Gods & Emperors (Legionary 5)

by Gordon Doherty

  Gallus’ jaw tensed and he stood, moving away from Valens’ body, failing to meet Pavo’s eye.

  Pavo’s questions bubbled and spat and an angry heat spread over his chest as he thought of the missing Zosimus and Quadratus and their odd, tight-lipped behaviour around Dexion. ‘Sir, tell me what happened!’ he pressed, rising to follow Gallus as he stalked over to look from the window. ‘Sir,’ he said, calmly this time. ‘Zosimus, Quadratus and Sura are my brothers. Each of us look to you for guidance. You are the father of the legion. I need you to tell me what happened.’

  Gallus met his eye at last. ‘Lad, now is not the time. Perhaps when we’re away from this place and-’ his words ended abruptly, his lips receding over clenched teeth as he glared past Pavo’s shoulder like a growling wolf.

  Pavo swung round. There, descending the narrow stairs from the attic, was Dexion, his black breastplate stained in blood from the battle, his white-plumed helm dangling from one hand and his black cloak flowing behind him. ‘Brother!’ Pavo cried.

  ‘No!’ Gallus growled, throwing an arm across Pavo’s chest to stop him.

  ‘What the?’ Pavo gasped, but fell silent when Dexion stepped down into the hearth room and another figure stepped out behind him: the young, silver-toothed, freckle-faced explorator, Hosidius, bringing from behind Dexion’s back a loaded, crossbow with bronze-plated limbs. He swept the weapon up and round, as if to show he could loose it at any man in the room, spreading his feet evenly and winking behind the bolt groove.

  ‘Dexion, beware,’ Pavo cried, seeing his brother still had his back turned to the weapon.

  But Dexion did not flinch. Instead, he merely raised a hand and extended a finger. This action seemed to quell Hosidius’ eagerness just a fraction.

  Pavo’s mind swirled this way and that with confusion. Dexion and this killer were together? More, he saw how Dexion and Gallus were locked in a stare that seemed to crackle and spark across the room. Then he noticed how Hosidius had positioned himself before the swordbelts, resting at the foot of the staircase, and saw from the corner of his eye the hand of the startled candidatus – the only armed man amongst those surprised by Dexion and Hosidius’ arrival – edging towards his sheathed spatha. The candidatus had drawn the blade merely a finger’s-width when Hosidius swung the crossbow to meet the threat. A thick twang sounded, the bolt was loosed, taking the candidatus in the breastbone. His upper body jolted backwards while his legs swung out before him and he was dead before he hit the ground.

  As the mizzle of blood settled and mixed with dust motes in the room, Pavo gazed at the dead candidatus, then met Gallus’ eyes. Together, the pair looked at Hosidius and lurched for him, knowing the silver-toothed marksman’s powerful bow was cumbersome to reload. But, within a blink, Hosidius tossed down the spent weapon and drew a second one from his back, already loaded, halting Gallus and Pavo after only a step.

  Pavo backed away again. ‘What is this? Will someone tell me what is going on? Dexion?’

  Dexion shrugged then gestured with an open hand to Gallus. ‘You may as well tell him, given the limited time you have left.’

  Pavo frowned at his half-brother’s tone and odd words, and felt a cold sense of trepidation as Dexion stepped forward, out of a red shaft of sunset and into the shade, his features at once shadow-like. Memories of the dark dream shuddered across his mind.

  Gallus let out a deep sigh, then said in a low, baritone voice: ‘I’m sorry, lad.’ His eyes never left Dexion as he spoke: ‘This one might well share your blood… or maybe that’s another one of his foul lies.’

  Pavo’s eyes narrowed, flicking from Gallus to Dexion. The pain and anger in the tribunus’ face contrasted sharply with the tranquil look on Dexion’s.

  ‘He is no man of the legions,’ Gallus said. ‘He is a speculator – one of Gratian’s own. One of those who orchestrated the savage twist in the battle today.’

  Pavo scowled. ‘Never.’

  But Dexion did not contest this. ‘It was as the scroll you found said. I returned from the West in time to ensure the emperor’s victory. My emperor’s victory.’

  ‘Dexion?’ Pavo whispered, shaking his head.

  ‘It was his hand that took the life of my wife and my boy,’ Gallus continued. ‘It was his hand that took… Felicia.’

  Pavo backed away from both Dexion and Gallus. ‘Enough… enough!’ But when he saw the placid look remain on Dexion’s face he felt his blood run like ice. ‘Brother?’

  ‘I did my master’s bidding,’ he replied, lifting something from his purse and fixing it onto his finger: a ring with an emblem of the staring eye just like that from the scroll. ‘The two oafs as well – Zosimus and Quadratus – they fell in the doing of my duty. I obey my orders, I am spared the burden of feelings.’

  Pavo shook his head, stepping back once again. His heart pounded on his ribs and his breath grew short. ‘Why are you saying this?’

  ‘Perhaps I owe you the truth, Brother,’ Dexion replied. ‘I know how much Felicia’s death hurt you, but she had to die. Nobody could find out about me… lest the events of today might never have come to pass. Valens might have lived or, worse – won the battle. My master would not have been pleased had it been so.’

  Pavo heard such conviction in the black, twisted words. ‘You killed her? You killed Felicia?’

  Silence. That cool, unflustered look remained on Dexion’s face.

  A heavy, cold stone settled in Pavo’s belly. ‘She was to be my wife. She and I were to have children, a home, a future,’ he said, his voice thick with emotion. ‘You killed Zosimus and Quadratus? You slew my tribunus’ family? And today, you have brought death upon the East… thousands upon thousands lie dead back on that ridge. What… what are you?’

  Dexion stepped towards him, hands outstretched as if in greeting while Hosidius kept Gallus pinned within the sights of the crossbow. ‘I’m your brother, Pavo. I’m your blood. Father’s blood runs in my veins as it does in yours.’

  Pavo gulped, wanting to hear only those words and forget those that had gone just moments before.

  ‘Don’t listen to him, Pavo,’ Gallus hissed. ‘Whatever he was when your Father sired him is gone, lost – rotting within the belly of a dark, cold demon.’

  Dexion’s top lip twitched as he heard this, and with a single, raised finger, the crossbow spat again, the shaft punching through Gallus’ mail shirt and into his ribs. The Iron Tribunus staggered back against the wall.

  ‘No!’ Pavo cried, making to run over to Gallus.

  ‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you,’ Dexion said calmly, placing a hand on his sword hilt and stepping over to block Pavo.

  Pavo halted, breathless. To his left, Hosidius pointed his crossbow to the floor, braced a foot to the stirrup and – with a ‘click’ – reloaded it with a fresh shaft, before bringing it to bear again, winking behind it, trained on Pavo.

  Pavo could not tear his eyes from Gallus, seeing the tribunus slump down the wall, clutching at the shaft in his torso, lifting his hands away to see they were covered in black blood. Images of the injured wolf from the black dream crackled just behind his eyes.

  ‘His fate is sealed, as it long ago should have been,’ Dexion said. ‘It was my mistake for letting him get this close to saving his emperor and his precious legion.’

  Pavo turned to face Dexion, seeing the shadow and light pass over him again as he approached. ‘Mithras, tell me this is another of my foul dreams. Brother, tell me this also.’

  ‘Like the nightmares you told me of? Of the man watching you as you were sold at the slave market?’ Dexion said. ‘I watched you for some time, you know.’

  Pavo’s lip trembled. ‘It was… you?’

  Dexion nodded. ‘How did it feel that day, to know that you were utterly abandoned and at the mercy of fate? I remember how it felt when I was a boy of few years and I had to listen to my mother weeping. Father abandoned her and me, choosing you and your mother instead. She wept for him – wept like a weak fool. I
chose a different path. I chose not to feel. I chose the brethren.’

  Brethren. The sibilant word crept over Pavo’s skin.

  ‘I chose the eternal brotherhood of the Speculatores. They will never abandon me and they have unshackled me from my feelings.’ He wagged a finger at Pavo. ‘I once thought I hated you for what you had and I did not: Father’s love. Now I realise it was a mistake – I was weak to let feelings guide me. I do not hate you. No, I see hope for you, Pavo: you do not have to die today. Perhaps you could serve my master as I do; brothers, working side by side? We spoke of this on the march, remember? I said I could teach you to quash your dreams, spurn your nightmares, master your feelings. I could teach you to forget, to embrace the numbness. All the pain and anger would be gone,’ he clenched a fist in conviction, ‘gone. No more anger, no more fear, no more guilt. Does that not sound like a brighter future? Join me, Brother…’

  Pavo looked across his brother’s face – so like his own – and into those tawny-gold eyes, intent on finding some sign that this was all a mistake. When a reply came, it came straight from his heart. ‘Never,’ he said flatly.

  Dexion’s placid look faltered, his cheek twitching.

  ‘Never,’ Pavo repeated. ‘You offer me the chance to spurn my nightmares? Brother, you are my darkest nightmare.’ A hot tear shot down his cheek as he said this. ‘Slay me and my comrades, but we will die with warm blood in our hearts. I will never become what you are… a walking shade… dead inside.’

  Dexion’s top lip flickered now, the tranquil look crumbling. ‘Then it is simple. You will die.’

  He raised a hand and Hosidius’ finger squeezed on the crossbow trigger. In the same moment, the cellar door swung open, Sura lunged from within, batting the crossbow up just as the shaft was loosed. The bolt shot up to the top of the room, zinging as it ricocheted from the stonework, sending a shower of sparks arcing up across the ceiling and into the hatch leading to the hay loft.

  A brief hiatus followed, Pavo and Dexion glaring at one another.

  With a screech, Dexion drew his gem-hilt spatha. For a moment, he gazed at the blade, his face wrinkling as if some long lost part of him was crying out for him to stop. But the soulless, empty look returned to his eyes. ‘As my master commands.’

  At once, Dexion lunged for him, the sword thrust aimed straight for his heart. Pavo threw himself to one side just as the sword blade streaked through the air where he had been, cleaving the ladders to the hay loft. He landed on his side on the floor then kicked out at Dexion’s legs, his heel jarring on Dexion’s shin and sending him staggering backwards. Meanwhile, Sura grappled with Hosidius, punching, kicking and butting at one another as they rolled across the floor. Puffs of grey and then black smoke spewed from the hay loft and an orange glow appeared and quickly grew violent, fierce crackling coming with it. In a trice, the flames were licking out across the ceiling of the hearth room. By the gods, no, he mouthed, seeing the dark dream forming around him.

  A determined grunt brought his attentions back to the flying mass that was Dexion coming for him, a knife in one hand and the gem-hilted spatha in the other. He rolled away then snatched up a section of the ruined ladders like a shield. Dexion’s sword shattered the makeshift barricade then sliced past Pavo’s wrist.

  A cry from nearby saw Sura roll away from Hosidius, a dagger jutting from his shoulder before the freckle-faced one pounced on him again. Dexion leapt into Pavo’s path before he could intervene. Savage tongues of flame now lashed down the walls of the hearth room and fiery embers from the ceiling plummeted down between them.

  He circled Pavo like a lion in the arena. Pavo, still weaponless, turned to face him as he moved, shooting glances at Gallus. The tribunus was still slumped against the wall, his chest rising and falling in short, weak breaths, his eyes closed and his hands clasped over the crossbow bolt wedged deep in his ribs.

  Pavo saw Dexion’s right leg bend as if to lunge and made to dodge right, when a joist of fiery timber crashed down by his side, halting him, showering him with stinging sparks. He could only stagger back against the wall as Dexion’s spatha came chopping down, straight for his neck. The honed edge would sink in as far as his spine. Everything flashed before him: as a child, paddling in the Propontis; With Father; Father gone; as a slave in Tarquitius’ villa in Constantinople; Then… freedom… the legion… his brothers. He steeled himself to die like a soldier as so many others had that day.

  But a hand shot up between the chopping blade and him, clamping around Dexion’s wrist.

  Pavo blinked, sure the inferno was playing tricks with his eyes. But, like a shade rising, Gallus stood, hands clutching Dexion’s forearms, his greying features drawn and weary. He rose and rose to his full height, towering over Dexion, his gaunt face lacking a crumb of pity. Dexion’s assured look faded and faltered when he tried and failed to shake free of Gallus’ grip. Gallus glowered down upon him, squeezing his wrists until the blades tumbled from the speculator’s hands.

  Suddenly, the ceiling groaned and roared, and a huge section above the nearby the stairs caved in, sending a wall of fierce heat, stinging smoke and sparks across them. A crack of stone sounded and the farmhouse seemed to list to one side with an ominous moan. The main spar holding up the central; section of the roof above Gallus and Dexion creaked and splintered, barely visible through the ceiling of flames.

  ‘Sir,’ Pavo rasped to Gallus, stepping back, snatching up Dexion’s dropped sword and swiping the smoke away from his eyes. ‘Get back. The roof’s about to collapse!’

  Dexion suddenly lurched forward in Gallus’ grasp, thrusting his brow up at the tribunus’ nose. Gallus merely leaned back to avoid the blow and Dexion snarled, still ensnared in Gallus’ firm grip. ‘When I first awoke in the dungeons of Treverorum, you told me calmly how you had killed my family. You recounted each of your murders without feeling,’ Gallus said, his voice steady, but wet with blood in his lungs. He glanced up at the now sagging inferno of a roof then swivelled Dexion round to wrap an arm around his neck and pulled it tight until his lean but muscled bicep bulged, the veins throbbing through the skin. ‘You have fought all your life to free yourself from emotions and feelings. Well, Speculator, let me free you from your feelings… forever.’ Dexion’s hubris was gone, his eyes bulging, his mouth open, hands clawing at Gallus’ forearm, mouthing words that could not escape his constricted throat, his face growing an angry shade of purple and his lips turning blue.

  ‘Sir – the roof!’ Pavo cried. But when Gallus met his eye, he saw the greyness of the Iron Tribunus’ skin, the black blood still pouring from the crossbow bolt in his ribs. A thick lump formed in his throat as he realised no man could save the father of the XI Claudia. When he saw in Gallus’ free hand the hewn, worn wooden idol of Mithras, he knew the tribunus understood this too.

  ‘My time is over, Pavo,’ he said, unflustered by Dexion’s flapping arms and panicked kicks. ‘Yours is not. Get out, save yourself.’ His pupils were beginning to dilate. ‘This land needs men like you, and there are so few left. And I,’ he said, looking into the ether, a moment of doubt crossing his face, ‘I… if Mithras wills it… have someone to meet.’

  Dexion’s eyes were bulging now, gaping at the groaning section of ceiling above him. The speculator mouthed Pavo’s name twice. Pavo paid no attention to him. Instead, he backed away, eyes on Gallus alone as a single, hot tear shot across his face. ‘I’ll never forget you, sir,’ he whispered. ‘Never.’

  ‘Nor I you, lad. Nor I you,’ Gallus replied with a valedictory nod, and the rarest of things: a gentle smile.

  It was the last Pavo ever saw of him. The centre of the ceiling caved in with the roar like that of a legion rushing into battle, and the middle of the hearth room was buried under a fiery mass of timbers, tiles and soot.

  Pavo stumbled back, biting his lip as more tears shot across his cheeks.

  ‘Into eternity, hail and farewell,’ he whispered, fighting the urge to sob, his eyes fixed on the spot where Ga
llus had been standing. For a time he was lost, trapped in the eye of the nightmare.

  It was only the stinging smoke and the sounds of struggle that snapped him from his trance. He staggered back towards the hearth, finding Sura and Hosidius choking the life from one another. Without a moment’s deliberation, Pavo picked up a fallen crossbow bolt and hammered it into the foe’s temple. The freckle-faced agent’s grin collapsed and he fell limp instantly. Pavo kicked the corpse away then looped an arm around the retching, soot-covered Sura and helped him to his feet.

  ‘Pavo, what… what happened?’ Sura gasped.

  ‘On your feet, Optio,’ he said, his eyes widening as he looked around the surrounding wall of flames, caging them within the blaze, fiery talons closing in on them from every direction. ‘At the last, it has come down to just us…’

  They gazed defiantly at the fiery prison, at the sagging section of roof above the corner they had been backed into. Beyond the wall of flame, they saw the blazing shutters.

  ‘There’s not a chance we can make that,’ Sura said.

  ‘Not a chance,’ Pavo agreed.

  Glowing embers and blazing chunks of wood rained down around them, and the ceiling groaned, moments from giving out entirely.

  Each sucked in a breath and roared in unison.

  ‘For the Claudia!’

  Fritigern shielded his eyes with a hand and squinted into the last rays of sunlight and the brilliant orange blaze as he cantered up the hillside.

  ‘They are inside, Iudex! They are inside!’ the horseman by his side exclaimed, holding up and shaking a strip of purple and gold edged, blood-streaked cloth he had found on the slope. ‘The Emperor of the Romans is in that blaze – I’m sure of it!’

  Fritigern raised a hand, silencing the man, then slowed his mount to a walk as he climbed towards the burning farmhouse. With him was this fellow and two others of his own scout cavalry. Many other riding parties had been sent out in other directions to claim such a prize – Alatheus and Saphrax’s Greuthingi had ridden with the greatest speed, urged by their lords to be the ones to claim Valens’ head. Their clamour to find, sever and hoist a man’s head left an acrid taste in his mouth. It was that grim token they sought in order to claim that victory had been won today by the Greuthingi and to then surely challenge him as Iudex of the Gothic Alliance.