Another hour passed. Gratian felt the sun beating on his scalp, the diadem now painfully hot to touch. Sweat stole down his back and chest every few heartbeats. Still the eastern horizon was empty and peaceful. The sense of triumph was beginning to sag. His mind flashed with unwanted thoughts: of the infernal dream. Last night the moor had seemed colder than ever, and the dark creature ever so close, the wet breaths and odour of malice rife. And he could discern a swordbelt of sorts hanging from the thing’s waist. The blade that would bring the crone’s prophecy to be.
Oh yes, you will have… years. It had been two years since those words had rumbled from her lips. He felt his skin creep with doubts about today’s battle.
‘The Goths know your legions are in these parts, Domine,’ one Alani bodyguard tried to reassure him, then ran a finger along the Dinaric massif in the south – high, rugged ground that no horde could move through. ‘And they can’t avoid coming through this way.’
Encouraged, Gratian chuckled to himself, sitting straighter, thinking of Alatheus and Saphrax’s hubris that night they had challenged him in his tent. Where is your mighty horde now? Lost your nerve?
No sooner had the thought arisen, than a low, reverberating sound – like distant thunder – spilled from the east, rolling across the plain towards the hill. The growl grew deeper and fiercer, then turned sharply upwards in an eerie skirl. Countless Gothic horns blaring as one.
‘They’re coming,’ Valentinian said.
Gratian felt a cold lance of fear strike through his belly. He gripped his mount’s reins a little harder. He had fought many battles – watched from afar until the day was clearly won, then riding triumphantly through the fleeing enemy, hacking at skulls and lancing men through the backs – and today would be no different.
The fear was just passing when the barbarian horn keened again. And then, like a giant sickle slashing through the ether, the eastern heat haze swirled violently and parted, and from it poured a deluge of horsemen, the foremost handful tilting their heads back, blonde locks draped to their waists, skywards-pointing war horns held to their lips… another chorus of that dire song. And the horsemen came and came, draped in ancient tribal leather armour and helms or stolen Roman mail and legionary headwear.
‘Seven thousand horse, maybe more,’ Valentinian gasped, eyes scouring the approach.
And then came the Gothic infantry, like floodwaters, spilling behind the cavalry, two or maybe three infantrymen for every rider. Spears jostled and caught the sun like the peaks of a choppy sea, tattooed faces opened and closed in a jagged, throaty song of war. They moved forward slowly, confidently, and soon just a quarter of a mile separated them from the Roman line. In their midst rode the two leaders, the long, white-haired Alatheus and the bald, squat Saphrax under the black-bannered spear that had given this horde its name. With two short, shrill blasts on the Gothic horns the Black Horde slowed. The vast Greuthingi cavalry front parted, each half moving to one edge of the infantry mass, positioned like bull horns pointing towards the paltry Armatura contingent on each Roman flank, leaving the vast ranks of Gothic spearmen and archers to face the Roman legionary wall.
Gratian’s mouth suddenly drained of all moisture and he felt a curious need to visit a latrine. Beside him, Bishop Ambrosius’ face was white as the moon, his lips trembling. Behind him, he heard fearful whispers and laments. Down below, the infantry line bristled, heads switching to and fro in fear and uncertainty. Damn you, Merobaudes, you had better break these barbarian curs before Scapula plunges his knife into your back!
He noticed that his hands were beginning to shake, and stopped them with a snap of the wrists. The wet, heavy breaths of the dark moor-creature echoed in his thoughts. Suddenly, he thought of the dead that would soon litter this battlefield. What if things did not go to plan… what if he was to end up as a cold, torn corpse? Coils of cold fear wrapped around his limbs, struck inside him and shook him. Panic rose within him, and he swung on his saddle to the knot of Heruli further back on the hilltop. ‘The way back to Sirmium, keep it clear,’ Gratian wagged finger, ‘you hear me? Keep it clear.’
‘We will try, Domine,’ said Tribunus Lanzo. The man’s eyes had been dull ever since the Heruli regiment had been demoted behind the Alani.
‘You will do it!’ Gratian reprimanded him, yanking at his reins and jabbing his heels into his stallion’s sides to calm the agitated beast, his diadem slipping across his eyes.
‘Wodin watches,’ Alatheus roared from down below. Gratian swung back to look down there, realigning his diadem, his eyes and Alatheus’ meeting. The tall, white-haired reiks was saddled with the Greuthingi pincer opposite the Roman right, and the horde entire were rapt with his words. ‘Valhalla is his prize. Show him valour, and he will grant you a place in that golden realm.’
Saphrax, with the pincer facing the Roman left, lifted the tall, black-bannered spear, then swished it forward like an accusing finger. ‘Destroy them!’
It was akin to a thunderstorm. The noise was deafening, hooves, boots and throaty roars filling the air as the masses surged forward. The hilltop shook violently, and the legions down below braced, their twelve iron blocks merging into one shield-fronted, iron line thanks to the howls of Merobaudes. The cavalry on both flanks engaged first, the Roman Armatura riders bolting out to meet the pincering Gothic Greuthingi charges in an attempt to deflect them. On each flank, it was like a nimble man sinking a punch into a fat giant’s gut – the white-armoured riders plunging deep into the Greuthingi masses, their iron armour well covering their bodies, their spears running enemy horsemen through, blood pumping in the air, barbarian riders sinking out of sight as if snatched down into Hades by an unseen chthonic hand.
‘Yes… yes!’ Gratian punched a fist into his palm.
The impact of their brave advance lessened, however, as the Gothic horsemen swamped them. Maces swung, white-helmed heads crumpled, limbs spun clear of bodies and screaming Roman riders were pulled across Gothic saddles to have their throats viciously ripped open.
Meanwhile, from the rapidly closing infantry lines, a dark swarm of arrows spat forth in either direction, flocks of javelins, axes and darts, rocks and slingshot too. The deadly rain whacked home, tossing charging Goths back, striking the life from the braced Romans, punching holes in faces, ruining armour and breaking bones. Hundreds sank to their knees on either side. An instant later, the Gothic infantry hammered against the Western legionary line with a sound like a sudden clap of thunder. Gothic men spilled over the tops of the Roman shield wall and around their flanks like a strangler’s hands taking position around a victim’s neck.
Gratian’s eyes bulged, sweeping across the lines, seeing the Celtae legion on his army’s right flank – swamped. Worse, the Armatura cavalry on that wing were engaged with the Gothic riders and unable to help.
‘We’re ready, Domine,’ one of the artillery officers called from behind him.
Gratian held up a hand, one finger extended for patience. ‘Not yet,’ he said. Not until Merobaudes falls.
‘Domine,’ Valentinian said now, looking from the fray then back to the waiting and ready ballistae. ‘They’re being massacred down there. Please!’
Gratian ignored him, his eyes instead raking across the melee down below, coming to the left. That flank was beset too, some Petulantes men on their knees, shields raised as Goths leapt and chopped down with swords, splinters flying as they shredded the leaping wolf shields of that famous old regiment. And there was Merobaudes, stained with dirt and blood on the front line having leapt down from his horse to fight with the infantry. He urged them to their feet, undaunted. Gothic swords clattered against his iron vest and then an arrow took him in the shoulder. Gratian’s eyes widened in gleeful anticipation, seeing one Goth bounding for Merobaudes to finish him off. But the Magister Militum snapped the arrow shaft from his shoulder and brought his sword up, hard, into the Goth’s groin, before kicking the man back and stabbing another behind him.
If the Goths
can’t off the Frankish dog…
Gratian’s eyes combed the beset Petulantes legion until he spotted the one gradually shifting through their rear ranks as the flow of battle allowed. His eyes tapered now, knowing the moment was here. He clapped his hands for a fresh cup of wine. His face split with a smile, he shot Valentinian a sideways glance, then gave his full attention to the goings-on below.
Blood and earth flew in gobbets, iron smashed in every direction and splinters of wood sprayed through the air. Scapula elbowed past a Petulantes legionary locked in a mortal struggle with a bald Goth, then slid into place by the side of another. Closer, he realised, seeing the giant Frank, Merobaudes, only a few arm’s lengths away. Back turned, the opportunity was there for a silent kill. A dagger plunged into the man’s kidneys would see him bleed out within the hour.
I am a shadow…
The legionary armour his current mission required him to wear was heavy and awkward, but still he was spryer than any in this regiment. A Goth with a black-painted face snarled as he and a front-rank legionary tussled, swords deadlocked, both without shields. Scapula picked towards the pair and threw up a hand, passing it over the Goth’s neck. The blade concealed in his wrist cuff left a fine, thread-like line on the Goth’s neck, before a rich sheet of blood spurted forth and the foe went down, gurgling.
I move like a breath of wind…
‘Thank you, comrade,’ the Petulantes man croaked before turning to find his next opponent.
Scapula stepped closer to Merobaudes, readying his concealed blade again.
I strike unsee-
‘Shore up the gap!’ Merobaudes screamed turning to look over each shoulder and gesturing madly at a breach by his left where one legionary had fallen – brained by a Gothic iron club. ‘Soldier,’ he cried, locking eyes with Scapula, ‘be quick.’
Scapula, arm-frozen, halfway raised to go for the strike, realised the moment had passed. He did as he was bid, lunging over to stand by Merobaudes’ side. As soon as he did so and before he even had a chance to get his bearings, a Gothic longsword came stabbing for his throat. With Merobaudes at his right side, another legionary on his left and many more pressed behind, he could not move… and there was no time to duck. Scapula’s heart thundered as he realised it was over for him. Mouth agape in a cry, he heard a smash of iron, then saw the longsword spinning off through the air, Merobaudes’ sword having parried the strike at the last.
‘You… saved me… ’ Scapula rasped, almost in disgust.
‘I would die for you, comrade,’ Merobaudes said, then boomed so the rest could hear over the din of battle. ‘I would die for any of you. Iron brothers, each of you.’
The Petulantes erupted in a bone-shaking roar, surging back at the overwhelming Gothic masses. Scapula found himself falling back into the second rank, behind Merobaudes. Still stunned, his senses returned when he saw a tear in Merobaudes’ mail shirt: his lower flank was exposed – the spot for the kidney strike begging to be struck. One deep thrust and his organs would be ruined. He would not even feel the blow or notice it until later, when it would be too late. Every speck of his training clicked into place as he slid the concealed blade from his wrist and drew his arm back a little, ready to drive it home.
I am a shadow, I move like a breath of wind… I strike… unseen…
But a white light flashed through Scapula’s head. Carried on it came the stark memory of the boy held in the loop of a garrotte. ‘What would you have us do, Kaeso?’ the hooded one holding the garrotte hissed.
With a growl, he swatted the voice away, only for a Gothic arrow to plunge down past him, scoring his cheek. ‘Gah!’ he snarled, falling back from the Magister Militum, chance gone. He righted himself and set his eyes upon the Magister Militum’s back again, shaking, teeth grinding, eyes wide.
The choice is yours! ancient memories screamed in his head.
No! Gratian mouthed, watching Scapula’s failed attempt on Merobaudes’ life. I’ll have you whipped for this, he seethed.
He heard a gentle sobbing and looked to his right. Valentinian’s face was wet with tears as he beheld the battle. ‘Crying?’ he scoffed. ‘That is why I truly rule the West, Stepbrother, and you do not and never will,’ he said coldly, his eyes dry.
‘But they’re dying,’ Valentinian wept. ‘Merobaudes is in danger. You must call the artillery forward.’
Gratian again ignored his Stepbrother, his eyes affixed on the tide of battle. Now it seemed that the Petulantes were certainly doomed. As a fresh wave of Gothic spearmen piled against their shield front and, at Saphrax’s shrieking commands, a wing of Greuthingi riders broke from the ongoing cavalry melee on the Roman left to come shooting round like a brood of raptors, on course to loop in behind the Roman line and crunch into the Petulantes’ rear.
Yes, Gratian mouthed. If Scapula cannot slay Merobaudes then the Goths will, and if my agent dies under their hooves too then it will be a fitting reward for his failure.
With an almighty crash, the Greuthingi riders hammered into the backs of the Petulantes. Men fell in their hundreds, trampled, speared through and cut down. On the riders ploughed, deep into the legion’s midst, closer to the engaged front rank.
Yes! Gratian almost hissed, leaning forward on his saddle.
He barely noticed the legions on the opposite end of the line also bending and contorting out of shape as the sheer weight of Gothic numbers pummelled them. ‘The right is about to collapse too. You must do something, Stepbrother,’ Valentinian begged. ‘Call on the artillery and the reserves!’
But Gratian saw only the imminent death of his adversary.
Down in the melee, Merobaudes only now seemed to realise that the game was up when one of the rampaging Greuthingi riders’ horses reared up right behind him. He swung and slashed out at the rider’s leg, swept a Gothic spearman away with his sword, then blocked another before a fourth and fifth leapt upon him and forced him to his knees, a Gothic club crunching against his arm. He fought the man off and tried to stand, only to block another two strikes, his strength leaving him.
‘I will tell stories of your final fight, you ugly whoreson,’ Gratian whispered as he watched, oblivious to the collapsing regiments elsewhere in his army. ‘I will have your corpse taken back to the dungeons of Treverorum. Skinned and stuffed, your shame will last forev-’
A long, high, stirring cry filled the air as a Roman buccina sang. Gratian’s head swung across the hilltop. The buccina sang again, and he saw the musician: up on a cairn of rocks, Valentinian stood, emptying his feeble boy-lungs into the bronze horn.
‘You little shit!’ Gratian seethed through clenched teeth.
But the signal had been given and with a grumble and squeak of wheels, a squadron of twenty-four ballistae were rolled to the edge of the hilltop and halted there like crows eyeing their victims below. The artillery teams scurried to secure, load and prime them with javelin-sized shafts. As the ropes creaked and groaned, almost taut, a regiment of sagittarii rushed to the hilltop’s edge too, draped in scale, faces hugged with iron helms and nose guards, they nocked and drew their bows. More groaning of stressed sinew and wood.
And down below, from either side of the battle, a squadron of sixty cataphracti burst from the low hills, man and horse encased in iron, lances levelled as they lined up for a charge at the Gothic flanks. Saphrax, until now swinging his hands in the air, cajoling his portion of the horde like a conductor, suddenly shrank, realising he was right in the sights of this arsenal.
‘Loose!’ the ballista commander on the hilltop roared.
Whoosh… in rapid succession, the missile throwers bucked and spat their bolts down, the sagittarii loosed too. The hail wreaked havoc in the way a rake might harrow soil. Saphrax’s bald, gawping head was one of the first to go – dissolving in a burst of red, the ballista bolt travelling on to take another Goth’s arm before coming to rest in a third’s heart. Every other bolt ripped such damage across the horde, and the arrows too plunged down into shoulders,
some piercing helmetless heads – a chunky soup of brains and blood lopping out where this happened.
‘Loose!’ the artillery commander cried again. Red mizzle flew, screams exploded and bodies were ripped asunder. And a storm of arrows and bolts hammered into the backs of the Greuthingi riders driving into the Petulantes’ rear. Merobaudes gawped as the attacking horsemen fell away around him in a chorus of screams and whinnies. And no sooner had the Gothic spearmen assaulting the Petulantes front had a chance to recover their wits after seeing their cavalry cut apart, than the Roman Cataphracti smashed into their flanks, the ironclad riders plunging into the massed bodies like a scalpel into soft flesh. Topknotted tribal heads jerked then vanished under the flailing hooves, and even the most finely-armed Gothic warriors found their metal jackets pierced by the Cataphracti lances.
Once more, the depleted and battered core of the Petulantes rose. Merobaudes, saved, hoisted his sword and roared again. It was a reprieve and no more though, as a fresh tide of Goths slammed into the momentarily relieved flanks.
‘How dare you,’ Gratian seethed as Valentinian stepped back over towards him.
‘The flanks were saved. That is all that matters, is it not? Who gave the order means nothing,’ Valentinian said. ‘I understand if you perhaps froze. Sometimes it happens to me too and-’
‘What did you say?’ Gratian raged, seizing Valentinian by the collar.
‘Domine,’ the artillery commander cried, breaking the argument apart.
Gratian and Valentinian followed the man’s owl-gaze across to the hill’s southern side, behind them. Speartips, then topknotted heads, rising. Then a Gothic war cry.
‘They’ve scrambled up the western slope!’ an Alani guard cried. ‘Guards, with me!’
A batch of forty Alani rushed to form a wall to meet the assault. The din of battle, until now strident but confined to the hill’s eastern foot, suddenly exploded across the heights as a hundred or more Goths lurched up onto the hilltop and slammed against the hasty Alani defence, slaying many of the bodyguards with ease.
EMPIRE OF SHADES Page 34