‘You have a hunter’s eye,’ Runa remarked, seeing it too.
‘We post a few men… er, people, there by the cleft, then the rest drive the deer towards it,’ Pavo confirmed.
‘Then come, Roman,’ she said, ‘we will plug that cleft and the rest of you wait on my call then rush the deer towards us.’
Libo managed to whisper in Pavo’s ear. ‘Aye, sir, you go and help fill her gap for her.’
But Runa heard, and cast back: ‘I saw you getting changed this morning. Suddenly I could not help but think of a field mouse. A tiny field mouse.’
Libo’s face fell as Pavo and Runa set off.
Scuttling, they moved in a wide arc through the tall grass until they came round onto the hills with the cleft, the deer grazing between them and their hunting comrades. Runa crouched on one side of the cleft in the hills, Pavo on the other, like a pair of gate sentries. ‘Ready?’ she said, her face now deviously playful as the thrill of the hunt took over.
Pavo took up his spear like a javelin. ‘Aye.’
Runa put her hands to her lips and issued her trilling bird noise. From across the grassy flat, Siward and the other legionaries rose to their full height, throwing their arms aloft, yelping and running through the tall stalks in a line like the teeth of a giant comb towards the deer. The deer started, then turned and bolted toward the cleft.
Pavo winked and readied his feet, lifting his lance, free hand extended forwards for balance. He saw Runa ready likewise. Still mildly irked by her derogatory comments about his hunting skills earlier, he decided to take the lead. ‘Loose!’ he cried. But just as his shoulder muscles bunched to throw, the deer veered suddenly left, to the south, cutting across the grass and scrambling up the steep hill there.
‘They saw or caught scent of us?’ Runa gasped, her spear grip slackening like her face.
Pavo felt a sudden quiver underfoot. ‘No, they detected another predator,’ his head swung to the north, ‘coming from there.’
The end of his sentence was trampled over by a muffled rumble, then an explosion of thundering hooves filled the air as a band of Hun riders burst into view over the northern end of the hills. Strips of goatskin flapped, dust rising from them, lassos spun, inhuman cries split the air. ‘Whoop! Whoop!’ they cried.
‘Get down!’ Pavo roared, seeing Runa’s face, knowing terror had her. He leapt for her as if in a fist fight, his shoulder crashing into her midriff, throwing both of them from the hillside and into the tall grass. They crunched onto the ground, stalks snapping and swaying. The thunder of the riders grew deafening, and Pavo wondered if the Huns were about to ride right over the pair of them, dash their brains out unwittingly. But the thunder sped past, then grew again. ‘They’re circling,’ Pavo whispered, ‘they know we’re here.’ Only now he realised he lay atop Runa, pinning her where he had thrown her. He felt the rise and fall of her chest, the hotness of her panicked breath on the side of his face. The Hun hooves slowed, very close by.
‘There were nine of them at least,’ Runa whispered, ‘we cannot hope to take them on. I have seen what they do to men… I have seen how they desecrate bodies… I have seen-’
Pavo put a finger to her rosebud lips, stilling her words, looking her in the eye. Her rapid heart slowed and her breath too. His eyes rolled round to the dark shape that moved right beside and just above them like a cloud. The Hun’s pony stamped a few times and came to a halt, its hooves a pace from Pavo’s leg, coils of vapour rising from its muscled flanks as the sun baked its sweat away. The rider was oblivious to the pair’s presence on the ground as he swept his gaze over the middle distance. The stink of the unwashed man and horse hit them like a wall, and then came a reek far worse. Pavo quickly saw the source: a pair of days-old Gothic heads hung from the fellow’s saddle, tied there by the hair and locked in a lifeless scream. Flies buzzed around the grey flesh and the clotted tendrils that dangled from the neck. In his mind’s eye the heads transformed into his and Runa’s. Runa’s head rose a fraction as if to look at the rider, and Pavo knew he could not let her see the heads of her kin. He pulled her closer, pushing her face into the nape of his neck, hugging her, his mind conjuring images of dear, sweet, Felicia. He had not been there to protect her. I’ve got you. I won’t let them hurt you, he mouthed.
Breath stilled, Pavo watched the Hun carefully from the corner of one eye. The rider rested his short bow on his thigh, lifted a tattered drinking skin to his lips and drank, almond eyes combing the grass, snub nose wrinkled in bloodlust, yellow skin beaded with sweat. He realised something about the man then, something that struck a cold lance into his breast. There was a hard leather helm roped near his saddle, adorned with a limp, long plume like a horse’s tail. A battle helm. This rider was no hunter…
From nearby, a jagged shout caught the rider’s attention. The rider shrugged and shouted something back then, with a growl, jabbed his heels sharply into his pony’s flanks and he was off. After a brief commotion and a few more baleful shouts, the thunder of hooves died and this time did not return.
Pavo and Runa remained like that, in a fearful embrace, for some time. It was well-past midday when they dared to rise, the sun high in the sky. Pavo swept his gaze around the meadow. No Huns. No sign of his comrades or Siward either, though. He thought of the commotion as the Huns had left: had they found the others? Mithras, no! he mouthed.
But then a gentle bird noise sounded from the nearby trees. Sura, Libo, Opis, Stichus and Siward, beckoning them with relieved and wide eyes.
That night, Pavo ate ravenously, the effort of the hunt and the energy consumed by fear driving him on to devour more and more. The Gothic beer slid down his throat like honey, washing down the juicy hare meat and soothing his aches and pains, and the great fire roared and crackled, warming his skin. Nearby, Opis arm-wrestled with Stichus in something of a one-sided contest. Some of the Goths were placing bets on this, their gemstones on Opis but their supporting cheers for poor Stichus. Perhaps it was the shared danger of the hunt, the proximity of danger when the Huns almost had them… but tonight felt different. It felt as if they belonged: it had been a sound move to go on the hunt after all, he realised. And he heard many of the Gothic people talking excitedly about the journey south that waited on them: some telling tales of the new, green-gold home that awaited them. At that moment, he caught Runa’s eye. She was sitting some way away at a smaller fire. She looked away almost instantly. Pavo felt a twinge inside – like a lyre player plucking a sweet note. He let himself imagine her in his arms once more, then shook his head, held up his beer cup and beheld it with a wry grin. ‘Damned beer: more trouble than you’re worth,’ he chuckled to himself and made to take another deep draught, when he caught sight of Scapula, standing back from the fire, almost blending into the night. The humour faded from him, sobriety rushed back and his face hardened.
‘I don’t know who you are most guarded around: the hooded snake, or me?’ Eriulf said, settling by his side.
Pavo laughed the comment off.
‘He is not part of your legion, is he?’
Pavo sipped at his beer. ‘He is a speculator. An agent and an assassin… a living shade.’
‘Here – why?’ Eriulf straightened up.
‘I know that look,’ Pavo half-smiled. ‘He is not here to cause harm to you, of that I am sure.’
‘Dragging untrustworthy cutthroats along with your soldiers? You Romans are a strange people,’ Eriulf chuckled guardedly. ‘Still, I hear you hunt well.’
Pavo sighed, the chilling realisation from earlier in the day rushing back to him. This was the first chance he had had to be with Eriulf, alone, with nobody else in earshot. ‘Runa told you we nearly clashed with the Huns?’
‘Aye, another hunting party, so many of them out in those woods and meadows now,’ Eriulf said wearily.
Pavo affixed him with a stony look. ‘They were no hunters. They wore toughened hide armour, helms, axes, swords and lassos in their belts. They were warriors. I have seen thei
r like before, in Bosporus when they moved as an army, and near the Carpates in the year they drove Fritigern across the river and into the empire.’
Eriulf’s face lengthened. He looked out into the night, over the forest below. ‘A vanguard?’
‘I don’t think so,’ Pavo said as calmly as he could. ‘If it was a vanguard then the host entire would be less than a day or so behind. But we have seen no sign of masses on the move. They were probably just wide-ranging scouts.’ He sighed, knowing he could not sweeten the truth. ‘But where scouts tread, the vanguard and the host often follows. How soon? Weeks, months, perhaps?’
Eriulf cricked his neck one way and then the other, then stoked the embers near his feet with a twig. ‘Safety shrinks the longer we stay here. Perhaps we could cross the river now if we were to put our minds to it.’
Pavo looked Eriulf firmly in the eye. ‘The danger of doing so now would be as great as facing the Huns. I was there when Fritigern crossed during high winter waters. Many used our pontoon bridge, but many more tried to swim and use crude rafts. Bodies lined the banks for weeks afterwards. You want your people to enter the empire as allies, safely. So we must wait for late summer.’
‘You underestimate us,’ he said. ‘Our people are hardy – hardier than Fritigern and his Thervingi. Our women too are strong,’ Eriulf continued, gesturing furtively in Runa’s direction. ‘As you have noticed.’
Pavo feigned indifference.
Eriulf laughed a flat, weary laugh. ‘And our gods are too.’ He wrapped an arm around Pavo’s shoulders. ‘Pray to your gods and we will pray to ours that the river drops before the Hunnic host arrives in these parts. My people mean everything to me, Tribunus.’
Pavo nodded once, the weight of mountains on his shoulders.
Stichus thrashed in his bed roll, black memories of Senator Fabillus’ abuses bruising him afresh as nightmares. Pulcher had been there most days to distract or dissuade the lecherous senator, but on the days Fabillus had made sure to despatch his bodyguard on some errand or other, there had been no respite. He sat upright with a gasp for air, shaking, shivering despite the heat gathered under his woollen blanket. Breath slowing, he looked around his contubernium tent, seeing the other seven sleeping soundly, Opis sleep-suckling the woollen bundle acting as his pillow with a whimper of passion. The sight made him sag with relief. The faintest orange of night watch fires outside touched the interior of the tent with a comforting hint of light, and the sound of light drizzle tip-tapping on the goatskin and the lonesome song of night birds reminded him just how far away he was from those dark days of his nightmares. He looked down at his pillow: the idea of returning to warm, restful sleep was appealing, but the prospect of those nightmares attacking him again was not. He slid quietly from his blanket and crept between his tent-mates, before slipping outside, a light cascade of rainwater splashing down from the tentflap, soaking one leg. The drizzle was tepid, and the scent of musty earth and clean night air mixed in his nostrils. Gothic sentries patrolled quietly near the southern edge of the plateau – the only means of approach – and the sea of tents and huts around him was quiet and still. But there was something else amongst the whispering gossip of the rain. Voices?
‘The time of the worthy approaches. The dawn of the Vesi nears…’
Stichus rubbed his eyes with balled fists. Suddenly more awake than ever, his head swung round to the eastern edge of the plateau, where the faint droning seemed to be coming from. It was dark there, the precipice hard to discern. There were no sentries there. It was almost as if the voices were hovering in the blackness beyond the edge. How could it be?
He took a step towards the noise, his back suddenly feeling the dancing fingers of a cold, dead hand. In his mind’s eye he imagined all sorts of horrors in the blackness as he approached: man-wolves, Huns… Fabillus?
Just then, another sound rose, far closer than the distant voices – immediately to his right. His reactions were sharp as a spatha thanks to his training, and he swung to see a shadow hunched between two legionary tents. Like a predator feasting upon its still-living prey, on its haunches, twitching and jerking. Now the icy fingers plunged into Stichus’ flesh, his eyes widening as he crept a little closer to discern the terrible form.
‘The choice is yours, Kaeso. What would you have us do?’ it growled in a low voice.
Kaeso? Stichus mouthed, confused, assuming the strange figure had mistaken him for someone else. Kaeso was a Roman name. But there was no man in the Claudia cohort by that name. Then he realised the figure was speaking to itself.
‘Kill him…’ the figure replied to its own hanging question in a snake-like hiss.
At that moment, the faintest sliver of light from a sentry torch flickered between the maze of tents, and Stichus saw the apparition for what it really was: the agent, Scapula, mouth set in a rictus, hands clenched as if holding a strangulation rope around a neck – but rope and victim were absent. Yet the agent wrenched madly, once, twice and again. ‘Kill him!’ he rasped once more, spasming with effort.
‘Scapula?’ Stichus whispered, daring to take one more step forward.
Silence. Then he saw the speculator’s eyes. Unlike his fitful body, they were blank, staring into eternity… dreaming.
He thought again of big Pulcher, who had calmed him during the worst of his nightmares in Fabillus’ Constantinople villa. Always, the big man’s reassurances would bring him round. It seemed like a natural thing to do. He stepped over to Scapula and crouched beside him. Scooping an arm around the agent’s taut shoulders, he whispered. ‘Nightmares cannot harm you. You are their master. Bid them away, like mist.’
Ever so slowly, Scapula’s clenched, strangling hands, slackened. His tense shoulders relaxed too. And his staring, blank eyes changed – irises swelling – awakening. Blinking, he beheld Stichus with an empty look.
Stichus then remembered how Pulcher would sometimes encourage Stichus to talk about his nightmares. The big man would then laugh and ridicule the demons, encouraging Stichus to do so also, making them seem small and insignificant. He licked his lips and cleared his throat. ‘So tell me… who is this Kaeso?’
Scapula’s pupils shrank to dots. In a flash, he swatted Stichus’ arm from him and swept up a dagger from a leather case in his belt, pressing the tip tightly to Stichus’ throat. ‘What did you say?’ he rasped.
Panting, Stichus held both hands aloft. ‘I was only trying to calm you. I… I understand what it’s like.’
Scapula stood, seething, casing his blade once again in his belt pouch, glaring hard at Stichus. ‘Don’t interfere with things you don’t understand, boy... ’ he spat, then turned to stalk away, cloak swirling in his wake. He halted only to cast back with a wagging finger, ‘… or it’ll be the death of you.’
Chapter 11
April ended, May came and then June brought the fierce heat of summer. The men of the First Cohort of the XI Claudia learned the ways of the Goths. By day they hunted in packs, roaming the woods and daring to steal across open grasslands under the baking sun. By night they ate boar and stew around great fires, picking up parts of Gothic lore as bards sang to the solemn tune of pipes.
At dusk after a hot day, Herma sat by the plateau’s central fire – just a pile of glowing stones tonight – with a cluster of his Claudia comrades and a knot of Gothic warriors enjoying cups of barley beer. He was gazing into the deep red light of the setting sun when a braid-haired Goth took a deep draught of beer then burped somewhat tunefully, revelling in the small cheer this drew. Herma laughed, and a few moments later, with the beer now taking hold fully, he let loose a burp of his own that sounded like a creaky door. Now the braid-haired Goth looked over with a wry half-smile. On they sparred and soon the legionaries and the Goths were engaged, each group betting on their ‘champion’s’ next emission of gas.
Herma drained his beer cup, pulled his chin towards his chest then thrust it out, belching for what felt like an eternity, then half-bowed at the round of applause which fo
llowed. But the braid-haired one was not for yielding: he took a deep breath and drained his own cup. The fellow’s eyes came alive with joyous effort, his bearded mouth opened and he belched with a noise like a blunt saw on wet wood for even longer than Herma had, his tongue fluttering like a banner in a strong wind.
Rectus roared with laughter as the Goths slapped their champion on the back. ‘Never challenge a Goth to a drinking game, lad,’ he chortled, sinking his own barley beer then wiping foam from his lips with the back of one hand.
Just when it seemed the contest was finished, Libo swaggered over and sat on the log beside Herma, downed one cup of beer then picked up Opis’ untended cup and drained it too. When he opened his mouth a thunderous, wet belch poured forth that had almost every head on the plateau turned to the source in gawping disgust, even the pipes sagging and falling silent.
Rectus’ face fell. ‘I stand corrected: Libo, you filthy arsehole, are the winner of the contest.’
Libo looked up, nonplussed, picking at his rotten teeth as the pipes struck up again. ‘Contest?’
Herma roared in laughter with the rest then felt the sudden push of liquid in his bladder – the price of drinking games. He rose and staggered towards the legionary tents, gazing into the now dark sky as he came over to the shadowy eastern edge of the plateau, far from the firelight and the babble of drinking men. Halting right at the brink, he lifted the hem of his tunic and rummaged around before pulling out his tackle and urinating over the bluff’s edge. ‘I piss on the Huns!’ he chuckled, finishing with a satisfied ahhh! But just as he was tucking himself away again, he froze.
‘The worthy… will… prevail,’ a sibilant voice whispered.
He looked behind him and to either side, head swinging in drunken exaggeration: nothing. The nearby Gothic huts and tents were all darkened, the inhabitants asleep. And the legionary tents were the same.
EMPIRE OF SHADES Page 17