Legionary

Chapter 80

Constantinople shook from the cheering. Buccinas sang out from the rooftops of the Baths of Zeuxippus and from the column-tops of the Augusteum as the triumph rolled down past the Hippodrome to the Imperial Palace. The streets swayed back and forth with a sea of citizens, striving to get the best view of the procession. The six white horses that led the gilded chariot at the head of the column wore every piece of decorative armour they could carry. In the chariot was the austere figure of Valens standing straight and tall, skin flecked with silver paint and hair combed forward pristinely. Despite neither raising a sword nor shedding a drop of his own blood, this would go down as his victory. It was he who had readied the relief army on his basis of his suspicions. And it was he who had gifted the Bosporus peninsula to Amalric as a federated kingdom — a magnanimous gesture that had thrilled the Goths and cemented the alliance with Fritigern.

Behind Valens, another, larger and unadorned chariot rolled along bearing Dux Vergilius, Tribunus Vitus, the newly promoted Tribunus Gallus and a rather bemused looking Amalric. Gallus slapped a hand on Amalric’s shoulder in reassurance while he lapped up the adoration of the crowd.

Behind them, the first century of the XI Claudia marched in perfect order, a paragon of empire far removed from the reality of the battlefield; intercisa helmets sparkling, their shark-fin crests bobbing like a field of iron crop; shields repainted freshly in ruby and gold, emblazoned with the bull emblem and matching the freshly embroidered banner fluttering under the eagle standard; tunics whitened to perfection and newly dyed with the distinctive purple trim. A visit to the fort at Durostorum had seen them pick up an extra hundred and fifty fledgling soldiers to repopulate the century for the triumph. Indeed, the legion now numbered barely two standard centuries in total, but the cold hard facts could be dealt with tomorrow.

In the front rank, Pavo pulled in a lungful of dusty air — the old city smell teased the poignant memory of that day Tarquitius had bought him from the slave market. But in the six months he had been away with the legion, so much had changed for him that he felt like a giant. He had lived in the city as the senator’s slave. He had left the city as a freedman, doomed to die on the end of a barbarian sword. Now, he had returned to the city as a man, a citizen and a legionary; to all intents and purposes a veteran. A grin wriggled across his face and then an itch stung just behind his eyes, if Father could see me now.

‘When are you meeting her?’ Sura bawled into his ear beside him.

‘Eh?’ Pavo uttered, craning his neck towards his friend. ‘Oh, Felicia?’ His neck burned. On the stop off at the legion fort by Durostorum he had begged for a brief leave and thundered across the plain to the town, barging through traders and sentries to get to The Boar and the Hollybush. Stumbling into the tavern like a drunk, he had scrabbled in his knapsack to find the Gothic necklaces he had bought with his pay, but the emptiness of the place stopped him; no laughter, no roaring. Just Felicia’s father, standing with his hands on his hips behind the bar. He had mumbled an introduction while the man glared at him, searching him with his eyes. ‘You’re the toerag from the night of the brawl!’ He had growled. Pavo stuttered an apology and then added an invitation to the triumph to him and Felicia before leaving the necklaces on the bar and scuttling back outside. Maybe he wasn’t such a worldly-wise man quite yet, he thought, his cheeks glowing red now at the memory. ‘She…she’s probably held up — you know what the roads are like when there is a triumph on?’

‘Sod it; there’ll be plenty of girls happy to look after the heroes. There are hundreds of them — look!’ Sura jabbed an elbow into his friend, nodding to the throngs of painted faces, all shapes and sizes, throwing kisses and winks like confetti.

Pavo afforded a half-grin as the palace gates up ahead creaked open and Valens entered. Shortly after, the emperor would address the crowd from the walls, and in the meantime, the rest of the column would merge with the crowd and the party would begin.

He sucked in another breath as the tidal wave of revellers closed in all around them — letting the fresh promise of the early summer air wash over him. A tingle rippled up his spine as the roar of the crowd grew deafening. Men slapped his back, held sacks of wine to his lips and hoisted him onto their shoulders. He caught sight of Sura being swept away likewise, eyes wide and roaring with laughter. A chuckle of disbelief tumbled from his lips too as he was passed along on top of the crowd. So this was glory, this was the moment to savour, he mused.

‘Let’s hear it for the Claudia!’ He roared, punching the air as the men set him down and handed him the wine sack. He gazed into the azure sky as the bittersweet liquid rolled down his throat.

Felicia’s stomach was in knots. She barged through the ruddy-faced and grinning throng on the streets, all vying to get into the heart of the celebrations in the Augusteum. Every character she bundled from her path embodied the emotions she wished to feel once again.

But all she could see, feel and hear was her long dead brother, Curtius. Her heart ached as she saw his face again, a weak, pining expression. Curtius had played the reluctant conscript and played it well. He had once told her that an imperial agent could not be conspicuously competent. However, to be found slain, throat cut from ear to ear, inside his own fort…she closed her eyes, blinking back the tears.

Wading into the centre of the Augusteum, she thought of Pavo; a sweet boy, a boy she could see herself with if life wasn’t so…complicated. No, her life was all about infiltrating the XI Claudia now, all about finding those responsible for the death of Curtius. All about finding the counteragent, the hired dagger in the ranks of the XI Claudia. Despite the legion’s losses, the culprit was still serving in her ranks — one of the veterans, apparently, or so her sources told her. Pavo was her new key into that dark stony bulwark back at Durostorum. She would obtain justice, she grimaced, justice dealt with her own hand. Blood would be let, she shuddered, and let in the gallon.

She saw Pavo at last, tipping a wine sack to his lips. Still the skinny, hawk-faced creature she remembered fondly. She wiped her eyes dry, took a deep breath and smiled. They could still have some fun before the storm…

Confetti swirled lazily amidst the warm breeze as the triumph party roared on. The streets of Constantinople continued to effervesce as the population cheered, drank and danced in waiting for Valens’ speech. After that, the celebrations would continue long into the evening.

Meanwhile, Pavo remained in a lasting embrace with Felicia under a small archway in the shade. Seemingly invisible to the crowd at last, he nuzzled into her sweet scented neck and ran a hand back and forth through her tumbling amber locks.

‘I thought you’d have forgotten about me?’ He asked, holding her chin in his hands, gazing into her blue eyes and drinking in her beauty.

‘Well, maybe I had for a while. But you’re my free pass to a triumph, and I couldn’t miss out, could I?’ She teased. ‘My father’s down for the weekend trading anyway, so like a good girl I offered to come and help him…’

They fell silent for a moment again, before Felicia looked up into his eyes.

‘So when you go back to Durostorum. Are you there to stay?’ She asked.

Pavo felt his mind drift to the previous day in the legionary fort. The debriefing had involved talk of an emergency vexillatio from the remainder of the legion being sent north of the Danubius, where Athanaric’s Gothic armies were rebelling against Fritigern and teetering on a full-scale invasion. Something was wrong up there. Badly wrong. He felt the onset of a frown, before checking it with a laugh.

‘Next thing for me is to go for a drink and to properly meet your father!’

He wrapped his arms around her waist tightly, pulled her as close as he could and pressed his mouth firmly against her soft cherry lips.

‘Pavo!’ A gruff and familiar voice roared.

Pavo twisted round in alarm. Three faces grinned back at him; Felix, flanked by Zosimus and Sura.

‘Permission to fall out granted!’ Felix cackled, before they disappeared again into the midst of the revelry.

From the balcony, Tarquitius let the silk curtain fall shut again. When things had seemed lost, he had pulled off a masterstroke with his wit and charm. The missing bishop had been disgraced as a traitor and rumour was that his gilded bones hung in Balamber the Hun’s tent. Meanwhile the senate had been restored and him along with it as a senior senator. But Valens was no puppet — that was for sure. But as always, he would outmanoeuvre the man; his next move would just have to be shrewder than ever.

He grinned, sipping his watered wine and inhaling the afternoon air through his nostrils. The comeback didn’t end there, he gloried; young Pavo had been little use to him as a slave. But now, now he had a contact right in the heart of the army. And at his meeting with Athanaric the previous week, he had promised a strong network of military contacts to smooth the coming Gothic invasion.

Maybe, he mused, it would be prudent to play dice with the young man whom he had magnanimously freed from the bonds of slavery. What else did he have over the boy, he mused? Then he remembered the old crone from the slave market that day. Her words hissed in his head and he shivered. The curse had chilled his very blood. No, some things he could never tell another soul. But it was the person who had sent the crone that could be most useful. Yes, maybe it was time to play that card…to his advantage, of course.

Pavo’s father might well have a part to play in this game, he grinned…