EMPIRE OF SHADES

by Gordon Doherty

  Pavo’s skin crept. ‘General Modares will lead the Gemina and the Claudia from here at dawn.’

  ‘Then pray dawn arrives speedily, Tribunus,’ Saturninus said, rising, clasping a forearm to Pavo’s. ‘Fare well. I trust my god and yours will watch over you out there against Ortwin. There are too few of our ilk left.’ The tent flap swished and he was gone.

  Pavo sat alone, the silence within his tent screaming in his ears, the darkness outside rife with threat.

  Part 2

  Into Barbaricum, Spring 379 AD

  Chapter 7

  Dawn’s pink light heralded the first day of April. Woodsmoke spiced the air as the two replenished legions of the Thracian army assembled near the turf camp’s gates, having risen and eaten a swift breakfast of bread and broth an hour ago. Pavo watched as curt cries from Libo, Trupo and Cornix marshalled the Claudia’s three cohorts into line, with the Gemina ranks taking shape likewise. Just under four thousand men altogether. The walls of Thessalonica were lined with the people of the city, watching in eager, nervous silence, word of this first retaliatory foray – the start of Theodosius’ restoration of the lost lands – having spread throughout the city wards in recent days. Looking down upon his legionaries’ backs, they would see ranks of ordered iron.

  But Pavo had the task of looking the men in the face, and he saw fear and excitement in the eyes of each. They were not yet soldiers, but they had come on a long way. Clad in white tunics and mail vests, clutching spears and bright shields and crowned with polished intercisa helms, the shark-fin-like iron crests catching the sunlight. Stichus stood proudly like the tall men either side of him, now refusing to let his scrawny build serve as an excuse for anything. Big Pulcher glanced over at the boy and beamed with pride. Even the angry Batavian three seemed to have fallen into line, Molacus and his two cronies at last accepting their new place in the army. Most encouraging of all, the standard had been revitalised – the silver eagle polished to perfection and the old frayed, faded banner replaced with a bright new one, a striking emblem of an angry bull upon it. More, the smaller banners held by each century had been restored too. This had been no command of his or Sura’s. It seemed that some of Libo’s new charges in the First Cohort had suggested it. It was as good as Pavo could have hoped for in the short few weeks he had been given to mould these men into soldiers.

  His eyes sharpened on the heart of the camp. The swirling emotions that always preceded a march were spiked by a cold pang of danger: the dark wagon by the principia was still there. His eyes flicked between the gaps in the principia tents – as a man might try to peek between the shoulders of a crowd. No sign of the black-cloaks. Where were they? A chill scampered up his spine.

  The tense spell was broken by the sound of trotting hooves. Modares, bare-chested and capped with a conical Gothic helm, rode his mare before the assembled forces: ‘We trek through the mountains,’ he barked, ‘then into Thracia. Somewhere near the Via Militaris, Reiks Ortwin and his warband roam. Nearly two spears for every one of ours. But I have watched you train, and I know each of you is worth more than two of Ortwin’s warriors.’ He held up a finger to seize the attention of them all. ‘But do not be complacent – the mountain tracks and the lower plains of Thracia hold unknown dangers. Gone from the maps for nearly a year. Unseen by scouts in that time… we do not know what lies between us and the bastard reiks we seek.’

  Many legionary faces paled.

  ‘Move out!’ Modares bawled, circling a hand overhead and turning his mare to lead them, a pair of exploratores riding either side of him clad in white tunics and trousers, felt caps and long, dark red capes.

  Pavo and Sura swung round too. ‘Claudia, ad-vance!’ both yelled, prompting Opis to hoist the silver eagle and the signiferi with each century to lift their smaller standards too. With a crunch-crunch of boots, the Claudia peeled away in Modares’ wake, the Gemina coming next. The citizens on the wall exploded in a chorus of cheering. The buccinators either side of the turf rampart’s gates tilted their heads back and emptied their lungs into their horns. The valedictory wail seemed to fill the land and echo for an age as the two legions marched outside. Pavo felt the looming cloud of danger fall away behind him. Gone from the turf camp, gone from the shade-like Speculatores.

  For nine days they marched northeast towards Macedonia’s upper border, firstly along the Via Egnatia, through clement sunshine that stoked their thirsts and fresh rain showers which cast up the scent of damp earth and wet grass. The ambulatum sessions stood the new legionaries in good stead as they marched in time and complained little. Equally, they made strong, rampart-encased camps every night and were ready to move again at the first light of dawn each day. On the seventh day they came to the bridge over the River Hebrus and turned due north, along the spring-swollen river’s grassy banks before peeling away to weave through the northwestern stretch of the Rhodopes – a shortcut of high paths and winding mountain routes that would lead them into troubled Thracia… and towards Reiks Ortwin’s last known location.

  Pavo noticed an odd thing as they marched through those heights: the mountains – long-known for their ability to trick a man’s ears with the echoes of his own footsteps – seemed especially playful now that he had been away from them for a time: for as Modares and the two exploratores rode, the clop-clop of hooves bounced around the stony heights as if a turma of riders were with them. With them then ahead of them, then riding beside them. And sometimes it sounded as if the phantom hooves were behind them. As they walked along a particularly high mountain track, he thought for a moment he could hear the odd noise again, but a breeze whistled around them and stole the moment away. Then Sura elbowed him, scattering his thoughts completely.

  The primus pilus was chewing a piece of root and eyeing Modares, who rode ahead. ‘You trust him?’ Sura said in little more than a whisper.

  Pavo watched the backs of Modares’ ears for signs of him listening in. ‘He’s Theodosius’ chosen man. So the question is: do I trust the emperor?’

  ‘That’s not an answer,’ Sura replied.

  Pavo peered at the hazy northern horizon where the mountains met the sky with a ragged edge. ‘What do we know about Theodosius? Even less than we do of our Gothic general.’

  ‘In the harbour tavern last night, some of the IV Flavia lads were talking,’ Sura said. ‘They said that Theodosius’ father was once Gratian’s loyal servant.’

  Pavo’s eyes narrowed. Gratian’s puppet indeed.

  ‘Until Gratian had him beheaded,’ Sura added.

  Pavo blinked. ‘Why would Theodosius gladly be leashed by his father’s murderer?’

  Sura shrugged. ‘For the riches it might bring. To prove his loyalty to Gratian and save his own neck. Or perhaps… perhaps he had a hand in his father’s demise?’

  Pavo felt the whistling wind search inside his armour now. ‘So how do we know what we are doing is right, Sura? Where do we find the answers?’

  ‘Ahead. Onwards. As always,’ Sura laughed mirthlessly. ‘And if we need help, I hear there are a few good clues at the bottom of our wine skins.’

  The following afternoon, they poured around a high track and found that the right side of the route fell away sharply. The march slowed as they gazed down into the hollowed out remains of an abandoned marble quarry – like a crudely hewn amphitheatre, open to the north. Modares raised a hand and the column fell to a halt.

  Down on the quarry floor many tools lay strewn – cast away in haste. And a single, bleached white skeleton was propped by a well, rags of goatskin clothing clinging to the ribs, flitting in the breeze, a puncture wound in the forehead. One of last summer’s many victims. The wind soughed like a tired old man as Pavo shielded his eyes from the sun and gazed north. The mountains fell away here and the endless Thracian plains lay ahead.

  ‘The light is still good for a few more hours,’ Modares muttered to himself, torn between marching out onto the plains or staying here.

  ‘We should halt here, make camp
and then continue onto the flatlands tomorrow,’ Pavo advised. ‘This quarry makes for an excellent, sheltered camp. Out there we will have to dig a full rampart and our fires will be seen for miles. Ortwin may be closer than we think.’

  The Goth gave Pavo an appraising look before agreeing with a curt nod. The standards were raised to guide the column down into the quarry and men were posted along the high edge like sentries on a battlement. Centurion Libo directed the Claudia’s First Cohort to the open mouth of the quarry, where men of the Gemina were marking out and digging what would become a short stretch of palisade defence.

  Pavo helped pull up the principia tent that he, Modares and the Gemina Tribunus would convene in shortly. As he did so, he heard the clop-clop of hooves again, from somewhere in the heights. He looked up, wondering where Modares had sent the exploratores to. It was a sound move: if these far-ranging scout horsemen could ride back up into the heights and sight Reiks Ortwin’s night fires by darkness, then come morning, the legions could make haste to intercept him. But the train of thought halted there… for both of the exploratores were here, standing by a fire, drinking warmed wine and laughing at Herma’s wild impression in which he used the buccina as a comedy appendage. And the two scouts’ horses were tethered nearby, as was Modares’ mare. Pavo’s hearing grew keen: nothing, just the babble of soldiers and the clanking of cooking pots as the men set about preparing an evening meal. Certainly no hooves. Had he imagined it?

  ‘Sir, may I?’ he asked Modares, gesturing towards the Magister Militum’s black mare.

  ‘Ride, now? Not hungry?’ Modares frowned.

  ‘I…’ Pavo started, feeling more and more foolish about the imagined hooves with each passing moment, ‘Dusk is almost upon us. I always feel safer knowing I’ve put my eyes around the land before darkness falls.’

  ‘Whatever helps you relax,’ Modares laughed, popping a cork on his wine skin and wandering over to the fire to watch Herma making an utter fool of himself.

  Pavo cantered back uphill on the broad, muscular mare, noticing that the reek he had associated with Modares’ horse was absent and it was in fact the Magister Militum who carried the stench. Up he went as darkness closed in, rounding the quarry’s high sides, taking salutes from the sentries up there as he went. He slowed at the last man.

  ‘Durio,’ he asked the young fiery-haired sentry, who straightened in pride at his tribunus’ use of his name. ‘Have you heard anything tonight?’

  Durio’s brow knitted, then he jabbed a thumb over his shoulder, down at the quarry floor. ‘Just Herma trying to explain that he has a big cock, but that it’s not shaped like a buccina.’

  ‘Anything else?’ Pavo cut him off curtly.

  Rebuked, Durio’s eyes darted as he searched his memory before he shrugged. ‘Nothing.’

  Pavo looked up and past him, to the rising mountain path. ‘Keep your ears to the ground.’

  He rode on and up until the dull orange glow and echoing chatter from the quarry below became masked by the mountains and the track became faded from lack of use, the mare sliding and stumbling in places. The sky was nearly black now, and he cursed himself when he saw the meagre light cast by the waxing moon wasn’t enough to illuminate his route back down clearly. He was just about to turn around when he heard it again.

  Clop-clop… then silence.

  ‘Who’s out there?’ he growled. His voice echoed across the rocky heights. No reply. Pavo leaned forward on the saddle, stroking the mare’s mane to steady her breathing so he could hear everything, his eyes like a hawk’s combing the darkness. Then he heard it: the merest scrape of rock. His head snapped up to his right, where a crag of rock rose, a shade darker than the night sky with the crescent moon hanging above it. He heeled the mare into a trot, rising round the rocky crag. Atop it, he found nothing, just a small, flat apex and a cluster of dark boulders. But the view of the Thracian plains to the north was incredible. The sea of stars ended where the sky met the northern horizon, and out there on the blackness of the land he saw something, like a star that had fallen. A faint twinkle of light. Firelight. ‘Ortwin!’ he gasped, then squeezed his mare’s flanks, cajoling her into a canter back downhill.

  The sound of hooves faded, and the top of the crag lay silent and still. Until one of the shadowy boulders uncoiled like a rising snake, growing into the form of a man. It stepped forward to the edge of the rocky crag, dark cloak rippling in the night breeze, hooded head slowly shifting to follow the descent of the riding tribunus.

  Reiks Ortwin clasped the Roman woman’s waist and pulled her to him, then spun around, taking her with him in a frantic dance across the green, his fair, braided locks swinging, her tears shooting in every direction. ‘Rejoice!’ he roared to the Governor of Castra Rubra, kneeling and bound nearby. ‘You have paid your dues by handing your wife over to me, Lord of the Red Fort!’ He halted to guzzle on a cup of neat wine, beads of which shot down his grease-stained beard. He tore the gown from the woman, eliciting a rowdy roar from his six-thousand strong Gothic warband seated like an audience on the banking of a crescent-shaped knoll overlooking the green. ‘And tonight, she will pay her dues to all of my men!’ Another cheer.

  Ortwin roughly groped her breasts then threw her back. She landed heavily and near the huge fire upon which one of her son’s bodies was now but a charred shape lashed to a stake. Her second son hung from an oak branch near the meandering stream that hugged the scene, his eyes and tongue bulging, legs still twitching in the last spasms of life, urine and excrement dripping from the ends of his toes. As his men dragged the Roman woman away, Ortwin strode over to the governor, reaching down to tilt the man’s head up with one finger. ‘You… hic… never learn, you Romans, do you?’ He swung, almost losing his balance, to jab a finger across the green towards the broken gates and low red walls of Castra Rubra. ‘When Fritigern broke those gates last year, he bade you never to rebuild them.’

  The governor, face stained with dirt and soot, streaked clean in places by tears, looked up at Ortwin. ‘When Fritigern broke the gates, he offered every person within the chance to join his horde or to relinquish their arms and walk away.’ He halted, his voice cracking. ‘I asked him if my family could stay. We brokered a deal with him. We would work the lands here and offer him a regular tribute. We rebuilt simple gates only so we could corral our animals within. This,’ he wept, looking at his wife, now being defiled by a warrior with several more waiting to have their turn, ‘spits in the eye of Fritigern.’

  Ortwin pulled a face as if talking to a baby. ‘Fritigern is not here, I’m afraid. I am his hand. I rule these lands.’

  ‘But my sons,’ the governor’s voice thickened until he could speak no more, deep, wet sobs coming in a cascade.

  Ortwin’s face widened in amusement. ‘Your sons?’ he roared with laughter, casting a hand to the fire and then the tree. ‘They don’t have much to say for themselves now, do they?’

  The sound of the man’s wife screaming as men rutted on top of her was ended by a strong-armed slap, after which only her whimpering could be heard, along with the animal grunts of the men raping her.

  The governor closed his eyes and began reciting. ‘Mithras, God of the Light, stand with me now, give me courage…’

  ‘Ah, a prayer to the god of the border legions?’ Ortwin cackled. ‘That will do you no good. The border legions are gone. They are dust.’

  The governor finished his prayer, before looking up again. This time, his eyes were dry, resigned. ‘You have done nothing but wicked things in your life, Ortwin. May the great bull-slayer curse you, and set the demons of your past upon you.’

  Ortwin, swaying where he stood, gazed at the fellow, then issued a lazy, snorting half-laugh through his nostrils. ‘I’m bored with you,’ he said before drawing his dagger and casually running it across the man’s chin. Black blood sheeted from the governor’s throat in bursts before Ortwin kicked him over.

  He swaggered over to the governor’s wife, shoving men from the queu
e and hoisting away the one gyrating on her presently. ‘Your husband might be a little cold in bed tonight. But do not worry,’ he laughed as he fell upon her, ‘for I will keep you warm.’

  The night wore on with a chorus of grunting and whimpering before it all faded into a wine-soaked oblivion.

  Ortwin basked in the throes of a depraved dream. The governor’s wife begging him to ease his enormous weight upon her and drive into her again. With glee he knelt over her, readying to lower himself down. But as he opened his mouth to clamp it over hers, her face changed… into that of a screeching, maddened cockerel.

  He sat up with a start as the crowing of a dawn-bird echoed shrilly across the meandering stream. He blinked through bleary eyes, seeing the sky was still black – just a navy band and a hint of pale pink showing in the east above the crescent knoll running along the stream’s edge. ‘It’s not even properly dawn,’ Ortwin hissed through gummy lips. The pedantic cockerel crowed again. Ortwin caught sight of the creature and crafted ideas of ripping its head from its body, only for a crushing pain to engulf his head – like a heated iron helmet strapped on way too tight. Boom-boom-boom thumped his head like the battering ram that had shredded Castra Rubra’s gates.

  ‘Damned Roman wine,’ he croaked, standing and booting the now empty barrel. Most of his warband were still prone, strewn around the green, snoring and shuffling. Only a few were awake. He saw the corpse of the governor’s wife, drenched in her own blood and not half as pretty as she had seemed last night. ‘Pah - at least she served her purpose.’

  He staggered towards the stream, his thirst of paramount importance. He knelt, lashing the icy-cool water across his face and into his mouth. It was like a salve. He saw in the rippling reflection a kinsman on horseback standing on the stream’s opposite banks. Instantly, he was angered, even though the man was showing some initiative.