EMPIRE OF SHADES

by Gordon Doherty

Later that day Alatheus and Saphrax stood together atop a knoll, watching as the Gothic multitude peeled apart. As expected, the majority of the Greuthingi chose to follow the Black Horde. The horsemen – native Goths, Alans and even a smattering of Hunnic riders – pelted to and fro in packs like swooping starlings, holding spears high, calling out to the gods. Meanwhile, a sea of infantry supported them by beating chests and drumming swords against shields. The families, wagons and pack mules of the Black Horde spread out almost to the horizon.

  ‘Seven thousand riders,’ Alatheus enthused. ‘Fifteen thousand spearmen and four thousand chosen archers. Ours.’

  Saphrax seemed unimpressed. ‘Yet five thousand riders and twenty thousand infantrymen opted to follow him,’ he grumbled, watching the blue hawk banner rise and bob as the Sons of Fritigern ambled away to the south. A wail of horns sounded, and amidst the sea of warriors and families, Fritigern rode, waving his people on, halting only to glare back at those who had chosen to go with the Black Horde.

  ‘Forget them. Comrades, some might say, but not I,’ Alatheus replied. ‘Think only of Dacia,’ he pointed to the western horizon, bare, gently roiling in the heat. ‘We will pluck those towns apart one by one, shatter whatever scant garrisons we come across, swell our ranks and encase our men in steel.’

  ‘And load our wagons with bounty,’ Saphrax added.

  Alatheus shook his head. ‘The riches of Dacia are nothing.’

  Saphrax shot him a dark look. ‘What?’

  ‘It is the coffers of the Western Emperor that will coat our paths with gold. Dacia is pressed against the borders of Pannonia, Gratian’s territory. We have been given the gateway to the Western Empire.’

  Saphrax laughed slowly now, understanding. ‘And the bastard owes us a hefty debt.’

  Alatheus’ mind burned with memories of all he and Saphrax had been promised. To deceive Fritigern and Valens before the Battle of Adrianople, then to spring their Greuthingi riders from nowhere, fall upon the Roman lines, scupper any hopes of truce and ensure Valens’ defeat. That had been Gratian’s demand. Riches, recognition as the true leaders of the Gothic people, a life of triumph and glory, the Western Emperor had promised in return. In fact, they had been given nothing, heard nothing. They had been used.

  Alatheus hoisted his staff, the black banner atop it shuddering in a sudden, warm breeze. ‘Turn west,’ he cried, his voice echoing across the flatland. The sea of faces swung to him, eyes bright with the prospect of fresh plunder. He strode down the knoll to mount his horse, then swished the banner forward. ‘To Dacia,’ he boomed.

  Joyous cries filled the land, as the Black Horde rumbled into life.

  Chapter 9

  For ten days the First Cohort of the Claudia moved across Thracia like an iron creature. They took the old roads that once they had helped patrol and keep in good repair. They passed skeletal, deserted, fire-blackened towns and farmsteads. After a time they rose through the Haemus Mountains via the Kotel Pass and eventually descended into Moesia, Thracia’s most northerly province and one-time home of the XI Claudia.

  They cut across a tract of wildly-overgrown, untended croplands that stretched from horizon to horizon. Pavo stepped across the skeleton of a boy and a dog, huddled together in one such golden field. The sight was like a lance – a lance that might have pierced the heart of a man not used to the sights of war.

  The land was no longer infested with occupying Goths: in fact, with Reiks Ortwin’s warband despatched, the place was naught but a colossal grave. Silent, lonely and desolate. So when they heard a strange, distant, other-worldly whoop, every man and boy in the cohort’s ranks braced, slowed and proceeded with their spears levelled. Every twitch of long grass and every darting sparrow had men swinging round to the noise. They came to the foot of a golden hummock when the whoop sounded again. Distant still but closer than before.

  Pavo stilled the men with a raised hand, then he and Sura scuttled up the hummock and lay on their bellies, peering north across the golden sea of stalks. A familiar sight greeted them: the mighty River Danubius, three miles or so ahead, stretched out before them like a dark green ribbon. The strident churn of its waters – so long since they had heard such – reminded both men of lost days. Sura nudged Pavo then: ‘There it is, Novae!’

  Pavo’s eyes flicked to the grey-walled fortress – one time home of their sister legion, the I Italica – perched on the eastern end of a long, narrow ridge and overhanging the river’s southern banks. It had once been a majestic keystone of the Danubian defence system. Now, it was a sorry sight. Green-grey lichen had almost covered the walls, and stark, black cracks ran from base to parapet in places. The gatehouse on this side had been bricked up – an emergency measure from the time of the Gothic revolt, no doubt – but one corner tower had fallen and lay in a heap of rubble, presenting an unintended alternative way in. ‘See anything?’ he asked Sura.

  ‘Not a thing,’ Sura replied. ‘But I want to know where that whooping call came from before we move again.’

  ‘It was from beyond the river, Tribunus,’ a sibilant voice spoke between them, drawing out the s like a hissing asp. Pavo almost leapt from his armour but caught his fright just in time. He twisted his head a fraction to see the dark, hooded Scapula, lying between them having wriggled up the hummock like a snake.

  ‘I told you to stay at the back of the column,’ Pavo spat.

  ‘And ride there I did, Tribunus,’ he said in that soft, breathy voice. ‘I came to you only to offer my thoughts on this place. Trust my careful eye – there is no danger in the fort… but plenty beyond the river.’

  ‘Heard. Understood. Now, back!’ Pavo snapped.

  Scapula melted away back down the hummock, just as the whoop came again: right enough, from somewhere in the thick, dark pine woods across the Danubius.

  Darkness fell as they drew close to Novae’s walls. They entered the fortress by climbing over the rubble of the fallen tower, quietly regarding the many scattered spears, toppled barrels and smashed crates that told of the place’s hurried evacuation. Their boots crunched on crystals of shattered, strewn glass as they passed a small ward near one edge of the fort that had once housed glass workshops. Pavo, Sura, Libo and Rectus strode across the grounds and up the stone steps at the north-facing side. Up there, the river song hit them in full. The four said nothing for a moment, each gazing down into the dark green, swirling currents and recalling when this had been their limes, the border they had been sworn to protect. Familiar musty smells of lichen-clad rock rose from down below where the fort’s foundations disappeared into in the shallows. Owls and other night birds hooted and squawked from the thick oak, pine and fir forests lining the far side. Somewhere in there waited Arimer and his Goths… and whatever else.

  ‘We cross at dawn,’ Pavo said.

  ‘Good. Those bastards over there owe me an eye,’ Libo said with a growl through his foul teeth, smoothing back his wild hair.

  ‘If we can get across there and back with our balls intact, we’ll have done well,’ Sura mused.

  ‘I’ll see if I can find any spare acetum and bandages in this place,’ Rectus remarked wryly.

  Pavo beheld the foaming section of the river immediately before the fort. ‘That’s where we’ll cross,’ he said. ‘The shallowest section of the river in these parts. The waters are swollen from the spring rains, but if we can get a rope over to the north banks, the men will be able to pull themselves across.’

  They set up camp within Novae’s walls. Soon they sat to enjoy a meal of broth and bread, the orange light of small campfires uplighting the fort’s inner walls, their mute chatter like an echo of past and greater times. One by one, the fires were extinguished and the night watch got underway. Pavo stayed up to walk the river wall with the sentries for a while, watching the woods on the other side moodily.

  When he flopped down on his bed roll some time later, he was sure he would not sleep at all. But the endless march had been hard on body and mind, and he found his tho
ughts spinning away on the whispers of long-lost days, of strange half-memories. Yet when his dreams came, they told an even stranger story.

  He found himself standing on a high precipice, the crone by his side. Beyond the drop was a land of green woods and dells. ‘For once you show me a vision of tranquillity,’ he said dryly

  ‘And that is when a man should be most alert,’ she replied softly, then pointed down over the precipice. ‘Watch, see as I have seen.’

  Pavo sank to one knee, peering down like a god, as a goose shambled across a lush, sunken meadow near the bottom of the drop. The poor bird had injured a leg and could hardly walk let alone take flight. It had ample water, thanks to a small tarn at one end of the meadow. The grass was not nourishment enough for the creature, but the steep up-sloping banking edging the meadow meant the goose was penned there, unable to climb up to chew at the roots and wild wheat just above and out of reach. Time passed and the goose grew scrawny and weak, it’s forlorn eyes searching the sky as if hoping help might come from there. ‘Help me,’ the goose said meekly, ‘help me to live as a goose should.’

  Then Pavo heard a soft padding of paws. An emaciated wolf prowled through the wild wheat to look down upon the sunken meadow. The stalks parted and the wolf’s dark, malign face beheld the stricken goose. The bird, weak and frightened, honked and flapped its wings to no avail, lumbering backwards as the wolf pounced down into the meadow and stalked towards it. But when the wolf cornered the goose, it dropped from its mouth a bundle of wheat stalks, then walked away, climbing the banking to vanish again. The goose ate, relieved and perplexed at the same time. Pavo watched for what felt like an eternity, the sun streaking overhead then the moon, again and again. Every day the wolf would return, feeding the goose roots and wheat. After a time, the goose grew hale and plump, its broken leg having fused together again.

  ‘Thank you,’ the goose said to the wolf when it returned the next day, ‘for now I can fly again, find my skein and live as a goose should.’

  The wolf watched as the goose hobbled along the grass, beating its wings. ‘No, thank you,’ the wolf replied as the goose’s weight thwarted its attempts at taking off, ‘for eating the food I brought you, for growing fat…’ it prowled forward, tongue lashing over its fangs, ‘and for allowing me to live as a wolf should.’

  Pavo sat bolt upright, sweat lashing his face. His head shot around the fort’s high, dark walls as the dream-sounds of gnashing, of ripping flesh, faded in his ears. All around him were asleep. The watchmen on the parapet were strolling and observing the country outside vigilantly. But his eyes fell to the dull afterglow of one campfire – the coals mostly grey, winking orange. Crouched by it was Scapula, hood raised, glaring at his hands, held taut as if tightening an imaginary rope… as if strangling a victim.

  Pavo heard the man’s barest whispers, the sound chilling him to his marrow: ‘Kill him… kill him!’

  One ember in the fire snapped and glowed just a fraction. The speculator’s hands fell slack and his hooded head rose. The momentary light from the ember picked out the man’s eyes. All soldiers knew the darkness played tricks, but Pavo was sure the man was staring across the carpet of sleeping bodies… right at him.

  Come dawn, Pavo found himself midriver, lying face-first on his shield, using it and a pair of inflated drinking skins as floats, with his mail shirt and helm wrapped in an oiled leather bag strapped to his back. The water foamed and thrashed over his shield, the currents punishingly cold and sparring at his body like a squat boxer trying to knock him over into the deep – and he had seen many men perish in the Danubius’ unforgiving flows.

  Painstakingly, he kicked with his legs and drew himself across the river by pulling on the rope rail set up by Opis and Libo earlier. At last he clambered onto the north bank – a suffocatingly narrow and steep strip of mud, leading sharply up to a mesh of gnarled tree roots and branches jutting from the dense woods ahead. At once, he set about pulling on his mail shirt, buckling it up on the left and then tying on his helm. He turned to face the water to see the rest of the cohort slowly working their way across in the same way. Scapula waited on the far bank, content to come across last. Pavo eyed the shaded face within the hood, and wondered if the speculator was staring back at him just like that strange moment last night.

  He was distracted by Libo, a few strides away to his left on this northern bank, wrestling with a tentacle of prickly gorse that had wrapped itself around his head like a wreath, tangled in his unruly hair. ‘Bloody bushes… bloody Gothic bushes!’

  Sura, standing nearby, emitted a short, barking laugh: ‘There was a Gothic woman I met in Durostorum once.’ He blew a breath through his lips causing them to flap, eyes wide. ‘I nearly got tangled in her bush. Absolutely massive, it wa-’

  ‘Sura!’ Pavo gasped in incredulity, palms upturned, gesturing to the dense, strange woods towering over them.

  ‘Ah, aye,’ Sura coughed. ‘I’ll tell you about her later. Right, First Century, form up!’ he said firmly but quietly enough that any ears in the forest would not hear. A line of one hundred and sixty men quickly formed, armour on and shields and spears at the ready, forming a bridgehead as best they could in such cramped conditions.

  Pavo eyed the dark lair within the trees for a time, the sharp scent of pine wafting from within. There was only one true track, but it had been part-consumed by nature – yet it would have to be the way. His eyes were suspicious of every shaking branch, his ears doubting every crack of bracken. Then, as if a whisper had escaped those depths and stolen round behind him, a voice spoke right at his ear. ‘If we head north along that route, then we will find this Arimer.’

  Pavo swung to see Scapula, dark robes sopping wet, now on this side of the river and right by his shoulder. ‘For the love of Mithras, man, do you have to do that?’

  Scapula seemed taken aback and stepped away, his grey mouth twitching a little. ‘I am a shadow, I move like a breath of wind, but… as you wish.’

  Pavo beheld the now fully-assembled cohort, meeting the eyes of each man, seeing how each looked beyond him with awe and fear-struck eyes at the woods. ‘Before us waits a foreign land. Within it lies great danger. But I have walked these lands before, your Primus Pilus too,’ he nodded to Sura, then to Libo and Rectus, ‘and the longest-serving amongst us. Stick to your training, stay close to your comrades, follow our every step and every command, and you will emerge from these woods as heroes… saviours too, when we find Arimer and his Goths.’

  A fair few of them straightened, teeth grinding in determination. Young Stichus nudged the equally young soldiers either side of his and muttered words of encouragement to them. Pavo’s heart swelled at the sight, while his face remained granite-hard. For that moment, he ached for the days when he was in the ranks with Gallus leading them. He dropped his voice to little more than a whisper. ‘Claudia, ad-vance!’

  They cut into the woods, making good time, to a chorus of snapping twigs and muted gasps of pain as branches thwacked men in the face and feet slipped on the uneven carpet of roots, shed needles, leaves and soft earth. With a light pitter-patter, a warm spring rain fell around them, running in gentle rivulets from leaves, the tepid water finding its way inside collars. Stale, musty odours rose as the forest floor grew damp. A thin mist wafted around their feet as they drew in to the penetralia of the woods. Pavo’s senses grew sharper, like a new blade. There was nothing to substantiate it but he was sure they were being watched. Every so often, he would shoot a furtive glance over his shoulder and check Scapula’s position. Still lurking some way back.

  Noon – as best as Pavo could guess given the low light in the woods – saw them reach a section where the trees were thinner. And it was here Pavo heard a single, sharp whoop – just as they had heard the previous day. He raised a hand and dropped to his haunches. ‘Wait here,’ he said to the ranks. ‘Sura – with me.’

  The pair stole ahead, in the direction of the noise which seemed to be coming from a clearing. Between the tree
s, archways of pale light presented themselves as possible ways to approach. Pavo silently beckoned Sura, sticking to the shadier spots for cover until they came to a fallen log, seeing a glade beyond. Empty. The warm drizzle fell in a gentle hiss. Then… thunder.

  Hooves, Pavo mouthed as the far side of the glade shuddered and then spat forth a hurtling rider. ‘Whoop!’ the Hun cried, swinging some odd form of lasso above his head. The rider’s face was hard and flat, the skin sallow, each cheek marked with three scar-slits, his torso and legs clad in animal hide as if it was his own skin, his thighs hugging his squat, sturdy pony as if sewn to the mount. His thin moustache drooped down the sides of his mouth like his night-black, chest-length hair, and his almond eyes were alive with some form of triumph.

  Just an instant before his eyes snapped onto Pavo and Sura, the pair dropped into a crouch behind the log, quickly tearing off their helms lest they catch the dim light. The Hun wheeled round to slow in the glade. Pavo gulped despite his mouth being dry as sand. It had been some time since he had set his eyes upon a raw Hun warrior – the handfuls who had trickled over the Danubius to serve Fritigern now dressed as Goths or Romans, taking the edge off of their frightful appearance.

  ‘Whoop!’ the rider called again, and the lasso burred in the air as it swung. Pavo edged up from his haunches just enough to see what it was: a severed head – a Gothic head – held by the topknot. The dead man’s face gawped, jaw hanging slack and tongue lolling, eyes rolled up in his head. Then, more thunder, more hooves. Another six Hun riders emerged into the glade, chattering in their sharp and strange tongue. The six turned to the north, jabbering on, pointing that way, backs turned on Pavo and Sura.

  Eyeing the nightmarish severed head, Sura whispered: ‘Arimer’s man?’

  Pavo nodded once in agreement.

  With a shuffle and snort, the Huns in the glade melted back into the woods, towards the north.