The Scourge of Thracia

Chapter 14

Veda raced after the fleeing Roman through daylight and black night. For seven days the chase continued, his sturdy steppe pony never quite swift enough to match the Roman piebald’s pace, but strong enough to ride on and regain lost ground while the Roman beast had to rest. And this morning, the chase would end, he vowed.

He clung to his galloping pony’s neck and basked in the chill late-October wind whipping across his face and furring the wolf skin on his head. White cloud streaked the blue heavens as if cast there by Tengri the Sky God himself, the tall grass before him stretched for miles and if he ignored the snow-clad Haemus Mountains to the north, he could almost imagine that he was on the great steppe once more — the home he and his people had left behind to seek bounty in Roman lands as allies with the Goths. For that moment, he was home, almost heedless of the vital task Reiks Farnobius had set him.

Then something wrenched him from his reverie. An assault on the senses. He slowed, sitting tall on the saddle, his nose shooting skywards like a hound on the scent. His eyes fixed on the weak pall of smoke rising from a depression in the tall grass, barely a quarter of a mile ahead. He slowed his pony to a canter as he approached the small patch of flattened grass. He could smell it now: woodsmoke. And he could hear the crackling of kindling and snorting and shuffling of a tired mount. His rodent-features bent into a chill grin, and he slipped from the saddle and crept towards the source of the noise. Parting the tall grass like curtains, he beheld the filthy, shaking Roman, crouching, back turned, heaping more grass and twigs onto the feeble fire he had kindled. The man was shivering uncontrollably, dressed only in a light tunic, and his chestnut mare lay on its belly, still lathered with sweat from the relentless flight.

A swift beast and a skilful rider, aye, mused Veda, but you thought that when the horizon was between me and you, you were safe. That was your mistake.

Veda’s brow dipped, his eyes sparkling and fixed on the Roman’s neck as he silently drew a sickle from his belt. Then he leapt like a preying cat.

It was only the startled whinny of the exhausted mare that foiled his strike. The Roman swung round, throwing out an arm that caught the sickle blade as Veda descended. The blade slashed the edge of the Roman’s wrist and chipped bone, while the Roman’s fist crashed into Veda’s jaw. A burst of white light exploded behind Veda’s eyes and he rolled through the grass. An instant later though, he was back on his feet, only to see the Roman speeding off into the swaying, shoulder-high grass like a panicked deer, trying in vain to call back his bolting mare.

Veda noticed the dark rivulets of blood staining the grass and marking the Roman’s path. He touched his fingers to the blood, then brought them up to his nostrils, sniffing then grinning once more.

Run for your life, Roman. It’ll make the kill all the sweeter, he mused as he leapt back upon his steppe pony and heeled her on in pursuit. Just like the great hunt in the steppes, he enthused, I can toy with this dog. Circle him, herd him, pin him into a corner. . then peel the skin from his body. First, perhaps I should deal with his fleetness of foot. .

He drew his composite bow, nocked, drew with thumb, forefinger and middle finger, then loosed. The arrow whizzed through the air and thwacked into the Roman’s shoulder. Blood puffed and the Roman dropped into the grass and disappeared from sight.

‘No!’ Veda growled, angered that he might have killed his prey all too quickly. Then, when the Roman re-emerged, clutching his wounded shoulder and running — but with far less alacrity this time — Veda’s rictus returned. Chuckling, he took a swig of fermented mare’s milk and sighed in contentment, then trotted after the Roman.

He was gaining on the fleeing man easily, and took to eyeing the land ahead: foothills and rugged highland. He watched as the Roman burst from the edge of the sea of grass, then loped on into those hills. The man was weakening from his wounds, Veda noted with relish, seeing him scramble and fall as he tried to ascend a steep, craggy bank, leaving smears of blood from his wounds as he did so. Still, the dog managed to reach the top of this hill. Veda kicked his mount on in pursuit. At the crest, he halted, seeing the Roman flailing down the far side and then stumbling onwards along the floor of a great, steep-sided valley. And what a valley: it was as if a great plough had been dragged, undeterred, through the mountainous terrain. Then his eyes fell upon the broad stripe of dilapidated grey flagstones that ran up the heart of this valley. The Roman Road, Veda realised.

I had better be swift, he affirmed, fearing that the Roman might find shelter or comrades here. He hoisted his sickle and checked that the edge was keen. Keen enough to peel flesh, he mused, then kicked his pony into a gallop. The thunder of hooves on earth exploded into a loud clacking as the pony burst onto the Roman road. Veda leant from the saddle, holding the curved blade out, ready to swipe at the back of the Roman’s neck, almost tasting the scent of his bloodied wrist and shoulder in the air. Forty paces behind, twenty, five. He shrieked as he drew the blade back to swipe when, at the last, he pulled out of the blow. His nose shot in the air again, and his head switched to the small ash thicket on the southern valley side. There, a pile of fallen leaves rustled, something was hiding in there. Not an animal — something larger! Veda’s eyes bulged and at once he swung his composite bow from his back, nocked and drew with thumb, forefinger and middle finger. As he took aim, two silver figures burst from the leaves and in the same movement, hurled something at him.

The first lead-weighted plumbata pierced his chest and tore his heart in two. The second ripped his jaw from his skull. His arrow loosed askew as he was thrown back from the saddle. For Veda, the hunt was over.

Pavo staggered forward as the dart leapt from his grip, leaves falling from him and a grunt escaping his lips. Sura roared by his side, loosing likewise. The darts hammered into the Hun rider before he could loose his bow, and the arrow shot skywards as the rider fell back in a cloud of blood. Instantly, Pavo swung away from the corpse, his muscles tensed as he looked down the valley and off across the grasslands from where the Hun rider had come, sure this one was just the first of many. The streaking, scudding clouds overhead played tricks with his eyes, casting shadows across the hills like onrushing warbands. But the land was empty.

‘Just one rider?’ Sura said, panting by his side.

Pavo frowned, then glanced over his shoulder at the hobbling Roman the Hun had been pursuing. The man had fallen to his knees by the roadside, a handful of paces away. They could tend to him in a moment — first, there were bigger questions to be answered. ‘Why would a Hun rider be out here, alone? They ride in packs.’

‘Not another bugger to be seen!’ Zosimus called down to them from his lookout post — little more than a hole dug into the hillside to offer the sentries a modicum of shelter from the winds — on the opposite valley side. Cornix and Trupo were up there also, shielding their eyes and scouring the surrounding lands just to be sure. Eventually, they confirmed it. ‘Not a soul moves out there, sir.’

Zosimus jogged down the valley side, his eyes still combing the land. ‘That’s what worries me,’ he murmured to Pavo and Sura. ‘This advance watch was a good idea,’ he flicked a finger to each of the discreet lookout posts here at the start of the Succi valley, about a half-mile east of the pinch-point and the fort itself — Gallus had managed to convince the lethargic Geridus to establish this. ‘But still this bastard managed to ride within bowshot of us before we noticed him,’ he added, nudging the wrecked corpse of the Hun with his boot while Trupo and Cornix descended the northern valley side then came to help the wounded Roman to his feet.

Pavo nodded. ‘If more of them were to come this way, they might have us before we can get word back to the fort.’

‘More are coming,’ a desperate, panting voice said behind them. They turned to the wounded Roman. His face was caked in soot and dirt, but still they could see the greyness of imminent death beneath. Trupo and Cornix could not support his weight and he crumpled to his knees. His head lolled on his shoulders and his eyes rolled back in their sockets.

Pavo, Sura and Zosimus shared a chill look.

‘What did he say?’ Zosimus demanded.

Pavo dropped to one knee and cupped the man’s head in his hands. ‘More are coming?’

The man’s skin was damp with sweat and icy-cold, and Pavo felt the pulse on his neck weakening and slowing.

‘Who? From Where? How many?’ Sura added, joining Pavo in crouching before the man.

‘He has broken from Fritigern’s horde. . with his men. Five thousand men. He is coming. . to break this pass. . to ravage the western cities,’ the man slurred. ‘He took the gold mines of Abdera a week ago.’

‘Who?’ Zosimus demanded.

The man’s eyes flared as if recalling some nightmarish memory. ‘Far. . Farnobius,’ he finished. His next breath escaped with a death rattle.

Pavo stared into the dead man’s eyes, the last word ringing in his ears.

A gentle hubbub of muttering sounded across the fort plateau as the XI Claudia centuries got into line, marshalled by Dexion and Quadratus as the big Gaul readied to outline the training they would receive over the next few months to take them from raw recruits to battle-ready legionaries. Gallus stood nearby, watching over them. He saw the young lads’ eyes flick furtively towards him again and again, looks of fear, admiration, awe. Gallus felt only guilt; guilt that he knew his heart was not here with them as it should be. They were to be trained to die for their brothers and here he was, mind constantly drifting to the west, wondering, hoping, longing for nothing other than his chance to seize revenge.

As Quadratus strode menacingly back and forth before them, letting his silence stoke talons of fear within the young lads’ bellies, Gallus tried to concentrate on the job in hand. Martial rigour was one of the few things that eased his troubled thoughts, so he focused on the big Gaul’s crunching footsteps. One, two, three, four. . he counted.

Tink-tink-tink-tink. Came another sound, almost in time. From behind him? He blinked, frowned, glanced over his shoulder and around the plateau. Nothing. Then again, a moment later.

Tink-tink-tink-tink. It was here and yet not here. Before him and yet not. Coming and going with the fresh breeze. Was this some trick of the Gods?

As Quadratus gleefully started some vicious homily, Gallus turned away, sure this odd noise could be pinpointed. It sounded again — over by the fort gates, he was sure. He stepped towards it, ears pricking up, yet when he got there, it sounded again. . to his left? And as soon as he turned round to face that direction, it came again — tink-tink — but this time to his right. He swung in that direction to see the juniper grove; only a thick mesh of trunks and branches. ‘What in Hades is that?’ he whispered, turning back to face the troops again. Then he froze as, from the corner of his eye, something snagged. It was a hunter’s instinct. Had something moved in there, amongst the trees? Cold fingers of doubt walked up his spine as he turned back to the grove. He saw that, indeed, a branch of one tree was quivering. He stalked towards the grove, his breath held. As he did so he heard something else: the faint snapping of twigs and bracken within. Deer? he wondered, peering into the shadows. He reached up to part the branches and look inside, when a shrill cry pierced the air from behind him.

‘Sir!’

He swung round to face the cry, as did Dexion, Quadratus and all of the recruits. Three figures emerged up the scree path and stumbled onto the plateau. Zosimus, Pavo and Sura. The grave looks on their faces was enough to rid his mind of any other thoughts.

Moments later Gallus and Dexion were inside the principia, craned over Geridus’ map table, imploring the Comes to act. ‘Given the starting point of Abdera and the estimated pace of a Gothic horde, the rogue reiks will reach this pass within two weeks,’ Gallus insisted.

Geridus, seated as ever and outlined by the fire that blazed in his hearth, gazed at Gallus’ fingertip where it was stabbed into the map.

‘Five thousand Goths would swamp this pass,’ Dexion added. ‘You must see there is no doubting this.’

Silence. Then a loud slurp as Geridus drained his wine cup before pouring some more.

‘Sir, every moment we let pass is a moment that this Farnobius and his army approaches. We must, must, act,’ Gallus demanded.

Geridus swirled his wine cup, his expression unaltered.

‘Comes,’ Dexion tried again, ‘we need to bring reinforcements to this pass, or we need to fall back to where we can find them. Either way, we need you to give the order. This pass is yours. On your watch it will stand or fall.’

Geridus sipped his wine, his gaze drifting to the flames.

Gallus and Dexion shared an exasperated look. Then, when the Comes drained his cup and poured another, Gallus nodded to the door. He and Dexion strode to leave.

But a burring voice stopped them in their tracks. ‘Take my horses and my riders, then.’

Gallus swung on his heel.

‘You do know the danger that lies west of here?’ Geridus added.

‘Quadi, chaos, an imperium in turmoil. Aye, you described it all too well,’ Gallus replied.

‘Then take my horses and riders and hasten word to the west. Do whatever you must to garner reinforcements for this cursed pass.’

Gallus’ eyes darted, his mind combing over who from the Claudia would ride west with Geridus’ men. Himself and at least one other, he decided. ‘It will be done. I will lead the riding party personally.’

Geridus’ left eyebrow arched at this. ‘Then you are a brave soul, Tribunus. For unless you are swifter and hardier than all my men who have tried until now. . that westerly road will be the death of you.’

His words echoed around the room. Gallus ignored the creeping chill they brought to his flesh. And it will be the death of the blackhearts too, he thought, knowing that only by going west could he ensure Gratian would come for Thracia. He cleared his mind of this momentarily and thought of the many men he would be leaving behind. ‘What will happen here?’

Geridus looked up from the rim of his cup, his eyes rheumy and hooded from inebriation. ‘Here? Here the rest of the forces will remain. We have been tasked with holding this pass,’ the drunken veil slid away for just a precious moment, and his eyes brightened with a sad echo of long-lost vigour, ‘and that is just what we shall do.’

Pavo stood with the two formed-up centuries of the XI Claudia. He watched in silence as eight of Geridus’ riders saddled their horses by the fort’s gateway then hoisted themselves onto their mounts. They were dressed in scale and mail vests, flowing red robes and helms. This, he could accept. But the rider at their head, he could not. Gallus was saddled on a tall steeldust gelding. The tribunus wheeled a hand around, bringing the eight equites into line behind him, then faced the formed ranks of the Claudia.

‘I will be gone for weeks, maybe longer,’ Gallus said.

Pavo shook his head involuntarily. No, the voice inside said again.

The tribunus met the eyes of each of his men and added. ‘Emperor Gratian will hear of the situation in Thracia. More, I will do all I can to summon and despatch reinforcements to this soil before this bold reiks approaches. When Farnobius comes, you will not stand alone. I promise you this. In the meantime, bolster the defences here, draw what manpower you can from the countryside or the nearest towns. This pass must hold.’

Gallus and Pavo locked eyes for a moment. A gaze worth a thousand words.

Pavo’s thoughts crashed together in turmoil. The tribunus was to ride west at haste, through Quadi-infested lands until he made it to an operational Cursus Publicus waystation or all the way to Gratian’s court itself. He alone knew of the tribunus’ intentions if he crossed paths with the Western Emperor’s Speculatores. And at equal pace, Reiks Farnobius was coming for the pass. The giant who had slain Felicia was coming here. Pavo could stand and face the whoreson. Anger and angst lashed against one another as he beheld these twin concerns.

Gallus said nothing as they remained in that gaze, but the tribunus’ words from their chat a week ago surfaced in his mind.

Face the past, face the nightmares. Strike them down!

Pavo offered him the faintest of nods and the tribunus replied in kind.

Clopping hooves and the spluttering of a horse sounded behind Pavo. He barely noticed the noise, until he saw a look of guilt cross Gallus’ face, the tribunus dropping his gaze at last. Frowning, Pavo turned to see the source of the noise. It was Dexion, walking a black mare through the ranks and over to join the outgoing party.

‘Dexion?’ Pavo gasped, clutching at his brother’s reins.

‘I have to go,’ he whispered to Pavo, clasping his shoulder. ‘The legion can defend this pass without me. By the Gods, you have survived long enough before I showed up! I will bring Gallus back. Both of us will return, I promise you this.’ His tawny-gold eyes grew glassy, then he turned away and vaulted onto his mount, heeling her over to Gallus’ side. Pavo beheld this, the last of his kin, readying to leave. His chest and throat swelled and seemed set to burst with some plea for the pair to stay, but he knew they were right. Someone had to take word west.

‘In my absence, you have the legion,’ Gallus said soberly to Centurion Zosimus.

‘Sir!’ The big Thracian replied with a salute, his craggy features betraying not a droplet of fear.

Gallus and Dexion threw up a hand in a valedictory salute, and the formed ranks saluted them in reply. Pavo felt the gesture was akin to hurling a rock at the pair. But there was no time left. They had to leave, and leave they did, snaking from the plateau edge and off down the scree path at a walk. Once on the valley floor, he heard Gallus roar; ‘Ya!’ and the small riding party swung onto the Via Militaris and broke into a gallop for the west. He watched Gallus’ black plume and Dexion’s white plume as long as he could discern them. Finally they were gone and their dust cloud faded along with the thunder of hooves.

His lips moved just enough to whisper;

‘Mithras be with you both.’