The Scourge of Thracia

Chapter 12

The last leg of the march was swift and relentless — ever westwards like the scudding grey clouds. The two centuries of the XI Claudia hurried along the Via Militaris, leaving the winding green pastures of Thracia behind as they marched along this ancient, rising path towards the mountainous region that linked Thracia to the Diocese of Dacia. The Roman highway, ragged and in disrepair in the flatlands, was now all the more dilapidated here in the rugged highlands: where flagstones had been missing or hastily filled in with ill-fitting stones back in central Thracia, here there was no sign of attempted repair. Potholes dotted the road, filled with baked earth or pools of stagnant rainwater, and grass and shrubs had taken root in almost every join between the stones, as if Terra Mater was on the cusp of consuming the road that had dared to stride across her lands.

Pavo felt the chill winds tug at his cloak and drew it tighter. From his position at the rear of the column, he was pleased to see the recruits marching in something like a line and roughly in time. Then he frowned when three of them stumbled together and nearly brought the column to a farcical halt.

Dexion, having fallen back to march with him, sighed and sucked in a lungful of air. ‘There’s nothing you or I can do to improve them just now. All that matters is getting through this wilderness and to this mighty fort at Trajan’s Gate. There we can drill them properly — make them legionaries.’

Pavo swatted a fly from his face. ‘Aye, and they might be afforded helms and mail vests there too. Such things a soldier needs and such things a soldier makes.’

He glanced all around them, and saw that as the highway climbed, the land on either side grew jagged and craggy, parts cloaked in forests of pine and spruce. They couldn’t be far from the Succi Valley, he reckoned.

By early afternoon they came to a severe, straight valley, maybe five hundred paces wide and with steep sides carpeted in tall grass, winter blooms and russet ash thickets. It was almost a perfect V-shape — as if a titan had driven a plough through the earth and bedrock aeons ago. The highway stretched off along the floor of this furrow like a fading grey stripe.No wagon or army could traverse this countryside except via the road — despite the grievous state of disrepair it was in. The importance of this marching route was becoming clearer with every step.

Their breaths and footsteps echoed as they marched along this valley and tiny streamlets of rainwater gurgled by the side of the road. It seemed as if the valley might be infinite, until at last, the horizon changed, the valley floor narrowing to around two hundred paces and the valley sides seemingly intent on choking the highway.

Now the echoes were intense — every breath and scrape of boots repeated a hundred times. Pavo scanned the steep valley sides which loomed over the road like sentinels. Then his eye snagged on something coming into view, something perched halfway up the northern slope on a rocky spur — jutting stonework, framed by the valley side and the grey clouds above. A fort? he wondered, hearing the babble that broke out as the others saw it too. Or ruins? he mused as they drew closer: a red-brick fortress indeed. It sported three listing, antiquated towers, lichen-coated like the walls, which were also etched with deep, dark cracks. Despite it’s ruinous state, the structure peered down on the Via Militaris from its lofty perch as a raven might eye a mouse. He and Dexion jogged forward to the front of his century, drawing level with Zosimus and Sura. ‘An old legionary ruin?’

‘Must be,’ Zosimus agreed.

Sura scratched at his head. ‘If that’s a ruin, then who’s that up there?’

Pavo and Zosimus’ brows bent into frowns. Pavo saw it first. A handful of tiny forms up there were spilling from the fort’s twin-towered gatehouse and out to line the edge of the rocky spur. A sudden rustle of iron sounded as the rest of the XI Claudia saw them too, bringing shields a little higher and bracing in fear of attack.

‘Hold on, they’re ours. . ’ Dexion muttered in confusion.

‘At ease, they’re sagittarii,’ Gallus called back, confirming Dexion’s suspicion.

Pavo squinted and saw that they were indeed imperial archers. They wore bronze helms with nose-guards, fluttering red cloaks and scale vests, and carried their composite bows and quivers on their backs.

‘What’s a century of archers doing out in this wilderness?’ Zosimus agreed. ‘Maybe an escort that can take us through this grim ruin and onwards to Trajan’s Gate?’

Pavo saw the lone, sorry purple imperial banner fluttering atop the eastern tower and felt his heart sink into his belly. ‘Sir, I think this is Trajan’s Gate.’

Gallus felt his mood grow thornier as he left the Via Militaris, crossed a small brook and climbed the steep, winding scree-path up the northern valley side to the fort spur. There was little doubt, he affirmed, quickly unfurling the map; they had stayed on the Via Militaris for just under five hours since dawn. This was their destination. This was Trajan’s Gate, the mighty fortified choke-point that linked East to West. He could not suppress a derisive snort. The dilapidated fort that guarded this valley seemed to have been paid little attention since the reign of Trajan himself, hundreds of years ago. And they had passed not a single lookout, watchtower or beacon on the approach to this place.

‘Who goes there?’ an archer with a tuft of red plumage on his helm called down to them from the top of the path.

Gallus tucked away the scroll, raised a hand to halt the column, then peered up the path and addressed the archer.

‘Tribunus Gallus of the XI Claudia. I bring my legion to reinforce the defences of Trajan’s Gate,’ he wondered if he had unconsciously inflected the term defences. ‘We bring word for Comes Geridus.’

‘The XI Claudia?’ the sagittarius frowned, eyeing the motley collection of ancient and mismatched shields the recruits carried, then he shrugged in acceptance when he saw the ruby bull banner carried by Quadratus and waved them on up.

Gallus waved his men on once more, leading them up and onto the grass-carpeted plateau. As the rest of the XI Claudia filtered up onto the plateau, Gallus took a moment to survey the place properly. The spur was nestled into the valley side which sheltered it from the north and offered a fine view over the imperial road below to the south. A juniper grove had claimed the flat ground to the rear of the spur and abutted the fort’s northern wall. The fort itself took up about half of the remaining space on the plateau and, owing to the limitations imposed by the terrain, it was an oddly-shaped structure, tapering in width from west to east: the western wall before him, dominated by a moss and root entangled twin-towered gatehouse — clearly of the time of Trajan as he had suspected — was forty paces wide while the eastern wall looked like it was less than thirty paces wide and sported a single tower at its centre. The southern wall which looked down on the Via Militaris was some seventy paces long and featureless apart from a grievous, shuddering crack down its middle wide enough for a man to squeeze through. Likewise, the battlements along the wall and tower tops were in a ruinous state, large sections almost devoid of walkway or parapet. And not a single sentry up there, he realised.

He turned his attentions back to the gatehouse before him. The northern gatetower looked like a good push might topple it, but the southern gatetower was slightly less ramshackle and at least showed signs of recent repair. By the foot of this tower, there was a shadowy hole dug into the plateau floor: a tunnel with steps carved into the rock, he realised, leading down through the valleyside to the valley floor — probably giving sheltered access to the brook down by the Via Militaris. Then he looked up; this southern gatetower also had a reasonably intact parapet. . and there was something else up there, he realised, seeing some bulky object atop the tower. He craned his neck and peered at this, framed by the fast-moving grey clouds. Whatever it was, it was huge. .

The centurion of the sagittarii saluted stiffly. ‘Comes Geridus is in the fort, sir,’ he said, gesturing to the double gateway leading inside.

Gallus clicked his fingers and ordered the rank and file of the XI Claudia to fall out by the juniper grove. As the recruits gratefully set down their marching packs and dug out their rations, he beckoned his officers with him. His eyes narrowed as he noticed a dark earth mound by the foot of the walls. A fresh grave? Then he noticed the recently — and badly — hewn replacement gate resting inside the gatehouse and awaiting installation.

‘Repairs?’ Pavo guessed.

‘Or firewood,’ Sura snorted.

‘They’ve had a shot at it,’ Zosimus offered.

‘They’ve made an arse of it, you mean,’ Quadratus countered.

‘There’s work to be done here,’ Dexion surmised.

‘There is,’ Gallus concluded. ‘How smoothly that work will go depends on who commands this pass. Barzimeres set some memorable standards for incompetence, but let us pray that he is not outdone by this. . Geridus.’

The two archers flanking the gateless arch parted with a salute. They seemed disciplined enough, he thought.

The space inside the fort walls was cramped. A small grain silo, a baking kiln and a lone barrack block big enough to house a century and no more lined the northern wall and a lean-to timber stable rested against the southern wall. A handful of riders in military tunics and boots stood nearby, eating bowls of stew and casting furtive glances at the newcomers. Gallus met their gazes but quickly turned his attentions to the dusty, smoke-stained, two storeyed principia in the centre of the fort that dominated the limited space. Two more archers waited at the doorway there, again parting as he approached. They entered into a windowless hall where light and dark battled. A roaring fire crackled in a blackened hearth, filling the space with a welcome heat. The room was otherwise barren and dusty, with just a table by the fire. A bald, bulky, white-bearded man sat there, hunched over a map.

‘Tribunus Gallus of the XI Claudia,’ Gallus said. The man did not look up. Gallus strode closer and cleared his throat, expecting the man to latch onto their presence at any moment. But as he came to within a pace of the table, he saw the firelight dance in this man’s eyes. They were lost, gazing through the map and off into memory. The man was old, certainly — maybe approaching sixty — but he still had the tall, powerful frame of a warrior, despite the tattered old citizen’s robes he wore.

Gallus halted by the table, the others fanning out by his side. Silence hung over them, with only the occasional sound of snapping kindling piercing it.

‘You are Comes Geridus, the famous Master of the Passes?’ Gallus said, uncertain this was the man he sought.

The man did not flinch, and still he did not look up. ‘Famous you say?’ he replied at last, his voice a deep, baritone burr, entirely devoid of inflection. ‘Perhaps. Yet fame is a joyless commodity; like a fire without heat or a meal without nourishment. Fame follows me like a pig with bad wind: creates a fair din and offers nothing other than a sinful odour.’ He chuckled dryly. ‘Master of the Passes? No, not any more. Now, I am merely the Coward of Ad Salices. And that,’ he wagged a finger, ‘is a truly sour fame.’

Gallus’ eyes flicked to the floor momentarily as he remembered the words of the half-maddened Governor Urbicus of Trimontium.

A craven old man. He will offer you nothing.

His mind swept back to the Battle of Ad Salices. The late arrival of the western legions had been vital, Comes Richomeres leading those armies to the field just when it seemed certain that the Thracian armies might be crushed by Fritigern’s Goths. Richomeres had been hailed as a hero for snatching a dignified stalemate from the jaws of defeat, but there had been other whispers passed around too, of another western general who had been sent to the battle but had never arrived.

‘They said I turned back through fear,’ Geridus said as if following Gallus’ pondering. ‘Yet I have known decades of war, my skin is laced with cuts and my dreams are filled with the shades of lost comrades.’

Gallus frowned, wondering just how far this old man had reached inside his thoughts. ‘No man who stands with the legions in battle is a coward, sir.’

Geridus looked up now, beholding Gallus and the others with his hazel eyes, his black and wispy eyebrows in stark contrast with his white beard. His skin was mottled with age and bagged around his eyes.

‘Yet they call me just that; the Coward of Ad Salices,’ he muttered, pouring himself a cup of wine — not the first of the day, Gallus guessed going by the man’s rubicund, fleshy and thread-veined nose. ‘And I cannot deny them such accusations. . for I did indeed turn back. My once powerful limbs would not carry me to war.’

The man met Gallus’ eyes, no, pinned him. At last, Gallus had to look away.

Geridus laughed a hoarse and throaty laugh. ‘You have nothing more to say? What does one say to console a coward who accepts his shame?’

Gallus noticed then, in the far corner of the room, a saddle, boots, shield, a swordbelt bearing a gem-hilted spatha, a magnificent bronze cuirass and a red plumed helm — all mounted on a timber frame. The fine armour was coated in dust like everything else, and cobwebs billowed with every breeze that stole into the room. Unused for some time, it seemed. ‘One might offer a second chance. Perhaps, sir, the holding of this pass might rinse the stain from your reputation?’

Geridus held Gallus’ gaze blankly for a moment, then roared with laughter, the throaty burr echoing throughout the room as if a hundred men had been tickled by Gallus’ words. When the laughter died, he shook his head. ‘My reputation is broken, Tribunus, irrefutably. I am merely waiting now.’

‘Waiting?’ Gallus frowned.

‘To be discharged. In the spring, another is to replace me. Maurus — a cruel, fickle and untrustworthy dog who has bought the favour of Emperor Gratian. So my reward is to spend my final years in retirement, recounting my shame with every passing day until the ferryman comes for me.’

Gallus sensed Geridus’ melancholy creeping under his armour, and knew it would be affecting those by his side too. ‘A winter lies between you and retirement, Comes. Is that not enough to offer you a chance of redemption? Certainly, last winter was enough to turn the eastern empire on her head, so surely it should not be asking too much for one man to guide his own fate this year? The empire needs men like you at this very moment. Indeed, I have been sent here to forewarn you of the situation. The five passes have fallen and the Goths have spilled into central Thracia. This defile has become vital once more, for if Emperor Gratian and his Western armies are to come to the aid of this land, then-’

Geridus raised a hand, beholding Gallus with a keen eye and an odd grin. ‘I remember when I was like you — free of my ailments and iron to my core. . ’

Gallus’ patience was thinning. ‘Sir, my legion is here to help you in holding this pass until Emperor Gratian and his army come east in the spring. The vigour of my men and I will aid your cause. I hope you will put your all into the task then Gratian will see you for the man you are, and not be guided by the whispered rumours of the ambitious who have plotted to supercede you.’

Geridus’ eyes changed for just a moment. In their depths, Gallus was sure he saw an ember glowing as the Comes thought over the suggestion, then he winced, a hand shooting down to his shin. He rubbed at the robes there, his face pinched in pain. Silence overcame the room again, until Geridus sat up at last with a sigh, scratching at his shiny bald pate and turning back to the map. ‘Perhaps, Tribunus. . perhaps.’ His eyes fell upon the area west of Trajan’s Gate. He tapped a finger on this section. ‘But as things stand, Gratian might not travel east at all.’

Gallus tensed. ‘That is impossible. It has been agreed. I heard confirmation of this from the lips of Emperor Valens in Antioch.’

Geridus sighed, eyes darting over the map. ‘Valens’ hopes are one thing. Reality is another. Gratian has his own difficulties at the moment,’ he said tapping the region around the Western Diocese of Italia’s northern borders and the precarious gap between the natural barriers of the upper Danubius and Rhine. ‘The Alemanni are said to be on the verge of revolt. Their King, Priarius, is a fractious whoreson.’ He then tapped the area marked as the Western Diocese of Pannonia, north and west of Trajan’s Gate, skirting the River Danubius’ upper course. ‘And here, the Quadi raid the western borders like wolves, fiercer than any Goth, I can assure you.’

‘Hearsay has no place over imperial orders,’ Gallus snapped, sensing his modicum of hope fading. Gratian must come west! I will have my revenge!

Geridus’ thick, dark eyebrows lifted like a dissatisfied teacher. ‘This is not hearsay, Tribunus. The last word that came from the West confirmed Gratian’s troubles. That was over two weeks ago, and there have been no more messengers since. . normally we expect Cursus Publicus messengers on a daily basis.’

Gallus felt his flesh creep with ire. Justice! ‘Then surely we can despatch messengers westwards to implore him? The five passes have fallen. More than one hundred thousand Goths sit in the heart of Thracia right now,’ he leant over the map table and shot a finger out to the east. ‘Every inch of Roman land from here to the Hellespont is on the brink of collapse.’

Geridus sighed and took a long gulp of wine, that distant look returning to his eyes as he gazed into the fire. ‘I will send no more riders to Gratian.’

Gallus backed away from the table. ‘Why?’

Geridus flicked his head to the rear of the room. ‘Resigned though I may be, I have no wish to abandon my duties. I have just eighty archers to defend this pass. Outside, I have eleven horses and eleven equites remaining. Two weeks ago, I had thirty — and thirty men to ride them. Two parties I have sent west to establish what has happened with the imperial messenger system. The first I heard nothing from for a week. The second the same again. . until one of them returned here, torn and bloodied. He and his men had found the bodies of the first party then fell into a Quadi ambush themselves. He died this morning.’

Gallus thought of the fresh grave outside.

Geridus tapped a finger on the map again and dragged it from Trajan’s Gate, tracing a line northwest, up through the westerly stretches of the Succi Valley and on across the Dioceses of Dacia and Pannonia, before coming to the River Danubius and following its course to the Diocese of Italia. ‘This route is fraught, and riddled with foes. The Quadi insurgents that took the heads of my riders have doubtless been responsible for the non-appearance of messengers or scouts coming from Gratian’s court. They control many of the roads in Dacia and Pannonia. Thus, I will not send more of my precious few to their deaths.’

Gallus drew a spare stool and sat opposite Geridus, steepling his fingers and fixing the man with a gimlet stare. ‘Comes. . Emperor Gratian must be told that the five passes have fallen.’

Geridus remained exasperatingly unmoved by Gallus’ agitation. ‘Then show me the legions that will clear a path to the West to tell him. Until then, Gratian shall remain in his palace within the walls of Augusta Treverorum in Gaul, ignorant of the troubles of this land.’ He lifted his cup, swirled it, then frowned. ‘You eye me with contempt?’

Gallus heard the steely edge to his tone and relented, feigning deference to his superior. ‘You state only grim reality, sir. But to accept it is to succumb to it.’

‘What would you have me do?’ Geridus continued, then gestured towards the door, where one of the sagittarii stood guard. ‘You have seen how it is. I have just a century of bowmen to command. The legions of Pannonia are fully engaged on the Upper Danubius and as stretched as these forces are. I have no means of getting word to Gratian’s court.’

‘Allies, then?’ Gallus suggested. ‘Some who might carry word for us?’

Geridus sighed and rubbed at his temples. ‘There is a band of Sarmatians roaming somewhere on the pasturelands near the Danubius. They have sided with the legions of Pannonia in the past, but they are screened by the Quadi and equally as out of reach as Emperor Gratian is.’

‘There must be something, some way,’ Gallus’ eyes darted as he thought over the infrastructure of the empire’s messenger system. Roads, waystations, well-fed horses and riders. A single scroll could travel from Londinium to Alexandria in under three weeks. That system was in pieces, it seemed. The first fracture that might lead to a collapse? His mind swung back and forth, then fixed on one idea. ‘Let me try,’ he said at last.

Geridus supped his drink calmly and remained in a state of torpor. ‘Go on.’

‘Let me lead a contubernium west.’

Geridus’ dark eyebrows shot up. ‘You have not heard a word I said,’ he tapped the map west of Trajan’s Gate again as he said this.

‘I heard and heeded every word,’ Gallus countered.

Geridus swirled his cup and drank some more, his eyes never leaving Gallus. ‘I am ordering you and your men to stay put, Tribunus.’

That night, a cold wind howled through the pass and the junipers rustled and hissed over the square of XI Claudia tents pitched on the patch of free flat ground just outside the fort entrance. Pavo flitted up the stone-stepped, rounded tunnel that led from the valley floor, emerged from the tunnel mouth and out onto the plateau by the southern gatetower. He handed the skin of fresh brook water to Cornix and sat next to him and Trupo, watching as the former painstakingly chopped garlic and onion into tiny pieces before frying it in bacon fat over the fire. The aroma was delicious as it was, but Cornix then proceeded to add crushed juniper berries and the meat from a rabbit they had caught just before sundown along with a few splashes of the cool water. Eventually, Cornix handed him a strip of cooked meat. Pavo chewed on the succulent flesh, the juices rich with flavour and warming in his belly. ‘Mithras, Cornix, where in the empire did you learn to cook like that?’

Cornix shrugged, nudging at the remaining frying meat with his dagger. ‘I picked things up here and there. A legionary who can cook tends to enjoy a few extra benefits,’ he said, lifting his wineskin and shaking it — clearly holding more than the usual meagre ration.

Pavo chuckled and supped on his own skin of watered, soured wine, casting occasional glances to Gallus’ tent. Geridus’ rebuttal of Gallus’ pleas had left an icy tension hanging over the cramped spur. Gallus had retired to his tent early, and Pavo could only imagine what levels of anger Geridus’ refusal had stoked in him.

‘He’ll take it out on us, most probably,’ Sura said, sitting down with them and taking a piece of cooked rabbit for himself. He chewed for a moment, eyes sweeping back and forth as if in judgement. ‘A bit more garlic,’ he nodded. ‘Aye, just another pinch. I cooked for the Governor of Adrianople once, you see. . ’

Trupo and Cornix smirked and just caught the laughs as they saw Pavo roll his eyes.

‘Lauded me all that day, he did. Set me up to cook for others. I’d have been rich. . if it wasn’t for the dodgy wine someone poured for him later in the evening. They say he was on the latrine for a full two days — half his normal size when he finally came out.’ Sura’s face wrinkled as if to reassure himself. ‘Definitely the wine,’ he affirmed.

Pavo turned away to mask a chuckle, then noticed Dexion stalking amongst the campfires. He welcomed the thought of another chance to chat with his brother: every time they had done so in their short time together had been like a salve to both men’s hearts. Simple talk of simple things — tales of their childhoods, their time in the legions, memories or stories of Father — had made the bleak present almost bearable. And Felicia? Well they did not talk of her, but whenever their chatter fell into a lull, Pavo’s thoughts swiftly turned to her. At these times he also noticed his brother’s eyes growing distant and doleful and knew that their thinking was in harmony. So he stood, waving a hand to catch Dexion’s attention and then to the empty spot by his side. But Dexion’s face was creased, tawny-gold eyes darting this way and that. ‘Sir?’ he said, sticking to decorum whilst there were other soldiers within earshot.

Dexion put a finger to his lips in a plea for quiet, then beckoned him and Sura.

The pair stood and walked over to join Dexion, who had halted by the juniper grove and was now cupping an ear to the night.

‘What is that?’ he started and then stopped. A ghostly, muffled tink-tink of iron sounded. It was as if it was echoing from a great distance away, but nearby at the same time, coming and going with the breeze.

‘A goat herder?’ Sura mused, looking off into the night, his face betraying his own doubt.

‘No, not the iron tapping noise. . that,’ Dexion insisted.

Pavo and Sura strained, hearing nothing. Then. . a voice. A lone voice, coming and going over the whistling wind, speaking from somewhere in the blackness.

Fine, strong limbs. Ferocious talons. Time does not ravage you as it does me, it seems.

Pavo, Sura and Dexion looked to one another uncertainly, then followed the direction of the voice.

Aye, they once called me the Master of the Passes. Long, long ago. Perhaps if I had the opportunity to throw you into battle, dear friend, I might be known as such again. But time has caught up with me at last.

Pavo’s eyes widened. That burring voice. ‘Geridus!’ he whispered.

Sura and Dexion looked to him, eyes widening in realisation, then Sura slapped a hand across Pavo’s chest and pointed up. On top of the southern gatetower, a silhouetted, tall and broad figure hobbled awkwardly on a cane. It was unmistakeably Geridus, and he seemed to be circling the bulky, hide covered shape up there. ‘What in the name of Mithras is he doing?’

‘More importantly. . who is he talking to?’ Dexion added. The tower was out of bounds, Geridus had insisted.

Pavo’s skin crept as the chill wind stole the eerie chatter away again.