah, he’s with his wife,’ Pavo said quickly, before gulping hungrily on the water skin near his bed and casting a handful of the stuff over his face and scalp.
‘Of course,’ he said, clicking his fingers. ‘I gave him permission to stay with her for the night. But Quadratus is absent too – he should have been back in his tent hours ago.’
Pavo’s bottom lip curled. Quadratus had headed to Zosimus’ home for a quiet meal with his big friend’s family. Now when those two got together – no matter what the circumstances – there was more chance of raining frogs than of them having a quiet meal then retiring for the evening. Quadratus had a reputation for drinking himself into a stupor; indeed, Pavo had once had to guide and support the big Gaul back to the barracks after one such night – and it was like carrying an ox on his back until he flopped the big centurion onto his bed. His reward, of course, was a foul eruption of ale-fuelled farts. But as much as the Gaul liked to drink himself silly, he never, never let it jeopardise his duties. Hungover or otherwise, the big man had never missed a roll call. And today was surely the most momentous of roll calls, Pavo thought with a faint shiver.
‘Perhaps he’s opted to stay at Zosimus’ place?’ Pavo offered. ‘Unforeseen circumstances or the like.’ When he saw Dexion was unconvinced, he added; ‘You know he’d rather pass a caltrop than desert his post, don’t you?’
Dexion nodded. ‘I do, only too well. That’s what worries me.’
Pavo looked to the tent flap, seeing the first shafts of dawn’s golden light. ‘Come on, let’s rouse the men, eat and begin our preparations. Quadratus and Zosimus will appear, you’ll see.’
The Roman horns blared over Adrianople as the sun rose on the ninth day of August. Cornua sang from the city’s stone turrets and the military buccinae keened from within the camp abutting the metropolis’ northern walls. Men crawled from their tents, stretching, scratching, queuing for the
latrines and chattering in muted tones. Slaves and helpers from the city swept to and from the northern gates to hurry around the camp outside, bringing baskets of supplies and fodder for the men and their mounts. Soon, grey tendrils of smoke coiled from countless newly-kindled campfires.
A short while after eating a breakfast of toasted bread and cheese, Pavo and Sura returned to their tent to don their legionary kit. Given the expected proximity of the Gothic horde, the entire army was to march north in full armour, Valens had decreed. It had been some time since Pavo had worn the full legionary garb and so the weighty mail vest lent a sense of security and solidity as he slid it on and buckled his swordbelt around his waist. The iron vest would soon chafe but the white focale scarf around his neck would ease the rubbing there. Next, he tied another generous length of the linen cloth around his forehead – this batting would ease the abrasion from his helmet and help hold it in place. He pulled on his boots and swept on his cloak, then hoisted his shield, replete with three plumbatae darts clipped into place inside, and looped the carrier rope over his left shoulder. He tied a water skin and light ration sack to his free shoulder, then took up his lancea – a light javelin – and the heavy, lengthy legionary spear. Lastly, he lifted his shark-finned intercisa helmet – pausing for a moment when he saw his warped reflection, his mind thrown back to the dream – then slid it on and tied it at the chinstrap.
‘Ready?’ he said to Sura, equally resplendent.
‘Ask me tonight, when we’re drinking to victory,’ Sura grinned.
They made their way around the Claudia’s Second cohort, seeing that their six centuries of men were well – in kit and enjoying an extra portion of breakfast. They spotted the usual crowd around the camp fire of Cornix, the tall, rangy legionary with a talent for cooking. ‘Cornix,’ Sura called. Cornix and forty or more wide-eyed, grubby and well-appetised faces turned to him, each clutching bowls in anticipation. Sura nodded to the pan, in which sixteen large meaty spheres were sizzling in oil and sprinkled herbs. ‘You got those goats’ balls I sent you, eh?’
Suddenly, the forty around the fire lost their eagerness, a few groaning in disgust. ‘It’s spicy sausage-meat, you idiots!’ Cornix scorned them.
‘It is,’ Pavo reassured them with a chuckle, then looked up at the burgeoning sun, now splaying long, deep-golden fingers across the land. Already he could see the sky was cloudless and that today was sure to be another blistering one. ‘Eat your fill, and be sure to drink plenty too – you will need it.’
‘Yes, sir,’ they replied, saluting and grinning, the eagerness back in place.
They came to Trupo, whetting his spatha and encouraging the century sitting cross-legged before him to do the same.
‘Sharp enough, Trupo?’ Pavo asked as he passed.
‘Sharper than that, sir,’ Trupo grinned. ‘Could tear even the toughest Goth a new arsehole.’
Near the men honing their swords, the fifth century were busy cleaning their armour, dabbing at it with oil-soaked rags. ‘That’s the stuff,’ Pavo encouraged them. ‘The sight of gleaming ranks and sharpened blades can sometimes be enough to turn an enemy’s guts to water.’
A gruff roar of agreement erupted, then the men returned to their business, joking and bantering.
‘They’re in fine spirits,’ Sura said, looking back over his shoulder as they passed the last few centuries of the Second Cohort.
‘Aye, they’re as ready as they can be. Gallus would have been so proud to see them as they are now,’ he thought, turning his eye from the Second Cohort to Zosimus’ First Cohort: the big Thracian hadn’t arrived in camp yet, but Rectus and Libo, the firebrand centurion and optio pairing within Zosimus’ unit, were standing in for the big man with aplomb. They had the men standing in blocks, one per century, and the lantern-jawed Rectus bawled and barked them from that formation to a single line and then into a square, while the one-eyed, wild-haired Libo stalked around them like a preying cat, leaping upon any who stood a little out of line and berating them with torrents of abuse that had the victim shuddering in fright and those nearby stifling laughter.
‘Get-back-in-bloody-line!’ Libo screamed at one legionary who was a little slow into position when Rectus called for a double line.
When he had first enlisted, Pavo often feared what would happen when the grizzly, seemingly-invincible veterans fell: would the armies crumble without their edge and experience? It was only in these last months that he realised that those fears were unfounded. The cycle was brutal but prevalent: veterans sought to survive long enough to infuse novice recruits with discipline and pride, beseech them to find courage within and confidence to believe that they could be the new invincibles. Now here he was, one of the few that the rest of the legion looked up to. Thank you, Gallus, he mouthed into the ether, the words tinged with sadness. More, the next wave of leaders – Trupo, Cornix, Libo and Rectus – were already emerging in his wake.
But when they came to the Claudia’s Third Cohort, things were different. A flatness hung over this group of six centuries. They stood in six blocks, centurions inspecting their positions and kit, but there was not the same air of enthusiasm and vigour: Quadratus was still nowhere to be seen and none within the cohort had stepped up like Libo and Rectus. Through the swirling fire smoke, he caught sight of a bull-shouldered giant coming towards the Claudia area. Quadratus? he hoped. Instead, the curtain of smoke parted and Zosimus appeared, already clad in his tunic, boots, mail shirt, cloak and helm. He wore a sour look like a man that had been forced to swallow salt. No doubt he and Quadratus had carried on drinking Adrianople’s fire wine – or some equally foul concoction – after they parted from the larger group yesterday.
Pavo and Sura intercepted the big man before he reached the ranks. ‘Sir,’ Pavo saluted. ‘How’s the head?’
‘Still attached,’ Zosimus replied, flashing a tight smile that only interrupted his dour expression for but an instant.
Sura scoured the path Zosimus had taken from Adrianople’s northern gate, through the sea of tents and preparing legions to get to this point.
‘Something wrong?’ Zosimus grunted, eyeing Sura with disdain.
‘Where’s Quadratus, sir?’ Sura asked.
‘Eh? Still in his tent by the looks of it,’ Zosimus said, peering over at the leaderless Third Cohort with a frown. ‘The big, lazy, farting bastard.’
Pavo shook his head. ‘No, sir.’
Zosimus now scowled like an angry bear. ‘Then why are you bloody-well asking me, if you know so much?’
‘We thought he might have stayed with you… he didn’t come back to the camp last night,’ Sura said.
‘No, he came back. He definitely did. He said he was going to speak wi-’ Zosimus’ eyes narrowed and he fell silent.
‘Sir?’ Pavo said, sensing Zosimus’ disquiet.
Zosimus snorted up a ball of phlegm, covered one nostril with a finger then blew the contents of his nose onto the ground from the other. ‘Leave it to me. I’ll put one of the other centurions in charge of the Third Cohort for now.’
‘But where is-’ Pavo started.
‘I said leave it with me,’ Zosimus cut him off, stomping away over to Quadratus’ centuries. As he went, Pavo noticed the big Thracian’s eyes every so often shoot to Dexion, who was wandering, inspecting the centuries.
‘Pavo?’ Sura said, sensing his friend’s distress.
Pavo shook his head. ‘It’s been an odd morning. That bloody fire-wine has a lot to answer for.’
The buccinae keened once more and this time Pavo and every man within the camp knew what it meant. Footsteps rushed up beside the pair. ‘Bring the cohorts together, we’re moving out,’ Dexion panted.
First, six swift and unarmoured exploratores spat forth from the camp’s northern gate like a spray of snake venom, galloping over the timber walkway across the moat, then fanning out to the north and east.
Next, like a great, iron serpent uncoiling, the Army of the East poured from the camp and onto th
e plains of Adrianople. The early morning sun sparkled upon them, already searing-hot and having vanquished every last modicum of dawn shadow from the land. The Scholae Palatinae cavalry emerged onto the plains first like the fanged head of the snake: a cavalry vanguard of the Scutarii and the Gentiles. Behind them came the serried ranks of infantry who would form the body of the marching snake. The Auxilia Palatina legions led the way: the Cornuti, the Hiberi, the Nervii, the Fortenses, the Herculiani and the Joviani marched in thousand-strong blocks, each resplendent in their distinctive garb, eagle banners and draco standards jostling. Next marched Emperor Valens, glistening in his white-steel armour and crowned in his purple-plumed battle helm, sitting astride his chestnut stallion. He was ringed by the white-robed candidati. More Auxilia Palatina regiments followed behind: the Batavians, the Lancearii and Mattiarii. Behind these brigades marched the numerous comitatenses legions – thousand-strong blocks of scale-clad veterans. Next came two cohorts of foot archers – the Sagittarii Gallicani and the Sagittarii Valentis – a cohort of ballistarii crossbowmen and a cohort of funditores bearing slings and several bags of shot. At the rear of the vast infantry segment came the straggling limitanei legions, the XI Claudia and the V Macedonica. Their garb was dull and their finned and largely-plumeless helms less finely decorated in comparison to the fine legions ahead of them, but they kept perfect time and their commanders’ shouts were not to be outdone by any other more ornamented officers ahead.
The swishing tail of the marching asp was completed with a strong rearguard of cavalry: the Equites Promoti and the Cataphracti, donning what iron garb they could without overdoing it given the expected hot day ahead. Three alae of regular equites riders and bow and quiver-wielding equites sagittarii came behind them, some ranging wide to screen and scout the column’s rear. The huge procession, some thirty thousand strong, marched along a dirt-track that led northeast across the plain and into the countryside. The din of men marching in full armour spread across the land in every direction.
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