Legionary

Chapter 17

Gallus stood in front of an ornate, polished bronze mirror. He fastened his cuirass into place and then took to polishing the dulled sections of the breast moulding. It was very different from his day-to-day battered and rusting mail vest, but anything that wasn’t pristine in the Imperial Palace would mark him out as a wretch from the border legions. He saw the metal shine up at last and gave a sigh of semi-contentment, his eyes setting on his reflection — his gaunt features looked even colder than he had remembered and the flecks of grey by his temples seemed to have multiplied into definite streaks. How long since that face had bore a warm smile. Olivia. He rubbed his eyes. He pushed the memory back.

He turned his thoughts to the previous evening. The feasting had ended before sundown after a seventh course of stewed dates and yoghurt, but the chatter had rolled on late into the evening as they had sampled more and more of the delicious range of vintage wines from the imperial cellar. He wasn’t a big alcohol drinker, but had been wary of causing offence refusing the slave-girls who constantly buzzed around the table and he had soon come to appreciate the potency of the stuff.

Valens, the man behind the purple cloak, had proven to be a surprisingly warm character once the business of war and politics had been addressed. The bishop, of course, maintained a holy sobriety. First impressions of this man suggested that he might be a harmless character, but his eyes had a glint of impeccable sharpness in them that Gallus could not quite gauge as being cunning or simply alertness. The presence of Tarquitius at the table had caused the majority of the alcohol abuse. His constant calls to sample more of the fine wine had always been answered, though Gallus had noted with a keen interest that the man himself took to diluting his portions with up to five parts water while the dux by his side took his wine neat. Tarquitius persisted in moving the subject of conversation back to the military situation along the Danubius, and it was clear that agendas were being pressed more forcibly as the night wore on. Whether it concerned the XI Claudia’s fortunes crossed his mind a few times, but in the end, the wine carried his thoughts away.

Satisfied that he was impeccably polished, Gallus pulled at the chamber door and stepped into the towering hallway. This place was designed to make a man feel smaller than a mouse, and it worked. As usual though, he straightened his back and held his head high, marching confidently past the occasional sneering candidati. Then he came to an open caldarium, where the playthings of the emperor and his retinue lay strewn; cups, clothes and shoes scattered everywhere. Then, as he passed the pool, a group of giggling girls sank into the water to hide their naked breasts from him. Gallus afforded only a batted eyelid before moving on — years of celibacy had taught him precise self-control. To kiss Olivia’s sweet neck one more time he would forgo all other pleasures of the flesh. He stepped over the mixture of goblets and robes punctuating the floor, while a single unfortunate slave darted around in a vain attempt trying to reinstate perfection before Valens could lay eyes on the mess.

Gallus moved on past a particularly stern looking candidati, through to the garden terrace. Valens leaned on the balcony overlooking the city, his purple robe billowing gently in the spring breeze as he surveyed his capital through the heat haze. Beside him, a pair of slaves waited patiently with a vase of what looked like iced water and fruit pieces. There was no sign of Nerva, Tarquitius or the bishop.

‘Come and see this, Centurion,’ Valens called.

Gallus took a deep breath, shook the fog of his hangover from his mind and walked from the cool interior of the palace and out into the baking morning sun to join the emperor at the edge of the balcony. The air was sharp with the salty tang of the waters of the Propontus and the docks below fizzed with activity. All excitement centred on a fleet of some fifty newly constructed triremes lined up against the harbour wall, boarding planks linking them to the dockside. Slaves scurried back and forth across them laden with cargo like a train of ants. Near the first ship — a grand looking thing, painted with an emerald boar emblem — stood a stocky, red-haired figure, in full gleaming decorative armour. Wulfric, Gallus assumed.

‘You’re a man with the heart of a soldier…a true Roman,’ Valens enthused, cupping an arm around Gallus’ shoulder. ‘This is Rome as it used to be, and can be again. The transport fleet for the new I Dacia legion.’ Valens chirped, brushing his palm across the scene below.

‘The new legion? It’s been mustered already?’ Gallus asked.

‘Well, just the command structure…and the supporting navy, of course. The fleet is being prepared to move up to the Danubius delta, and will select recruits for the new legion along the way.’ He shook Gallus’ shoulder firmly. ‘Only a core will be sourced from your legion, so don’t worry. And I’ll see that your fort is supplied with plenty of new recruits.’

Gallus suppressed the meld of protests that swam into his mind; stripping the borders to create one floating legion? How many places could this one legion protect at once? He bit his lip and searched for a different tack. Then he noticed something under the veneer of Valens’ enthusiasm. The emperor had shrewdness in his eyes, almost as if he wanted to coax a reaction.

‘And what of these Goths who are to be supplied by Fritigern?’ Gallus played along.

Valens’ lips curled a little at the edges, and his eyes keened, locked on Gallus’ face. ‘Then the fleet will move up the Danubius to pick up Fritigern’s men. Once they are kitted out, we are ready to deploy the legion. Quick responses to any border attacks, Centurion,’ he purred, ‘that’s the key to keeping the rest of the northern tribes back — send the fear right through them with swift, decisive action!’

Gallus nodded, but he could sense now that Valens was definitely testing him, and the rhetoric was deliberately cheap.

‘And Wulfric?’ Gallus nodded to the armoured figure at the dockside. One of Athanaric’s best men, standing like a peacock in the heart of the empire.

‘That’s our man,’ Valens nodded, his face dropping. ‘By all means I’d rather have your tribunus in there to lead them; any Roman would get my vote, but politics wield the heaviest sword. Damn it if that’s not always the case.’ The emperor’s tone was laced with a trace of venom. ‘An emperor can no longer rule as one.’

Gallus felt his mouth run dry. Fritigern’s men filling the Roman ranks made him uneasy, but this one man of Athanaric’s filled his heart with trepidation. ‘Do you trust the Goths?’

Valens turned to him; his face had fallen stony. ‘Do you?’

Gallus searched Valens’ cobalt eyes; did the emperor share his doubts? ‘I tend to mistrust until trust is earned, my emperor.’

Valens’ face curled into a sardonic smile. ‘A wise philosophy, Centurion. And one I fear I should follow.’

Gallus shifted uncomfortably.

Valens turned back to the docks, but his eyes stared a thousand yards. ‘Well, Centurion Gallus, I have a lot of thinking to do. But the question is valid; do we trust them?’

Gallus shuffled in discomfort as the question hung unanswered.

Finally, Valens spoke. ‘We have to, Centurion, we have to.’