Legionary

Chapter 67

The Augusteum was thriving as usual. The blistering summer afternoon heat prickled on Pavo’s skin as he pretended to look at the Hippodrome up ahead, sneaking darting glances to the palace gates as often as he dared; two urban guards stood like marble sentinels either side of the gate — their build and ugliness surely a key factor in being chosen to guard the emperor himself. Great for the emperor, he thought, not so good for us. He realised that one pass of the palace walls was normal, two passes suspicious, but now in their third they must look bloody stupid. He held a hand to his moist brow to block out the glare of the sun and his eyes relaxed at the moment of respite. Eyeing the wall tops discreetly, he felt his heart fall again; dotted along the walkways, at every ten paces or so, stood a member of the candidati, pristine in a white tunic and wearing the same stiff-jawed expression of sincerity. The urban cohorts were buggers, he thought, touching his thumb to the tender pink scar on his temple, but these guys were utterly ruthless. The cream of the loyal palatini, they were brute-strong, nimble and skilled beyond anything in the legions. Most of all they would gladly die for the emperor.

Beside him walked a soldier of the I Dacia named Cato. He was at least four years younger than Pavo and was a bag of nerves. Despite that he was a good lad at heart, clearly given no option but to take the bribe of gold along with the rest of the I Dacia and he was now eager to restore his honour.

‘There’s no way we’re getting in there,’ Cato murmured.

Pavo rolled his eyes, and then chuckled dryly — this lad was him just a few months ago. ‘Yep,’ he sighed, ‘and the side gates are guarded just as heavily.’

‘We could wait for the emperor to come out?’ Cato offered.

‘Nah, been there, the emperor travels with more protection around him than he has on those walls,’ Pavo reasoned, his mind flitting with images of the legionary shield boss being whumped into his face as he tried to gatecrash the imperial procession two summers ago, ‘we’d be skewered if we got within a hundred paces. And I’ve been given the strictest of orders to speak with the emperor only, so it’s got to be inside the palace.’

Cato sighed, his shoulders slumping.

Pavo nudged him with his elbow. ‘Let’s see what Sura and his lads have come up with.’ The Eagle rolled into view as they left the outer palace grounds behind them. Washed in white paint and hiding behind the shade of a palm thicket, the building strived to look somewhere close to clean, but the stench of stale urine and vomit wafted out to greet the pair as they approached.

‘Urgh!’ Cato wretched.

‘Wait till you taste the ale…’ Pavo cocked an eyebrow.

Another of his party of seven leaned against the wall next to the entrance. Upon recognizing the approaching two, the legionary straightened up and gave them a nod, before strolling inside.

The belly of the inn seemed to contain the afternoon heat rather than provide respite from it. The faded timbers were plastered with dubious stains, coated in layers of dust, and the battered oak tables were dotted with handfuls of toothless and lame veterans and filthy street dwellers. At a table near the back, the rag-tag group of disguised legionaries were devouring platters of cooked meat and sinking foamy, pale ale in gulps.

‘By Mithras, you must be desperate?’ Pavo mocked in a low voice as he pulled over a free stool to join them.

Sura was at the head of the table — his fingers pressed to his temples. ‘We need something to keep us going — the cooked rat, or whatever it is, isn’t bad with a bit of garum.’

‘I’ll pass,’ Pavo replied quickly. ‘Any ideas? Because all we saw was a wall of stone brimming with candidati just desperate to gut the first chancer who wants to take them on.’

‘Bollocks,’ Sura spat, ‘same with us. We’re waiting on some divine inspiration then?’

Pavo sighed, rolling a piece of the meat in his fingers, pressing at the fatty rind until it came away. ‘There is another option.’ At once, all fifteen hunched in to get within earshot. He kept his eyes on the scarred surface of the table. ‘Scum like us won’t get near the palace. But I know someone who might be able to.’ He paused for a moment, feeling sick at the thought; the despicable character that had used him like a dog — Tarquitius’ disgusting buttery features crept into his mind. Show your face in this city again…and you will die horribly. The words rasped in his thoughts. But something else dawned on him; he was not afraid. He took a deep breath and looked up.

‘I know a senator.’

A muted gasp rippled round the table as the fifteen leant back. Sura looked at him, astonishment curling into a grin. ‘Well that changes things!’ He chirped.

‘It’s not that easy,’ Pavo cut in. ‘He used to be my master.’

The rest of the table fell silent, turning to him, eyebrows raised.

Pavo pulled a wry grin at the utter lack of shame he would once have felt. ‘Aye, aye, I was a slave; get over it — it’s not like I buggered a camel, eh?’ The legionaries dropped their stunned expressions. ‘This senator is a…he’s a nasty piece of work. There are no guarantees, but it’s a possibility, okay? We might have to convince him that this won’t damage his career, but…’

‘What career?’ another legionary butted in. ‘Didn’t you hear? The senate’s been disbanded! The emperor’s pulled the plug. Rumour was that he thought they were getting too much power — corruption or something.’

‘Well thanks for sharing that with us, Kyros, only we’ve been sitting here for ages and you’ve not said a word — too busy stuffing your bloody face!’ Another legionary moaned.

‘Well how was I to know we had a senator’s bum boy amongst us?’ Kyros grumbled.

‘Enough!’ Pavo hissed. Kyros looked apologetic — and he certainly would if only he knew the pain Tarquitius had inflicted on his slaves. ‘Look, we don’t have any choice — whether the senate is shut or not, we’ve only got that dice to throw. So here’s what we’re going to do…’

The fifteen gathered around again, listening intently.

Pavo felt his mouth dry again as expectation rested heavily on his shoulders; to engineer a break-in to the Imperial Palace. Well, he thought, this is where experience will come in handy. He eyed each of the men.

‘Okay, this is going to be as rough as a badger’s arse…’

The summer sun drooped towards the west and a grey-purple haze hung in the air. Constantinople was at its busiest at this time of day. Exhausted traders shifted their stock mercilessly, coins rattling into their purses as the spices and fruit vanished from their stalls. The throng of the crowd had thickened all afternoon and was now a sea of exhausted, sweaty and dusty faces.

Cutting sharply into a side street to avoid the crush, Tarquitius, dressed defiantly in his senatorial purple trimmed white toga, eyed the narrow passage. He wiped the thick sweat from his buttery pate with a rag; tenements on one side, shrub lined aqueduct struts on the other, but brightly lit and open, there might be a chance that he wouldn’t have to part with his purse by taking a shortcut through here. ‘Fronto, how I miss your big, dumb presence,’ he cursed under his breath. He had been too wary of hiring a cutthroat replacement for his slain bodyguard, and had chosen to spend most of his time in the villa anyway. Since the senate had been effectively abolished, he had no purpose to be out and about. Fear of the bishop’s hired blades lurking in every street corner had penned him in, but weeks of constant introspection had driven him to the edge of madness. Now, as he trod the flagstones of the alley gingerly, he channelled his fear into bitterness; his life had been a black void since the emperor had destroyed one of the oldest institutions of the empire, of the republic. The fool! And the bishop, he seethed, that most unholy of creatures had used him like a pawn. Damn him to Hades! All he stood for had been taken from him, with only the empty shell of his life left. One chance, any chance to claw back power and respect was all he needed, but had so far proved elusive. Better to die on the streets, he pouted stubbornly, jutting his wobbling chins up. Nothing could scare him anymore. Then, five hooded figures dropped from the aqueduct channel above and landed like rocks in front of him.

‘Oh, by the gods!’ Tarquitius trilled, throwing up his hands to shield his face. He dropped to his knees and clawed at his belt, feeling for his purse. ‘Take it, take it! Just leave me unharmed!’ He waited on the sensation of a dagger plunging through his skin — what would it feel like?

‘Shhhh, For Jupiter’s sake!’ A familiar voice hissed.

Tarquitius cracked open one eye; the shadowed face of one of the hooded thugs loomed over him.

‘Stand up, will you?’

Tarquitius felt his fear melt into confusion as the hooded figure reached for his forearms and hoisted him to his feet, and then pulled the hood back slightly. In the dusty haze, a bruised and battered, sunken, hawk-like face was revealed. Tarquitius yelped with joy.

‘Pavo!’ He whooped before a hand was quickly clamped over his mouth.

‘One more word, you fat pig, and I’ll have to knock you out,’ Pavo hissed.

‘But why…’ his words trailed off as the four other hooded figures converged on him.

‘We need to talk — in private.’

Tarquitius opened his mouth to speak, and then stopped again, feeling the glares of the five. He nodded, turned to leave the alley and beckoned the five with a flick of the hand.

The sun straddled the skyline in the late Constantinople afternoon, casting yawning shadows of the Imperial Palace walls across the streets, silhouetting the buildings and colouring the sky a pink-orange.

At the palace gates, the imperial guard eyed Tarquitius with disdain, glancing down at a piece of parchment. Tarquitius shuffled uncomfortably; he should have insisted the five standing beside him stayed at the villa. Despite a wash and shave, they still smelled like vagrants. A jug of iced fruit juice had pacified the runts and they had planned quickly and carefully. A plan that would suit all parties, he mused smugly. Insisting on an audience with the emperor might well ruin him if he did not possess such scandalous information. So the XI Claudia had formed suspicions of the bishop’s treachery — while the quiet senator had remained anonymous so far in the whole affair. Yet today would see him hailed as the saviour of the empire, and Bishop Evagrius would be doomed to a public execution. Yes, the bishop would protest his innocence, and then he would doubtless point the finger at his co-conspirators, but before such stories could be heard, a hired assassin could easily slip into the jail and sink a blade into the holy man’s ribs. How ironic, he thought, that his own slave should come stumbling back from the lost lands to the north to present him with salvation?

‘Senator Tarquitius, you don’t have an appointment to speak with the emperor, and you turn up with these sacks of garbage who could be anyone…and you expect me to let you in?’ The urban guardsman scratched at his side in distraction. ‘The senate is dead anyway — what business could you possibly have?’

‘Well I appreciate that. But think for a minute what harm could be done if you don’t let me through. When what I have to say comes out, you could be lauded as a hero for trusting in me.’

‘Aye, or end up being stoned for being the whoreson that let an assassin into the palace.’

‘Fine then, escort us in — six unarmed men can easily be contained by, what, a few urban guards? Or do you think this would be a job better suited to the candidati?’

The urban guard took the bait, his top lip stiffening. ‘Watch your tongue, Senator.’ He eyed the party carefully, then spat a thick glob of phlegm onto the sand. ‘Okay, you can come in, but these five scoundrels wait outside.’

Tarquitius looked to Pavo. His ex-slave nodded. The boy was clearly desperate to save the rabble of dogs he called his legion. But once inside, he alone was the one who could word the message to the emperor. It just kept getting better and better. Tarquitius turned back to the guard. ‘Very well, lead the way.’

The guard grunted and flicked his head to beckon Tarquitius and then yelled in through the guard gate. ‘Open up!’

As Tarquitius stepped through into the palace grounds, he felt empowered and proud once more.

Then a voice screeched out over the rooftops.

‘He is an assassin. Slay him!’

He spun around. That white cloak and the snow-white hair, but the face was curled into a fury. The Bishop! Evagrius’ eyes were burning on Tarquitius’ skin and his outstretched hand pointed a gnarled finger at the senator. A twenty of urban guards surrounding him poured forward, swords drawn and teeth bared.

Pavo’s heart hammered as their hopes and lives wavered before his eyes.

‘Protect the senator!’ He barked. The five, unarmed and wearing only grubby tunics, hesitated for only an instant, before lurching forward to shove Tarquitius into the palace ground and block the entrance to the guard gate. ‘Get this gate closed,’ he spat to the urban guard behind him. Confused, the guard stuck with protocol and moved to slam the gate shut.

‘Keep that gate open!’ The bishop roared to his twenty. Before the gate could be locked, a plumbata plunged into the guard’s heart and he fell back, eyes wide, mouth spewing blood. ‘Now finish these dogs and take down the senator!’

As the wall of twenty lunged for them, Pavo kicked out, crudely parrying a spear thrust with his boot. In the same breath, he called out; ‘Claudia!’ From the bushes across the flagstoned walkway, ten more filthy subjects popped up, bearing spathas and shields, and raced towards the melee. A bundle of spathas were hurled forward, and Pavo leapt to catch one.

Pavo ducked as a spear ripped past him and plunged into Cato’s chest. The young lad slithered to the ground, rasping blood. Pavo snarled; ‘Whoresons! Let’s see how you fight against real soldiers!’ He barely recognised his own growl as he smashed forward, hacking one spear tip clear of its shaft before ramming his sword point through the mouth of one of the guards, whose eyes and nose erupted in a volcano of blood. The ten XI Claudia reinforcements clattered into the back of the urban unit, and soon the two sides were tangled in a storm of crimson and iron.

‘We’re barely holding them!’ Sura yelped as he ducked a sword cut.

Pavo stepped over the fallen Kyros to stand back to back with his friend. ‘Doesn’t matter what happens to us, so long as we hold out long enough for Tarquitius to get to the emperor.’ He jinked to his left as a spear jabbed at him, roaring as the blade ripped open his shoulder.

‘More company!’ Sura wailed.

Pavo looked up over his shoulder; another urban twenty hared in on them, being swept forward by the snarling bishop. ‘To the last, Sura,’ he barked. Then the twenty hit them and enveloped them. The vice-like crush intensified; there were only seven of his party left against roughly thirty of the urban guard. He roared in fury as another XI Claudia legionary was hacked down in front of him. As the body of the legionary fell, He looked up at the three bloodied and grinning faces that closed in on him.

‘You’re dead, sunshine, an’ you know it,’ the central guard shrieked. But then three thuds stopped them in their tracks, their faces dropped in confusion and blood rocketed from their mouths and nostrils. They tumbled to their knees and then collapsed forward almost in unison, the arrows lodged in their necks still quivering.

‘Don’t hang about, knock the shit out of ‘em!’ a familiar voice growled.

Spurius! The stocky legionary was poise with his bow still raised, at the head of the five he had taken with him, together with a band of filthy and gnarled characters — the Greens! Armed with swords, daggers, slings, bows and rocks, they were every bit as dangerous as soldiers. The remainder of the urban guard turned to face the mob that now outnumbered them.

Spurius barged through to Pavo. ‘I’ve sorted out my business,’ he grunted with a typically ferocious grimace, ‘thought you could do with a hand!’ With that, he plunged into the melee.

‘Spurius?’ Sura gasped, spitting blood and shards of tooth onto the flagstones. ‘Never in a million…’

‘It only counts if Tarquitius gets to the emperor — come on, you’re with me!’ He yelled, pulling Sura by the wrist through the guard gate.

They slipped out of the rabble on the streets and down a long colonnaded path before bursting into an expanse of greenery; lawns, hedgerows, foliage and flower beds, studded with explosions of coloured blooms and gilded figurines. A marble fountain babbled without a care in the world in the centre of the garden, and the palace dominated the vast walled enclosure at the far end. Slaves bobbed in amongst the foliage, trimming, seeding and watering the lush beds, completely oblivious to the melee on the other side of the gate. Too easy, he wondered, slowing to a crouch behind the fountain, pulling Sura down with him. Then he spotted the pristine white tunics and froze; two pairs of candidati patrolled either side of the garden, and where in Hades was Tarquitius?

‘I see him,’ Sura hissed, jabbing a finger towards a hedgerow maze that zigzagged across the western half of the gardens, waist height at first and then expertly pruned to slope up to be tall as a man. There, behind one of the strolling candidati pair, the first bank of waist-height hedging ruffled a little, and the shiny pate of Tarquitius gleamed in the sunlight. A most imperfect hiding place.

‘In the name of…he’ll get skewered in a heartbeat — those guards are nearly on him,’ Pavo growled. ‘We need him — he dies then we’ve got nothing. We’ll be executed — no questions asked.’

‘Aye, I’m hearing you. But I’m not so keen on taking on those two.’ Sura nodded towards the candidati.

Pavo watched their path as the pair strolled up to the front of the garden, and then back down towards the maze. He noted the alternating path of the two on the other side, and the fact that the wall guard faced out towards the city. ‘When they walk behind the high hedgerows, then we slip round behind them, grab Tarquitius, duck down, wait for them to do another circuit of the garden, then…’

‘Then have breakfast and a game of dice?’ Sura cocked an eyebrow. ‘Come on, we need to move!’ As if to underline his point, the bishop’s roar filled the gardens and the ground shook with the trampling of boots. The pair spun; urban guards, at least forty of them, thundered for them, armour clanking, barely forty paces away, swords drawn. The bishop hobbled in their midst, roaring them on.

They glanced at each other for a heartbeat, faces pale, and then they were up, floundering mercilessly through flower gardens, churning up a multi-coloured glory in their wake. They hurled their spathas back at the advancing soldiers, then sprinted on.

‘Tarquitius! Get up! Get into the maze!’ Pavo rasped. But the senator’s sweating pate simply raised a little to present his piggy eyes which quickly grew in shock. ‘Get up!’ The pair thundered to the hedge, stammered to a halt and then dipped down to scoop the senator up.

Tarquitius squealed, kicking out, his eyes screwed shut. ‘They kidnapped me, they made me come here!’

Pavo acted without thought, bringing his fist crashing into the senator’s cheek. ‘It’s us, you fat fool!’ At once Tarquitius was silent, stunned. The urban detachment was almost upon them and the candidati raced for them too.

‘Pavo, how dare you?’

‘You want to see tomorrow? Move!’ Pavo and Sura hauled him forward and the trio stumbled into the hedgerow maze. The hedges grew taller and taller as they took each turn blindly. Every corner felt like running blind onto a sword point and all the while, the clatter of urban guards seemed to swirl around them as the detachment spilled into the labyrinth. Pavo grunted as Tarquitius slowed, panting, his face a raging scarlet. ‘Come on, we can’t carry you!’ Then he set off again, bursting round another corner. A dead end.

‘Oh bugger!’ Sura spat.

‘We’re dead!’ Pavo added.

Then a foreign voice sneered behind them. ‘Aye, you are now!’

The pair turned to face the sunken-eyed urban guard who beheld them, flicking his spatha nimbly on one hand and clutching his spear on the other.

‘In the gut or through the throat?’ He growled, eyes sparkling. ‘Ah, what do you care?’ With that, the guard’s eyes bulged and he hoisted his spear forward at Sura. Pavo leapt to parry the thrust with his forearm. But the weapon simply lunged weakly between the pair and there was a sinewy rasp.

The urban guard stood stock still, still holding his sword, but his eyes were distant. Then blood erupted from his mouth. The guard’s body toppled forward, revealing the quivering and sweat soaked figure of Tarquitius, still holding the crimson coated dagger in his hand. ‘I…I want immunity over this…’ Tarquitius stammered.

‘There ‘e is!’ Another voice cut through the air. Behind Tarquitius, a trio of guards stood at the far end of the maze corridor, and then bundled forward with a cry.

‘Spare us!’ Tarquitius warbled.

‘This is it,’ Pavo gulped, backing against the dead-end hedgerow.

‘Not yet,’ Sura rasped, ‘This way!’ He yanked Pavo and Tarquitius with him as he pushed back through the hedge. The branches tore at them and they roared, blinded and bleeding until they stumbled out into another green-walled corridor. From the other side of the hedge, swearing broke out along with the thudding of men running into the back of each other.

‘Nice one,’ Pavo gasped, wincing at the stinging array of cuts. Then his eyes widened; more guards haring in on them — this time from both sides. ‘Let’s stick to the quick route!’

One after another, the three leapt into the defiant hedge wall, bursting through one, then another, then another. ‘Are we even going in the right direction?’ Sura moaned as they delved into another razor-like growth. Tumbling out onto the grass at the other side, they spluttered out leaves, and stood up to delve forward once more. But a set of ten sword points hovered at their noses. Ten pristine candidati glowered over them, standing on a set of marble steps leading up into a side entrance of the palace. Buccinas blared across the walls. The game was up.

To their right, Bishop Evagrius and his party burst free of the maze exit, thundering over to them, swords drawn. ‘Strike the intruders down!’ Evagrius roared.

Surrounded by iron, Pavo clenched his eyes tight and his stomach turned over. Suddenly, a voice boomed across the great hall.

‘The candidati take orders from the emperor and the emperor only!’

Emperor Valens was standing in the palace doorway, flanked by ten candidati, his face wrinkled with doubt. ‘What is the meaning of this? Who are these men?’ He whipped his purple toga clear of his feet as he moved down the steps and his face fell. ‘Bishop Evagrius? What business have you on palace grounds? Why do you have an armed escort?’ As he spoke, a twenty of candidati rounded on the urban guards and disarmed them. Then Valens pushed his line of ten candidati apart, his eyes falling on the bedraggled trio of Tarquitius, Pavo and Sura.

‘I remember you — Senator Tarquitius, isn’t it?’ Valens spoke quietly, eyeing the bedraggled, bleeding and sweating Tarquitius.

‘Well, technically…I was, my m…magnificent emperor,’ Tarquitius gushed. ‘I truly do not deserve to be in your presence, and I offer you my most sincere gratitude…’

‘Enough!’ Valens barked. ‘Give me answers, what is going on here?’

Pavo longed to unburden himself with the whole sorry tale, but he remembered Gallus’ words; you must only speak to the emperor and nobody else.

‘Assassins, Emperor,’ Evagrius barked.

‘No!’ Pavo and Sura gasped in unison.

‘They murdered many of your gate guards.’ Evagrius continued in an even, matter-of-fact tone.

‘He’s lying!’ Pavo roared.

Tarquitius’ mouth opened and then, with a glance at the bishop, closed again.

Pavo held the emperor’s gaze. For once, his nerves were stilled and his heart steady. ‘Emperor, we request a private audience with you.’

At this Evagrius roared with a rasping laughter, then his face snapped back to a pointed rage. ‘Do not hesitate, Emperor. They mean to end your reign. Slay them!’

A trio of candidati moved their sword points to hover by each of Pavo, Sura and Tarquitius’ jugulars, and then looked to their master for the order.

Valens eyed the kneeling three with an austere distaste. ‘You come to my palace, the heart of the empire, like this!’ He muttered, his nose wrinkled as he stared at each of them in turn. ‘You reek of treachery!’

Pavo’s spirit plunged into blackness. It was to end here.

‘Execute them, but imprison the senator,’ then he hesitated, ‘but take them outside, slice off their heads in the Augusteum — a fine lesson to any who would dare follow their example.’ With that, the emperor turned to ascend the steps back into the palace.

Pavo’s ribs cracked as the candidati hauled him up. He caught the resignation in Sura’s eyes. Then he thought of Father — the legionary, the hero. Now his son was to die as a traitor. The XI Claudia was doomed and Gallus and the rest were dead. ‘I’m sorry, Gallus,’ he rasped up to the darkening sky as the candidati butted him forward, blinking back tears. Then he stopped abruptly as the candidati on either side of him suddenly halted to stand bolt upright. He blinked. Valens now stood in front of him, cobalt eyes piercing.

‘Gallus?’ Valens spoke in a murmur, his eyes searching.

Pavo fixed his gaze on the emperor’s eyes.

‘The centurion of the XI Claudia?’

Pavo’s lips trembled. He felt the bishop’s eyes rake his features. ‘No. He’s now acting tribunus. Nerva has been slain.’

Valens’ face tightened, his lips almost white. He looked to the bishop, then to the senator. A moment of stillness passed, before he spoke, his voice ice cool. ‘Senator, bishop…and you two,’ he pointed to Pavo and Sura, ‘come to my strategy room.’

The candidati surrounded them, glowering.