Legionary

Chapter 35

The vastness of the imperial chamber dwarfed Valens, sitting in contemplation between the golden Chi-Rho cross and the old statue of Jupiter. Reports of the Gothic raids across the Danubius had been compiled. What had been a thinly spread but complete Roman border army was now effectively a fragmented militia. The departure of the XI Claudia legion to Bosporus, together with the new I Dacia legion’s harvesting of the best troops from his Danubian legions had been the live or die toss of the dice. The remaining forces on the frontier, amounting to little over twenty thousand men scattered over the full length of the snaking river, was below the minimum operational strength for the first time in decades. Disjointed warbands they could cope with, but if the Goths pulled together and realised the state of the frontier, they would have the run of Greece and the new imperial capital. And if the Goths could do it, then what of the millions upon millions of tribesmen who pushed down on the empire behind them?

He looked out of the balcony to the sun-baked west. It was an option that often flitted across his thoughts — legions upon legions of fighting men, all supposedly under the banner of the same empire. But his nephew Gratian had been cold since ascending the Western throne in Rome, and the boy’s attitude had seriously darkened since Valens had put in place Arian reforms in the East. Added to that, the borders of the Rhine were in an equally perilous state. No, Valens grasped reality; the answer did not lie with the West.

Equally, postponing the Bosporus reconquest was not an option. His reputation had been built on ever-greater glories. Indeed, the people had taken to calling him Valens ‘the great’. While he was feared and respected, he could move the empire forward. The slightest whiff of fear or uncertainty would see the would-be usurpers snaking out from the shadows, daggers sharpened. The live or die call had been made; win, and you win greatness. Lose, he sighed, and you lose everything.

His head ached. How had he, Valens the Great, allowed himself to be drawn into this situation? Yes, the plan was his idea. Or was it? He groaned as he remembered the many nights spent, surrounded by the high and mighty of Constantinople. Politicians, holy men and so-called military masters, all desperate to offer their opinion on empire. ‘Think, man, think!’ He hissed under his breath.

The call for the reclaiming of the old province of Bosporus had arisen from the Holy See itself. ‘Yes,’ he grasped onto the hazy memory. Their argument being that the reestablishment of the kingdom as a Roman province would be another great tale in the emperor’s legend. And for it to be achieved by the Christian armies of Rome would prove a decisive blow to the lingering pagan peoples of the empire and a victory for Arianism, the true faith. Even the soldiers, still clinging to the old deities, might unite under the Arian banner.

He looked again to the statue of Jupiter. Silent, steady Jupiter. Never dogged by a propensity for schism like Christianity was. His marbled and featureless eyes conveyed a sadness from an old and dying world. The Christian teachings of Arius held the candle of faith for him, but the old ways seemed so clear, so simple, no wonder the rank and file found comfort in them. But it wasn’t faith that tore at the empire now, Valens chuckled bitterly as he thought; it was the men who purported to embody faith. Then there was the state, the rabble of the senate had become an insidious white noise. He issued a silent prayer to all the gods, fearing that he had made the biggest mistake of his life.

He clapped his hands and a slave slipped through the door. ‘My emperor?’

‘Call for my scribe,’ Valens said, ‘and prepare two messengers, with fresh stallions from the imperial stable.’

‘Yes, Emperor,’ the slave replied and then was gone.

Valens closed his eyes and massaged his temples. Was it already too late?