Gods & Emperors (Legionary 5)

by Gordon Doherty

  Valens gestured for the skin to be passed out along the ranks, where others amongst the legions were guzzling what little water they had left. He gave the priest an appraising look, recalling their brief chat yesterday. The notion that the horde might be struck dumb with fear at the sight of the legions now seemed laughable. Indeed, a foul tirade echoed overhead, coming from one Goth atop a wagon, enthusiastically demonstrating a sexual act. But while the horde remained defiant, this was the closest he and Fritigern had come to discussions since this brutal war had begun. Would he stay true to his word and propose terms?

  ‘What do you have to say, Priest?

  The priest licked his colourless lips and began: ‘Iudex Fritigern is honoured to be in the presence of the Emperor of the East. That you have brought such a vast force before him is testament to the esteem you hold him in. He wishes for that mutual respect to continue, and to seek out a path that will allow both armies to end today as allies, not enemies.’

  The man was trying to play his part, Valens realised – that creaky wheel voice doing its best to make sure all nearby heard.

  ‘What does he want?’ Valens said flatly.

  The priest held out both hands, palms upturned. ‘What can you offer?’

  Thracian land, service within the legions, Valens thought. But the words stuck somewhere in his throat as he sensed scornful looks from his generals. He even saw Traianus’ top lip wrinkle in disgust. He imagined what this one and Bastianus might think were they to hear their leader offering precious land to a low-born priest. He licked his lips and made eyes at the priest, hoping the Goth would understand.

  ‘Bring Iudex Fritigern to me. Tell him we will talk and we will talk frankly. In all that has gone on in the conflict between our two peoples, not once have we stood face to face. But I cannot… will not, vow or make oath with a man of low station.’

  ‘I understand,’ the priest said, bowing respectfully. ‘But just as I would not expect you to come back with me to talk with Fritigern within our wagon wall for fear of harm, I know that my lord will not come here.’

  ‘Perhaps a meeting on the open ground between our lines?’ Traianus suggested.

  The priest smiled tightly, glancing up at the Goth atop the wagon, now berating the legions whilst miming some physically impossible sexual deed. ‘I… would fear the more hot-headed in both of our forces might strike down both you and Iudex Fritigern.’

  Valens cocked his head to one side. ‘A sound concern.’

  The priest touched a finger to his lower lip in thought. ‘But maybe Fritigern would come here if you were to send a high-ranking man inside our wagon stockade as a guarantee.’

  Valens gave it a moment of thought then nodded. He turned and dragged the finger across the line of generals. Bastianus stood tall, flashing the man a beaming, yellow-toothed smile, quickly rearranging his eyepatch then his crotch as if to look his best. For a moment, Valens considered the possibility, but knew the blusterous officer might spark some sort of incident were he to enter the Gothic camp. He swept his finger across the collection of other tribuni – men who had served with him in the Persian strife and had long boasted of their guile and bravery. One barely disguised a gulp, but did his best to imitate Bastianus’ stance, broadening his slight shoulders as best he could. Another failed to meet the emperor’s gaze and the one next to him was already shaking his head, looking for some form of excuse.

  ‘Send me,’ Comes Richomeres said, stepping forward with his plumed helm underarm. His eyes were defiant and his knobbly features set hard and glistening with runnels of sweat. ‘It will spare those with water for guts from having to squirm their way out of it,’ he said with an icy glance down his nose at the silent ones.

  Valens raised his eyebrows as if putting the offer to the priest. ‘Comes Richomeres is one of the principal generals of the West, and increasingly his efforts have become vital here in the East too. If he returns to your wagon defences with you, can I trust that Iudex Fritigern will then come here?’

  The priest seemed relieved at the prospect, and Valens sensed the weak hope of treaty growing once more. ‘It will be so,’ the old fellow bowed, before he and Richomeres walked from the shield canopy and cut through the Roman lines to make their way across the no-man’s land.

  As they went and the shield canopy dissolved, and Valens noticed that vultures were now gathering overhead – as if knowing something he did not. He readied to rouse his still-agitated battle line with some well-practiced homily that might keep them eager but obedient. But he halted, scenting something new in the hot, dry air: sweet woodsmoke. He frowned, seeing torch-bearing Goths approaching two huge piles of dried grass and wood at either end of their lines.

  The thickening cloud of vultures took to screeching, demanding that blood be spilled. Pavo shouted as if to drown them out, he and Sura repeating Zosimus and Dexion’s words of encouragement to the Claudia ranks. Looking right and left along the now fully-formed Roman line, he saw an unending wall of shields emblazoned with wolves, lions, demi-gods, and the dark, angry bull of the Claudia, spears jutting forward like spines. Peering out over this stout wall was a forest of iron helms and glaring eyes.

  ‘Keep your shields up and spears ready. No man sits down or removes his helm,’ he barked over his shoulder. The orders came easily, as these were exactly the things he wanted to do. His shield now felt like an anvil, the rope loop over his left shoulder pushing the mail there into his skin and collarbone and his helm seemed to be roasting his brain, but with the lines so close, it would be folly to abandon formation or stance. They had enjoyed the small mercy of having an opportunity to drink the remainder of their water skins, but those few mouthfuls were warm and brackish and all too little and just moments later, the bone-dry texture had returned to many Roman mouths.

  He glanced along to his right, seeing Zosimus there with Dexion. The big man cast the Gothic line foul looks. Every so often, Pavo noticed, the Thracian then glanced sidelong at Dexion with just as much animosity.

  Mithras let this be no more than some petty squabble.

  Just then, Dexion looked left, across the Roman lines. Pavo was sure it was to look for him, but instead, his brother gave a half-nod to some unseen other, beyond Pavo. Pavo turned to see who it might be, but could discern nothing amongst the sea of helms and spears.

  ‘The talks are finished?’ Sura cooed, nudging Pavo, scattering his thoughts and tipping his head towards the dissolving canopy of candidati shields.

  Pavo looked over that way. ‘No, not quite,’ he replied, watching Richomeres and the old Gothic envoy making their way across the no-man’s land, up the short stretch of slope towards the Gothic lines. ‘Another round is to come, it seems.’

  ‘More talks? We need to act or stand down,’ Sura groaned. ‘The lads are perishing in this heat. It’s only their thirst that’s disguising their hunger. We need shade or wat-’

  His friend’s words stopped abruptly as an odd noise sounded behind Pavo, above the Roman ranks: an ethereal, trilling call like elegiac birdsong.

  ‘What the?’ he heard Cornix say behind him. All eyes looked up and around. Pavo caught sight of the thin shaft up there, leaping from the Roman lines, arcing round then plummeting safely behind the rearmost legionaries.

  ‘A whistling shot?’ Sura guessed, squinting over in the general direction of the archer cohorts behind the Claudia.

  ‘A signal shot,’ Trupo suggested, his brow bending in confusion.

  But Pavo barely heard the discussion. Instead, his attentions were drawn back to the wood piles flanking the Gothic lines. Men now touched torches to these and in moments, they were ablaze. Thick, grey woodsmoke spiralled up from both piles and turned into dark grey pillars in moments. The billowing plumes met overhead the Gothic lines, forming a towering curtain of warping, stained air. Tendrils and puffs of the smoke also descended the slope, and the men all along the Roman lines coughed and hacked, blinking at the stinging air that snatched the last vestiges of moisture fro
m their throats.

  Sura retched and strained to keep his eyes open and upon the Gothic lines. ‘Mithras, the heat!’

  ‘What in Hades is this?’ Zosimus growled away to Pavo’s right, swiping a hand through the air before him.

  Similar cries and curses rang all around Pavo. Only one man in the ranks seemed unperturbed by this odd turn of events. Dexion.

  Pavo watched as his brother stood, unflinching, the grey smoke wafting around him. The rightmost Gothic bonfire blazed in the background, and for a moment, his brother was like a shadow set against the blaze.

  Richomeres was but paces from the Gothic lines, the woodsmoke swirling around him. The priest with him was slow, walking with a slight limp. Behind him, he heard the jagged Iberian cries of Bacurius, the Scutarii commander on the Roman right. The man had fire in his blood and mud in his skull, Richomeres thought.

  ‘Come fight me then, Goth,’ Bacurius screamed at one wagon-top warrior who had been goading him, ‘I will take your head from your shoulders!’

  Richomeres swung to face back towards the Roman lines and shot a finger at Bacurius. ‘You’ve been told already, you fool! The emperor will decide if and when it comes to battle.’

  Bacurius and his mount suddenly slumped, seething. A chorus of laughter from the Goths did little to ease his embarrassment. Richomeres gave him a gimlet stare and prayed it would be enough to cow the man.

  ‘Men like him are the bane of a general’s plans,’ he muttered to himself as he turned back to continue towards the Gothic line.

  ‘Iudex Fritigern has more than a few such,’ the priest said with a weak laugh. ‘A bane and a blessing, he calls them-’ his words ended abruptly as the ground shook somewhere behind them as if a Titan were running up to assail them. Both turned back in the direction of the Roman cavalry right.

  ‘Come on then, you dogs!’ Bacurius howled, his steed breaking into a sudden charge. The rest of the Scutarii were just as eager, pouring across the no-man’s land with their leader. The Gentiles, spurred on by the same eagerness or maybe just confusion at the Scutarii’s sudden advance, charged too.

  Richomeres gawped. ‘No!’

  A volley of javelins were hurled from the Scutarii riders, punching into the Gothic left, then they levelled their lances or drew their swords and drove into the thick ranks of surprised spearmen. Gothic soldiers fell in huge numbers and Bacurius ploughed into their midst, hacking at all around him like a god of war. Suddenly, the stunned Roman infantry centre erupted in a cry of support that drowned out the frenzied buccina blasts intended to reign back the impetuous cavalry. Like the instinctive bristling of a creature preparing to fight, the Roman infantry lines clattered as the front ranks braced. The Gothic lines did likewise. The jeering and insults of before were replaced by a guttural, baritone roar and the rapping of blades against the rims of shields.

  Richomeres felt the priest wriggle loose of his supporting arm.

  ‘Go!’ the priest cried, his gaunt face stretched in panic, waving Richomeres back to the Roman lines. ‘The chance to talk has been stolen from us. Run for your life!’

  Pavo’s heart crashed against his ribs like a war drum. It had happened like a sudden strike of lightning: one moment there had been just crackling tension, foul heat, blinding smoke and jeering… then as if cast forward like the flash from a flint hook, the cavalry right had plunged into the Gothic left. Now the Gothic war horns wailed and the Roman buccinae cried in reply. A low, guttural chorus of thousands of voices from the wall of Goths seemed to shake the land. As the roar rose in a crescendo of ferocity and tone, building to a shrieking apogee, Pavo lowered his shield, knowing what was about to happen. He saw the Gothic centre, faces bent in rage, spears and longswords raised, poised. The war horns wailed again. Suddenly, the ground shuddered and the spearmen of the horde swept downhill at a frightening pace.

  No time for plumbatae or javelins, Pavo realised. ‘Brace!’ he roared then levelled his spear and saw many on the front ranks were slow to do likewise. He trained his spear on the howling, long-legged Goth coming for him and readied himself, knowing this would be a jarring impact.

  What felt like a herd of demons crashed into the Roman line with a thunderclap of shield against shield. Sharp cries and retching sounded as Roman and Goth alike were run through and disembowelled on the ends of each other’s blades. Pavo felt his spear burst through the long-limbed Goth’s ribs but the mortally wounded man stumbled on along the shaft, driven by the weight of the thousands more behind him. The spear snapped and the corpse flailed and was forced up and over the Roman shield wall. Pavo thought the Goths coming right after the dead man might overwhelm and trample him, but the Roman ranks behind him stood fast: their weight and determination absorbed the Gothic onslaught but at an awful price, he realised, seeing so many comrades falling, cleaved or run through.

  ‘Push back!’ he yelled hoarsely, Sura screaming with him. He hoisted his shield and thrust it at face height, feeling noses and jaws shatter on the iron boss, smashing the teeth from one fighter who seemed set to plunge his longsword into Sura’s momentarily unprotected shoulder. Then, when one savagely-grinning warrior tried to tear the shield from his grasp, he leapt and thrust his head forward, bringing the sharpened fin of his intercisa helm into the foe’s face. The tip pierced flesh and bone right between the man’s eyes, scything deep into the matter within. The warrior’s grin remained despite the grievous wound that swiftly pumped black blood over his face. No sooner had he fallen than another three clamoured to barge Pavo to the ground. Sura struck one on the forearm, snapping the bone and sending the attacker staggering back, howling, clutching the flailing and useless limb. Pavo tore his spatha from his scabbard and struck another across the neck, ripping out the man’s jugular, before sidestepping the charge of a third, letting the man’s momentum carry him inside the Roman shield wall then stabbing down into the warrior’s flank as he flailed past. With a clack, he closed shields with Sura again, then looked to his optio and to Trupo on his other side. ‘Still good?’ he snarled.

  ‘Still good,’ Trupo replied, barely flinching as a Gothic sword chopped the crown off of a helmetless legionary nearby.

  ‘Still good,’ Sura growled in reply, running the Goth responsible through.

  A shower of arrows leapt from Gothic and Roman lines alike, bouncing off steel helms and punching into flesh all around Pavo. A flurry of longswords chopped down, splinters flying from shields and blades buckling such was the ferocity of the attack. Pavo saw, over the thrashing sea of arms, helmets and weapons, Valens and his candidati amidst the fray: battle had been foisted upon him in the end but the emperor leapt and parried, swinging his shield to block one blade then another like any one of his legionaries, his purple plume swishing. Not far from the emperor he caught sight of Fritigern: the broad-shouldered warlord and his bodyguards had charged from within the wagon stockade to surge into the fray like common soldiers too, and were now locked in battle with the Hiberi legion. Further along to the Roman right he saw Bacurius, his Scutarii riders and the Gentiles chargers with them, still driving the Gothic left back onto their wagon wall. The leftmost wagons shuddered and one toppled, catching light from the blaze of faggots, grass and wood there.

  ‘The right is almost ours!’ A dry-throated voice cried.

  This brought a ferocious cheer from the legions, and Pavo felt the tide turn. The Gothic infantry had lost the momentum of their short charge downhill into the Roman lines and now the Claudia and the other legions were pushing them back, forging uphill to the lip of the ridge step by precious step.

  ‘Push!’ Pavo yelled over the iron rhapsody of battle. ‘We need every one of you!’

  He cut down two Gothic spearmen in front of him. One snarling foe came at him in a fervour, and Pavo swept his spatha up nimbly to chop into the warrior’s neck. Lifeblood spurted into the smoky, stifling haze all around him and the red mire of the slope grew slicker and a coppery-stink filled the air. The pale cloth tops on the wagons were n
ow streaked with smoke, dust and glistening, fresh blood. Another five or six ranks of Goths stood between him and the stockade. Between him and claiming the ridge. Between him and victory?

  Now he felt it too – that flash of hope. The end of the war was here for the taking. At that moment he could think only of the loved ones lost to him in the years of conflict… and the few remaining, standing here with him. Zosimus, Sura… Dexion.

  Hoisting his shield to block the ferocious counterattack of one Goth, he snatched a glance to the right, along the Roman line. He saw big Zosimus there, streaked with blood, dust and smoke, his helm plastered with clotted blood and strips of skin. He fought like a bull, like a vision of the Claudia’s legionary emblem, smashing his shield, fist and forearm into Goths between strokes of his spatha. By his side… was nobody, just the legionaries of the Claudia’s First Cohort.

  Dexion? Pavo mouthed. He noticed the men of Zosimus’ cohort had struck up some lamenting cry. Something had happened. ‘Take my place,’ he cried to Cornix, then dropped back from the front line. He then forged across the second ranks to draw closer to Zosimus.

  ‘He’s gone,’ one of Zosimus’ men howled as he passed, his face tear-streaked and twisted in rage.

  Pavo’s heart fell into his boots as he realised they were lamenting the loss of the legion’s leader. No. No!

  He only had a heartbeat to dwell on this before the Gothic infantry line surged back against the Roman advance. A shoulder bashed into his jaw and sent him staggering, and a longsword clanged from the brow of his helm. He righted himself, thrust his spatha out to score his attacker’s neck, then looked round to find Zosimus again. The big man held a tall Goth by the windpipe and snarled like a hound as he choked the life from the foe, while fending off spears and longswords with his shield. One Goth tried to hack through Zosimus’ arm, and Pavo shot up his spatha just in time to block the blow then thrust out a boot to kick the attacker back before barging into line, shoulder-to-shoulder with the big man, repairing the rupture in the Roman shield wall.