EMPIRE OF SHADES

by Gordon Doherty

  LEGIONARY

  EMPIRE OF SHADES

  by Gordon Doherty

  First Kindle Edition 2017

  © 2017 Gordon Doherty

  All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced in any form, in whole or in part, without written permission from the author.

  www.gordondoherty.co.uk

  Contents

  Maps & Military Charts

  Part 1 The Dead of Winter, Thracia, Early 379 AD

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Part 2 Into Barbaricum, Spring 379 AD

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Part 3 The Sons of Fritigern, Late Summer 379 AD

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Part 4 March of the Black Horde, Summer 380 AD

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Glossary

  Also by Gordon Doherty:

  THE LEGIONARY SERIES

  The Roman Empire is crumbling, and a shadow looms in the east . . .

  In the 4th Century AD, countless barbarian tribes surge against the Eastern Roman Empire's borders, driven by a dark horde that has arrived from the great steppe. On the Danubian frontier, the situation is critical: the crumbling, neglected forts and watchtowers along the riverbank are thinly garrisoned by 'mere' limitanei – the impoverished border legions. Pavo, a slave freed and sent to serve with the XI Claudia in this precarious land, finds himself thrust into a tumultuous sequence of events that will shape his destiny and the fate of the Empire.

  1. LEGIONARY (2011)

  2. LEGIONARY: VIPER OF THE NORTH (2012)

  3. LEGIONARY: LAND OF THE SACRED FIRE (2013)

  4. LEGIONARY: THE SCOURGE OF THRACIA (2015)

  5. LEGIONARY: GODS & EMPERORS (2015)

  6. LEGIONARY: EMPIRE OF SHADES (2017)

  THE STRATEGOS TRILOGY

  When the falcon has flown, the mountain lion will charge from the east, and all Byzantium will quake. Only one man can save the empire . . . the Haga!

  In the 11th century AD, the ailing Byzantine Empire teeters on the brink of full-blown war with the Seljuk Sultanate. In the borderlands of Eastern Anatolia, a land riven with bloodshed and doubt, a dark hero rises from the ashes of the conflict. His journey will be a savage one, taking him from the snakepit of Constantinople to the blistering heart of the Seljuk realm . . . all the time leading him towards the fabled plains of Manzikert.

  1. STRATEGOS: BORN IN THE BORDERLANDS (2011)

  2. STRATEGOS: RISE OF THE GOLDEN HEART (2013)

  3. STRATEGOS: ISLAND IN THE STORM (2014)

  Sandra: you’ve been there from the start of the saga, supporting the Claudia lads at every turn… so this one’s for you – enjoy!

  Some have accused our armies of cowardice, incompetence and lack of training. But on the contrary they were heroes, worthy of the greatest Roman traditions. They fought and died where they stood, and their valiant emperor died with them, refusing the disgrace of flight and true to the finest examples of our ancestors. The heaps of bones of those who fell around their emperor are the monument to their valour.

  -Libanius, the celebrated Rhetorician of Antioch, speaking after the disaster at Adrianople.

  High Command Structure of the Eastern Roman Empire circa 379 AD

  See glossary (at rear of book) for a description of terms

  Note that full and interactive versions of this and all the diagrams & maps can be found on the ‘Legionary’ section of my website, www.gordondoherty.co.uk

  Structure of Legio XI Claudia Pia Fidelis

  See glossary (at rear of book) for a description of terms

  The Roman Empire, circa 379 AD

  Epicentre of the Gothic War circa 379 AD

  Prologue:

  December, 378 AD

  North of the River Danubius

  Rivulets of blood stole down Ambassador Vitalis’ face as winter-bare branches clawed across his bald head. But on he sped through the dense woods, fuelled by terror, his sandals skidding across the icy ground, the loose folds of his white pallium robe snagging and ripping as he went. Two sounds echoed in his head: a youthful memory of his tutor’s voice, telling him of the Huns, of what they did to men of the empire... and the all too real din of pursuing hooves – growing louder, closer.

  Lungs on fire, blood hammering in his ears, he dared not slow to glance back. The spry, caped and armed explorator running with him – the last of his escort – did, and took a bone-tipped arrow through the eye for his troubles. The imperial scout’s body pirouetted into a dive in a limp imitation of life, blood spraying Vitalis like hot rain as he fell. A throaty, foreign ‘Whoop!’ from behind lauded this kill, then the hooves of the dark horsemen rose into a deafening and rapid thunder, closer than ever. Vitalis surged onwards with every speck of strength left in him, blinded by panic, ankles buckling and twisting, one sandal snapping free, thorns ripping away strips of his robe. When he tried to plunge through a mesh of gorse bushes and low-hanging branches, his entire body jolted to a halt – shackled by the roots and branches like a fly in a web. He wrenched and kicked to work himself free but to no avail. Heart climbing into his throat, he heard an animal wail pour from his lips, seeing in his mind’s eye the vicious blades and neck-wrenching lassos that they would use to slaughter him.

  And then there was… silence.

  Panting, he dared edge his head round to look behind him. The Hun party had halted a short way back. Due to their distance and the failing light, he could discern little of them. But he could hear their strange, jagged words. Hushed. Clipped. Edged with… fear? They each gazed past Vitalis, beholding the path lying ahead of him as if it was a realm of spirits. With a short, snapping order from the lead rider, they wheeled away and were gone.

  Vitalis gawped at their retreat until there were just falling crystals of disturbed frost where the Huns had been. He worked one arm free from the mesh of entangling undergrowth, then with a violently shaking hand, fumbled his Christian Chi-Rho brooch to his mouth to kiss it, whispering words of prayer through trembling lips. Gradually, he picked himself clear of the rest of the tangled branches. Alone, he beheld the wooded trail ahead and crept forward, the very sound of his own rapid breaths haunting him.

  Eventually the trees thinned and he waded through a glade of ferns. A high, white bluff rose beyond, bright against the dire grey sky. Agog, he staggered towards it. ‘It cannot be – I have arrived?’ he warbled to himself, seeing a glow of orange atop the bluff.

  Doubts told him he was mistaken, that this was the wrong place. But the words of General Theodosius had been clear as springwater: The Goths of Arimer have no quarrel with the empire. They wish to be trained as legions to fight against Fritigern’s horde… with them we can end the war and reclaim Thracia. They are trapped north of the Danubius, taking refuge on a stony height above the woods. Go to Arimer, bring him and his warriors back with you.

  A new fear crept up on Vitalis then: what lay on top of the bluff? What if the Huns had taken it from the tribesmen he sought? He clenched his Chi-Rho again and thought of the land whose fate rested on his efforts here. The green-gold hills and pastures south of the river. Thracia, sweet Thracia, he mouthed, seeing his homeland as it had once been and as it was now: harrowed by the boots and hooves of Iudex Fritigern’s rampaging Gothic horde, so
wn with the bones of the legions broken outside Adrianople in the summer.

  ‘For Thracia,’ he whispered firmly. His convictions strengthened, Vitalis puffed out his chest and took a step towards the high bluff.

  As he did so, the myriad shadows crouched behind him in the ferns rose: tall Goths, faces streaked in red paint. ‘Vesiii…’ they whispered as one, then converged on Vitalis’ unsuspecting back like claws…

  Part 1

  The Dead of Winter, Thracia, Early 379 AD

  Chapter 1

  Pavo closed his eyes, shutting out everything. In the unbroken blackness, he found peace for a sweet moment. But soon enough, something rose in that mind’s-eye gloom – a tiny speck of dull orange light, a beacon. He felt himself drifting towards it, or it to him. Soon he could see that it was a campfire, with two broad figures seated next to the flames. The sight pulled on his heart like an anchor.

  ‘You do not have to go there,’ a voice croaked. The crone – the one who had guided him in times past – was by his side, he realised, her sightless eyes staring ahead like his, her face gaunt and harrowed with great age. ‘They are but memories now.’

  He eyed the flickering firelight, his throat thickening. ‘Yet they must never be forgotten. That is why I must go to them.’

  She rumbled with something akin to frail laughter. ‘Aye, and that is why I walk with you. I too am drawn like a moth to a candle, you see – to steer those few with bright hearts and flay the ones who are night-black at their core. One day I hope you will be able to let these hurtful memories pass.’

  As he drew closer to the campfire, the crone faded away to let him approach alone. The two figures sitting before the gentle flames were all too clear now: Zosimus and Quadratus, the twin oaks of the XI Claudia legion. They laughed and took long draughts of soldier-wine as they tore each other’s reputation to ribbons. Zosimus recounted the time Quadratus had roused the entire garrison of a fort from sleep with one particularly rowdy series of rhythmic gastric emissions. ‘Sounded like a battering ram at the gates, I tell you,’ Zosimus roared with laughter. ‘Echoed right through the place. We had a century on the walls before we realised it was just your arse exploding!’

  ‘Hmm? Well I slept like a felled tree through it all,’ Quadratus shrugged, then shot back with a tale of Zosimus’ attempts to repair an onager for a sour-faced artillery officer. The officer had stood over Zosimus, criticising his every decision, only for the catapult to loose unexpectedly. A length of thick rope dangling from the throwing arm had shot out like a whip, striking the surly artilleryman’s testicles. ‘Nah, not my doing. Faulty locking pin,’ Zosimus claimed with an expert nod, then added with a glint in his eye: ‘Fair shut the whingeing swine up though, eh?’ They laughed in unison now. But as the pair’s merriment faded, the campfire fell low, the air chill. They looked to Pavo, their faces growing pale.

  ‘I dreamt a foul dream last night, Pavo,’ big Zosimus said.

  ‘Me too,’ agreed Quadratus, eyeing his hands. His skin seemed to be turning pale. ‘A dream in which the legions were destroyed at Adrianople… in which we both fell to a traitor’s blade. It’s not true, is it?’ the big Gaul pleaded. Now their faces were turning grey as dust.

  ‘If it is true, then my dear Rufina and little Lupia will be… alone,’ Zosimus faltered, his granite-features sagging. ‘Tell me it is not so, Pavo.’

  ‘I… I…’ Pavo started.

  He was spared when the crunch-crunch of boots rose from the surrounding blackness. A forlorn moan of a legionary war horn sounded and a vast, almost never-ending column of twilight-grey legionaries emerged from the dark, marching lockstep towards the fire. Each of them were shades, claimed by the Gothic War. Zosimus and Quadratus rose quietly, eyes growing distant and dull, to join the grey army as it passed. Pavo watched them go, then caught sight of the leader of the march. Gallus cast back a solemn, valedictory look and Pavo could not tear his eyes away… until Gallus’ pupils shrank, his lips mouthing urgently:

  Be ready, Pavo. They’re coming!

  Pavo’s eyes blinked open. At once the darkness was gone, replaced by striking white all around and a bitter, gnawing chill. Reality. The high Rhodope Mountains, blanketed in snow. The storm-bruised sky cast a twisting blizzard through the air, roused by keening, icy zephyrs that searched the high valleyside nook upon which he crouched.

  His every sense sharpened, head dipping like a hawk in sight of prey. He flexed his fingers on his spear, dark eyebrows pinched in concentration, hazel irises swelling, scouring the wintry mouth of the valley down below. Then he heard it. The din of approaching men. Not shades, and certainly not comrades.

  ‘Blood, gold, glory,’ a jagged voice roared. A song of laughter and triumph met this. And then shapes of men appeared in the squall, quickly multiplying as the approaching force spilled into the valley.

  Pavo’s top lip rose with a feral grunt and he hurled the spear. It shot through the air, fishtailing and trembling in the icy squall before thumping down into the snow of the valley floor. The six-hundred strong Gothic warband who emerged from the blizzard halted before the quivering lance, their war song suddenly muted. They looked up and around, flowing blonde locks whipping, turning spear and shield to every nook of the heights looming around them. The wintry wind whistled as if taunting them, snowflakes speeding around them, clinging onto their beards, furs and cloaks. Soon, one spotted Pavo, up on the valley’s southern slope.

  ‘A legionary,’ a Goth gasped in the gleeful tone of a hunter.

  ‘Stop,’ their moustachioed leader snarled as his man stepped towards Pavo, many others twisting to face the southern heights too. ‘He is only one man. Where there is one, there are usually more. Reiks Ortwin told us to be wary: they draw your eyes with the left hand then punch with the right. Half of you, face the north.’ The man kept his eyes carefully and smugly on Pavo as his warband broke into two halves either side of him – one facing Pavo on the southern valleyside and the other facing the northern slope. ‘What’s wrong, Roman: lost your pluck now that your ambush has failed? Reiks Ortwin is steward of these parts – of all southeastern Thracia, right up to Constantinople’s stubborn walls – by Iudex Fritigern’s ruling, and you are trespassing. Come down, turn in your weapons and Ortwin might offer you a quick death when we bring you before him.’

  Pavo glowered down at the fellow, saying nothing. The chances of him surrendering were as unlikely as the notorious Ortwin even considering mercy.

  ‘I have no time for this,’ the Gothic leader said with a shrug, calling one of his chosen archers forward. ‘Shoot him through the throat. We will take Reiks Ortwin his weapons.’

  As the Gothic archer knelt and nocked his bow, Pavo calmly reached for the ruby-red shield wedged between two rocks by his side. The Gothic arrow loosed with a whoosh, before Pavo impassively raised the shield to catch the killing strike. Sombrely, he snapped the arrow shaft from the shield face, then drew and smacked his spatha three times on the iron boss.

  Clang-clang-clang.

  The Gothic leader’s face wrinkled in bemusement, looking to the slopes either side of them as the din echoed throughout and over the storm. The man’s face lifted in a triumphant smile when the noise faded to nothing. ‘An army of one after all, it would see-’

  With a dull rumble, the snow on the valley floor – right between the two halves of the warband and right by the leader’s feet – erupted into the air. Two centuries of legionaries, led by Primus Pilus Sura, roared as they rose from low pits, throwing from their shields the light roof of covering snow which had kept them concealed, then a century each shot towards the unexpecting backs of the two Gothic halves, slicing down the smug leader in a burst of red mizzle before he even had time to scream. The two Gothic lines spun inwards on their heels to face this urgent threat, only just tossing up their own shields and spears in time to block the assault. Some of Sura’s men leapt and hurled lead-weighted plumbatae darts down into Gothic flesh at close range, before they crashed into contact
. Spear hafts thwacked, shields clattered, steel screeched and screams echoed through the valley. Quickly, the Goths’ surprise faded and the two halves of the warband pushed back, encircling Sura’s men.

  Pavo’s eyes grew wide, fixed on his oldest friend and the two brave centuries now ensnared there. ‘Rise, rise!’ he roared. Now the valley slopes came alive: on the northern side, two more centuries rose from behind natural redoubts of snow and brush, clad in torn mail and rags, bearing spears and scarred red and gold shields. Opis – the Claudia’s aquilifer – hoisted the legion’s tarnished silver eagle standard: a faded, grubby ruby bull banner hanging from its crossbar dancing in the blizzard. At the same time another century rose around Pavo.

  Pavo held his spatha high. ‘Claudia! Ad-vance!’ he cried, the words pealing through the valley like thunder, the gale furrowing his ruby cloak like a war banner.

  He loped down the slope, snow churning up in his wake, vision juddering with every stride, sword hand white on the hilt, eyes on the red spray fouling the snow around the clash below. On his left came Flaccus, an older recruit for whom today would be the first taste of combat, Flaccus had been a farmer on the Thracian plains, until the Goths had butchered his family and his animals and burnt his home. Normally timid, today Flaccus wore a snarl, tears streaming down his face as he ran.

  Pavo saw the Goths’ bearded, tattooed faces grow agape as they spotted the pincers coming for them from the opposing valley slopes. Many swung from the battle with Sura’s legionaries to face the twin charges. Pavo recognised not one of them, but his mind flashed with images of their like from that bleak, baking day outside Adrianople.