Gods & Emperors (Legionary 5)

by Gordon Doherty

  The sun was now high overhead and the cicadas screamed like a bloodthirsty audience, urging the two great armies to engage.

  Pavo was sure nothing on this realm could tear his gaze from the Gothic army. Then he realised there was something else, in the corner of his eye: flickering and fading in the heat haze, off to his left upon a small hillside, was a farmhouse. A simple, white-walled, red-roofed home with an abutting barn. It was the house of the shadow-man from his nightmares.

  Valens wiped the sweat from his upper lip and regarded the wall of men and steel commanding the ridge ahead. Fritigern had planned this well. Behind those wagons, they would have water barrels, food, shade and all the other provisions needed to endure the blazing heat. He saw his vanguard of cavalry shuffling in anticipation, part-maddened by the sun and some over-eager to draw closer to the ridge. The infantry too were ill at ease, many murmuring and pointing, shrugging shoulders and shaking heads, for the Roman force had only this open, baking golden plain to claim as theirs, devoid of water or shade and crackling under the midday sun. He looked back over the tail of the column, seeing that it stretched off for a good few miles. The sea of faces behind him brought back memories of the crowd at the Hippodrome: the expectation, the demand for action. For a moment, the silvery ranks resembled the great wall of water coming for Constantinople, and the shrill cicada song became the thunderous roar. Panic crept up from his stomach, spreading over his chest, tendrils snaking into his mind. He snatched a wide-eyed glance at the western horizon and he wondered, one last time, whether his nephew might yet arrive at this burning land – might save him from the onrushing tide. Then, as if he had suddenly entered the eye of a storm, the panic vanished and an eerie sense of calm descended upon him.

  You’re alone, he realised. Today, history will be made. Your name will echo through the ages. In what light, only your actions will determine.

  He sighed then, fondly recalling the last time he had experienced life without such pressures, playing with little Galates in the palace gardens before the boy had been claimed by death. It had been a fiercely hot day then, too, with the lad skipping from bush to bush, sure he was so swift and silent that his father could not spot him. ‘You’ll never catch me!’ the boy had giggled. For a moment his lips played with a faint, fond smile.

  ‘Domine?’ the guttural voice of Traianus shattered the memory, wrenching him back to the searing plain. ‘What are we to do?’

  Valens beheld his Magister Militum and let a silence pass. At last, he said: ‘We shall prepare for all eventualities. Bring the men into a broad battle line as we advance,’ he said, tracing a finger up the long slope towards the Gothic-held ridge, his mind going over the words of Fritigern’s envoy once again.

  Bring your army before his – parade your regiments in front of his forces to strike fear into them. He will parley with you once our armies come face to face like this.

  Now Saturninus, Victor and Bastianus – his bald pate bright red and gleaming and his appearance generally resembling a half-cooked crab – had ridden forward. The consistorium was together.

  ‘Draw us close enough to let the Goths see the banners and blades of all my legions,’ Valens demanded before any of them could speak.

  Traianus’ eyes grew slit-like. ‘Close enough that they might loose their bows?’ he said, twisting round to survey the ridge. ‘I’d wager they have a dense bank of chosen archers up there.’

  ‘Closer,’ he affirmed. ‘Within javelin range.’

  ‘You plan a frontal attack?’ Victor said, the siege champion’s eyes narrowing in doubt as they always did when the prospect of a straight field battle loomed. ‘They have the high ground and they match us in number. Once we engage our front with theirs, we will not be able to withdraw.’

  ‘They are strong warriors, but still they lack the cohesion of the legions,’ Bastianus countered.

  ‘Today, I would wager they are stronger than usual,’ Saturninus advised. ‘They are well-fed and watered, no doubt. Our men are not. If we draw our lines too close then the men will have to remain dressed in their helms and metal vests. Our strength will ebb while the Goths enjoy their water and the shade of their wagon wall.’

  Valens smiled tightly. ‘Yet we are here. Our options are limited. To stay where we are gains us no advantage and only exaggerates our thirst and fatigue. To march back is simply not an option and would invite the Goths to fall upon our rear. We do as I say: form a battle line then draw the men forward. But we will not attack.’ He held a finger in the air, rigid, to assert this point. That each of these famed generals looked to the digit and listened intently gave him great encouragement. ‘That is paramount. We hold the line and let the Goths see just what could fall upon their wagon stockade. And then… we see if Iudex Fritigern has anything to say.’

  ‘You put a lot of faith in Fritigern, Domine,’ Bastianus said with a wry look on his face.

  Valens eyed his Magister Peditum. Bastianus had been the loudest advocate for engaging with the Gothic horde, yet he now showed signs of doubt. ‘You have suspicions?’

  Bastianus grinned. ‘Always. I live by the rule: think not of what you can see, but what you cannot.’ He pointed to his bulging eye and then his eyepatch as he said this. His face grew even craggier as his good eye narrowed, scouring the sweltering ridge and silent, ominous wall of wagons and the thick band of warriors waiting before them. ‘I say advance, but do so with the utmost care. And I would advise you to establish a reserve.’

  Valens nodded. He noticed a small copse by the foot of the slope. Far enough away from the Gothic lines to station a small reserve who could rest in a modicum of shade, but close enough for them to be called upon if needed. He turned to Victor, Richomeres and Saturninus. ‘Take the Batavians and one other legion from the field regiments. Perhaps a cohort of archers too. Wait by that thicket. Do not move from there unless you hear my signal: four blasts on the horn.’

  The three generals looked at one another, then gave their assent.

  Valens then looked to Bastianus and Traianus. ‘For the rest of us? Onwards, and let us stay vigilant.’

  The buccinae cried and the column came to life again, spreading out into a staggered line like a sidewinding adder. The Scutarii and Gentiles of the cavalry vanguard began the ascent of the slope at a walk, drifting out to the right with the intention of anchoring that end of the line. The infantry rumbled forward at a jog, flattening out and gradually forming the centre, but the sheer number of men and the length of the marching column meant this would take some time. Equally, the distant rearguard cavalry cantering forward to form the Roman left had much ground to cover to get into position.

  Every hair on Pavo’s neck stood on end as he waved his cohort uphill amidst Zosimus and Dexion’s cries. ‘This is it,’ he said over the thunderous rumble of fast-marching boots crunching through golden grass stalks, seeing the Goths up on the ridge bristle in anticipation. ‘Everything that has happened since we joined the legion has been building towards this.’

  Sura and he shared a knowing look, both offering a silent prayer to the many comrades fallen in the intervening years, then he raised his voice and continued.

  ‘Everything you have practiced for. Every droplet of sweat, every blow on the training fields, every moment of marching and manoeuvres and drills. You are no longer recruits. You are the XI Claudia… do you know what it means to stand under the ruby bull of this legion?’ He saw from the corner of his eye Zosimus’ haggard but fond grin of appreciation. ‘It means honour, brotherhood, courage that would shame a lion and a pithy heart that will not be ruptured by blade nor arrow. Onwards. Our swords and spears are to be still until the emperor commands otherwise, but let us climb this hill, this pleasant Thracian hill, look the Goths in the eye… and tell them it belongs to us. To us!’

  A gruff roar of assent sounded from the cohort and the rest of the Claudia. ‘To us!’

  The vanguard cavalry and the auxilia palatina legions who had been further ahead in t
he column were now well up the slope. Indeed the riders slowed and halted at close javelin range – just forty paces or so – from the Gothic front, as Valens had commanded. This ceded a little height to the Gothic position, and the riders cast eager and nervous eyes over their left shoulders, willing their staggered and still climbing line of allies to hurry.

  As he led the Claudia closer to the forming line at the top of the slope, Pavo’s throat seemed to grow dryer and dryer. He wasn’t sure if it was the old soldier’s curse of parched mouth and bursting bladder creeping up on him, or if the air was merely growing dryer and hotter as they climbed. Squinting, he saw clearly the thick wall of Goths before their wagon fortress. A dense and seemingly endless band of Thervingi spearmen, with a bank of chosen archers just behind, some standing on the wagon-tops. They were clad in plundered Roman mail and helms or wearing their traditional tall conical helms and baked red leather armour. Some chose to go bare-chested and bare-headed, their blonde locks scooped into jutting, plume-like topknots. As he drew closer, he heard the cicada song fade and a jagged and polyglot chorus of insults take its place. To a man, the Goths’ faces were baleful, arms pumping in the air, fingers pointing and spit flying. The halted Roman cavalry right and the Auxilia Palatina legions now joining them were hurling abuse back with equal venom. Valens and the candidati reached the Roman line and took their place, slotting onto the left flank of the nearest unit. Pavo could see the emperor waving frantically, his horn-blowers and banner-wielders reinforcing the order to avoid engagement. Yet the cavalry right and the Scutarii riders in particular seemed to be restless.

  Sura nudged him and nodded up towards the Tribunus of the Scutarii, an Iberian fellow named Bacurius. ‘That arsehole better watch what he’s doing.’

  Pavo looked and saw Bacurius kicking his mount so it reared up time and again. He hoisted a javelin and shook it as if threatening to throw it into the Gothic lines. This orchestrated a crescendo of jeering and snarling from the Goths, some of whom opened up their bodies and invited the Scutarii leader to throw and test his aim. A volley of spit leapt through the air and spattered Bacurius, who then drew his spatha, pointed the blade at the aggressor like an accusing finger and unleashed a filthy torrent of abuse. Pavo would have laughed had the situation not been so parlous: the majority of the Scutarii had been on the Persian frontier for a number of years and this was almost certainly Bacurius’ first confrontation in the Gothic War. ‘He thinks he has a crow to pull with the Goths?’ he said, unconsciously speeding up to cover the few hundred paces remaining of the climb.

  The Auxilia Palatina legions of the Hiberi, the Nervii, the Cornuti and the Fortenses were now in place near the top of the ridge slope and joined in the jeering and insults. ‘Our line isn’t even half-formed yet,’ Pavo growled, seeing those crack infantry regiments now stepping forward in places as if threatening to surge onwards and attack. Each time they would pull back though, content to goad the Goths, who also mock-charged in reply.

  It seemed that the goings-on would go no further than bluster, when a loud clang sounded from the right. All heads in the Gothic and Roman forces turned in that direction, nearly sixty thousand breaths held. A stone had bounced off one Roman helm. Pavo saw that it was a Gothic child who had ducked under the legs of the wall of warriors to emerge in the short stretch of no-man’s land and hurl it. It was a weak throw and a small pebble that would probably not have hurt had it struck the Roman on the face, but it had the power to escalate the tension, and just a moment later, many more such petty missiles were being tossed to and fro. Stones, buckets of waste and chunks of dry firewood were tossed at the forming Roman line. The Romans threw these back, stooping to gather up rocks and debris to hurl at the Goths also. Then the unmistakeable zing of iron striking iron stilled the babble of insults. A Goth staggered back into the wall of his comrades, clutching his iron conical helm, dazed. The Roman javelin that had been loosed had deflected from the helm and now quivered angrily in the side of a Gothic wagon. A Gothic arrow hummed through the air in reply, causing a file of Hiberi legionaries to duck.

  Pavo, Sura, Zosimus and Dexion led the Claudia to their place left-centre of the nearly-formed Roman line – now almost as broad as the dense bank of Goths opposite – and came to a halt. The climb was over at last. The Goths immediately across from them hurled a chorus of swearing at the Claudia. ‘It’s the bull-shaggers!’ one cried out. Pavo said nothing, simply glowering at the fellow. And a moment later, his head and all others in the legion peered along to the right, where the hostilities were spiralling.

  ‘Roman dogs, are you thirsty?’ One Goth cried, waddling forward from his lines, uncorking and guzzling on a water skin then emitting an exaggerated gasp of satisfaction. Pavo felt a fierce thirst at the sight of the sparkling liquid pattering into the dust – and felt a sudden empathy for Colias the Goth whom he had subjected to just such a taunt. The dull nausea that came after too long without water was building, and he could sense it from the others around him too. Bacurius and his lot were incensed by this, and seemed like dogs on ever-more strained leashes. The Goth then pulled down the front of his linen trousers, pulled out his tackle and urinated heavily. ‘Then you can drink my piss!’ The Gothic lines erupted in a mocking laughter, cheering their comrade. The brave Goth seemed set to fertilise the entire ridge top with his never-ending stream, until a rock was hurled from the Roman lines that thumped into the man’s groin. His howl was like that of a wounded hound as he recoiled and staggered back into his lines.

  ‘Enough, enough!’ Valens cried along the Roman line towards the impetuous right. ‘If one more missile is loosed, I will have the hand of the man who threw it!’ It was a hoarse and desperate cry.

  ‘The emperor still hopes for talks?’ Sura said, his voice tight with tension.

  ‘Not just him,’ Pavo replied. ‘Look!’

  The Gothic lines parted and a bald, gaunt Gothic man emerged. He wore just a simple brown robe adorned with an embroidered Chi-Rho, and carried no weapons or indication of rank. ‘A priest?’ Pavo guessed. The jeering quietened again as the man walked towards Valens position in the lines.

  The Roman centre parted likewise and allowed the priest through. Emperor Valens dismounted and Pavo saw a canopy of candidati shields rise as if to offer the pair shade.

  ‘I don’t like this,’ Pavo muttered so only Sura would hear. ‘The heat, the terrain, the thirty thousand Gothic blades a handful of paces away?’ Then he saw, at either end of the long ridge on the Gothic flanks, groups of warriors hurrying to and fro, carrying something from within the wagon stockade and piling it there. ‘And what in Hades are they doing?’

  Fritigern, dressed in his battle helm and scale armour, watched on from a small timber platform within the ring of wagons, his sapphire cloak and golden plume hanging limp in the oppressive heat. From here, he could see over the vehicles. On the lip of the ridge stood the thick band of Gothic infantry, facing downhill, then there was the stripe of burnt-gold no-man’s land and a little way down the slope stood the shimmering belt of legions facing his horde. A pair of fang-filled jaws – each over a half-mile long – waiting to gnash together. He saw how the two forces surged and jostled like chained hounds, saw spit flecking the air and heard all manner of vile insults being cast. He could almost smell blood in the air. But there was one last hope: he watched as the priest made his way through the Gothic ranks, across the middle ground and then into the Roman ranks, disappearing within that steely, shimmering mass.

  ‘They have accepted him?’ his bare-chested bodyguard asked, standing at the foot of the platform.

  Fritigern nodded. He watched as the candidati raised their shields overhead. Talks were about to begin. Talks… peace, he mused. He thumbed the hilt of his sword, his heart torn. And if they reject your terms? he argued with himself. You will have to be swift, swifter than the Romans – the first to give the order to attack.

  No, he chided himself, wait, be patient. He twisted round and looked over the mass of t
ents and families of his people, crammed here on the flat ground atop this ridge. He saw elderly men and women mending, crafting and cooking, their faces white and their eyes wide, always looking to the wagon wall, knowing what had arrived out there to confront their sons and husbands in the Gothic ranks. He saw boys play-fighting with wooden swords, dogs leaping and running with them. They were excited about what was going on beyond the wagon wall. They talked of killing the iron eagles of the empire and laughed as they knocked each other down. They did not know the horrors of battle. But today might change everything. He turned back to the opposing battle lines outside the wagon wall, his gaze tracing the serried ranks. So many lives, so much sharpened steel and… his eyes shrunk to slits… ‘Guard; what in all of God and Wodin’s realm is that?’

  The guard hurried up onto the platform, looking out at the drawn up battle lines with him.

  ‘There,’ Fritigern said, pointing to the scurrying group of Goths at the right end of the battle lines. They were each carrying something, dropping it in a pile and scuttling off again. In the shimmering haze, he couldn’t see exactly what it was.

  ‘Wood, faggots and dry grass, Iudex?’ the guard suggested, shielding his eyes from the sun. The man then clasped a hand to Fritigern’s shoulder and pointed his attentions to the opposite end of the battle lines, on the Gothic left. There, a second clutch of warriors were piling dried grass and wood on another pile – even larger.

  Fritigern felt cold, invisible fingers stroke his back.

  ‘Guard, why do my men build pyres?’

  Under the canopy of shields and the patch of blessed shade this offered, Valens, Traianus and Bastianus eyed the gaunt, bald Gothic priest who had turned up at the Adrianople camp the previous dawn. A candidatus handed both men a skin of water. The priest waved it away.

  ‘I fear you and your men need it more than I,’ he said with an earnest smile that assuaged Valens’ initial suspicion that this was a gibe.