The Scourge of Thracia

Chapter 17

Pavo and Sura stood by a babbling fountain at the heart of Sardica’s forum, each carefully scooping and throwing water over their faces after their hasty march. The city’s frost-coated mighty walls and turrets enveloped them in every direction, leaving just a broad square of grey sky overhead. They had marvelled at the immense arena sitting just outside the city, and admired the tall, sturdy walls too, but Sardica’s interior was even more impressive: broad streets embellished with columns, statues and sculptures to rival Constantinople itself. A vast basilica hemmed one edge of the forum, and an ornate, marble-fronted bathhouse stood at the other end. The upper tiers of the colossal arena they had marvelled at outside the city jutted even higher than the southern walls. All around them, the populace wandered, chattering, carrying wares from the market. Some were togate in the ancient tradition, many wore fine silk robes. Barely a beggar to be seen, and not one soul carried an inkling of fear in their eyes. The closest they came to showing any sign of upset was when they meandered past the fountain, noses wrinkling slightly as they looked askance at Pavo and Sura’s grubby, dusty features, tattered military garb and dull, battered helms they carried underarm.

Pavo snorted at one shrew-like woman who scowled at them. ‘They act as if the fate of the world outside these walls is not theirs to be concerned with?’

‘Aye, and they’ve got men to spare, it seems,’ Sura nodded to the battlements where a healthy garrison was posted, wrapped in scale vests, fine red cloaks and wearing polished intercisa helms that looked as if they had yet to be blessed with the swipe of a Gothic sword. ‘A good cohort’s worth, I’d say. Comitatenses too — well hoarded within these walls when they could have been put to good use outside. They should be able to spare at least half for us, eh?’

Pavo held Sura’s innocent look of hope for a moment to be sure he was being serious. ‘Let’s just meet with the governor first? Ah, here we go,’ he added, looking over Sura’s shoulder to the pair of scale-clad legionaries who approached.

‘Governor Patiens will see you now,’ the tallest one said as if addressing a beggar rolling in his own filth.

Patiens lay on his side, stretched out on a quilted day bed in a chamber just off the palace’s peristyle garden. He stroked an evil-looking cat — completely hairless like its master though lacking the gaudy paint Patiens wore on his face. Around him sat a ring of well-fed nobility, their jowels wobbling as they laughed uproariously at his tales. Pavo and Sura were stripped of their swords then shown inside by the ascetic legionary pair. Unlike the frosty streets outside, the chamber was warm like a summer’s day, and Pavo felt the heat rise from the tiled floor and the hypocaust underneath. The walls were painted with bright scenes of blossoming orchards and gardens — every flower in bloom and every fruit ripe — birds and insects and bright-eyed people in fine robes, eyes wide as if fixated on Patiens’ tales too. However, on hearing the man’s weak rhetoric and woeful humour — mostly based around highlighting how rich he was — it was clear to see this lot were mere sycophants.

The pair came to the rear of Patiens’ ring of admirers. Pavo noticed the table in the centre of the gathering, laden with many jugs of wine, goose livers, stuffed birds and roast goat. His mouth suddenly moistened and his belly gurgled, a little too eagerly.

Patiens halted his tale mid-sentence, his jovial demeanour at once falling away and a cold air replacing it. He looked to the legionary sentries escorting Pavo and Sura, flicking his head up a fraction as if to demand an explanation.

‘Legionaries from Thracia, Dominus.’

Patiens’ expression darkened further and he waved a hand to dismiss his two men.

All heads turned to Pavo and Sura.

‘Well?’ Patiens said, his neck extending and his face agape as if mocking them.

‘I am Optio Numerius Vitellius Pavo of Legio XI Claudia Pia Fidelis, Second Cohort, First Century, sir.’

‘Very good. Well done!’ Patiens sat tall, clapped his hands frantically and guffawed, looking round his ring of toadies and rousing harmonising laughter from them too. ‘Will that be all?’

Pavo felt the utter lack of respect like a stinging slap. Before replying, he had to remind himself of the huge gulf in rank between Patiens and himself. ‘We have been sent here from Trajan’s Gate in the Succi Pass. There, Comes Geridus commands only two centuries of legionaries and one of archers. He is tasked with holding the pass in anticipation of Emperor Gratian’s march east. Such a small garrison might have been adequate at the outset of this strategy, but the situation has since changed — the Gothic horde has broken through the Haemus Mountain passes and now holds central Thracia.’

He paused, expecting a reaction from Patiens. The man just glowered at him as if being pestered by some over-attentive slave. Then an incongruous and strained smile bent his face. ‘Ah, Geridus — the Coward of Ad Salices — he finds himself at a more suitable, lowly station does he? The windswept furrow that is Trajan’s Gate sounds like an ideal home for such a craven fool!’

At Patiens gentle upwards flick of his hands, the ring of admirers hooted with laughter, gripping their bellies and throwing their heads back in a sickening show of flattery. ‘The doddering oaf cried his way out of battle,’ Patiens roused them, feigning hysterics, ‘and now spends his days weeping over his own failures!’ The chamber shook with the hilarity this apparently deserved.

Pavo thought to defend Geridus but shook the notion away. ‘Sir, a wing of the Goths are right now coming west. Five thousand men, led by a murderous bastard,’ he said this and had to stop to compose himself. But the venom behind the last word brought wide-eyes from the onlookers. ‘They are set on breaking through Trajan’s Gate and spilling into these lands,’ he jabbed a finger at the fine, heated and tiled floor. Still, no reaction. ‘Governor, should they succeed then your fine city is the first they will fall upon.’ Now he fell silent and vowed to remain that way until the man replied.

Patiens’ nostrils flared. ‘These leeegionaries from Thracia seem to have brought our gathering to an end.’ He flicked up his hands as if to wave the toadies away.

One long-necked and cross-eyed groveler misread Patiens’ signal and erupted in laughter at this, only to fall instantly silent and hang his head in shame as the Governor shot him an icy look. Patiens clapped his hands this time and, like a flock of scattering geese, his audience was gone. The governor stood and waved Pavo and Sura with him. He walked with a swaying gait, muttering to himself as he went, leading them up a red-veined marble staircase that wound through floor after floor. They came to a green-speckled porphyry chamber that opened out onto a semi-circular balcony edged with a carved balustrade. The view was a vertiginous and fine one, overlooking the fine street plan of Sardica’s halls, villas, gardens and markets. Many storeys high, it even afforded a perfect vista beyond the city’s walls and down into the floor of the arena just outside. The chill winter air up here was spiced with sweet woodsmoke from small sconces glowing at the corners of the balcony.

Patiens absently admired his fine city, as if he had forgotten about his visitors. Pavo and Sura shared a concerned look, each conscious of the vitality of every passing moment.

‘Sir, of all the matters that trouble my legion, time is the-’

Patiens raised a hand to cut him off. ‘Your tribunus passed through my city over a week ago. I know all there is to know.’

Pavo felt a wave of relief. ‘Tribunus Gallus was here?’

‘Yes, yes,’ Patiens waved his hands dismissively. ‘His primus pilus and eight riders too.’

Dexion! Pavo felt the hard ball of tension that had lingered in his stomach since his brother and Gallus had set off ease just a little. Still much might have happened to them since they had passed through here, but it gave him hope.

‘They were in a damned hurry to ride west,’ Patiens continued. ‘Like you, they thought they could simply commandeer my garrison. They were wrong.’

‘Sir, the matter is simple. With just the few hundred men we have currently, the pass will fall and Farnobius’ Goths will be at your walls before long. More, this will divert Emperor Gratian’s campaign away from Thracia, and might even condemn those lands to defeat at the hands of the main Gothic horde.’ He stepped forward, daring to rest his hands on the balcony by Patiens’ side like an equal — a step too far on the rungs of social etiquette, probably, but the issue had to be pressed. ‘Grant us three of your centuries, sir, and the pass can be held.’

‘Can be held? You don’t sound so sure, legionary,’ Patiens hissed, eyeing him askance.

‘Victory cannot be guaranteed. Few things in life can — bar the scorching sun in June and that high tides will follow low. . and that if we do not have more men and weapons and armour to equip those already at the pass, it will fall.’

Patiens forced a woefully inadequate smile. ‘Fine walls protect my city,’ he said. ‘I am no military man, but Goths do not break down city walls, or so I believe.’

Pavo frowned and snatched a glance over his shoulder to see Sura’s eyes narrowing too. ‘No, but they build ladders and swarm up them like maddened ants. They might not take your walls, but by Mithras, they will try. . and there are plenty of them to replace those who might fail at first. Spare your citizens the threat of hearing these barbarous whoresons clawing at the battlements.’

‘A cohort of comitatenses legionaries makes a strong garrison for these fine walls,’ Patiens continued as if Pavo had not spoken. ‘Were I to dilute their number on some lost cause. . ’

‘Sir, I implore you,’ he reached out to clasp the governor’s arm. A screech of steel halted him.

‘Not another inch,’ a stony voice spoke from the archway leading out to the balcony. Pavo and Sura swung round to see the grim legionary pair standing there, the tall one’s spatha part unsheathed.

Pavo backed away, a dull nausea churning in his gut. No men, no arms, nothing. He looked to Sura and saw his friend looked as lost as he felt.

‘I will grant you something, however,’ Patiens continued. He beckoned Pavo and Sura back to the balcony edge, offering a placatory palm to his own soldiers. For a moment, Pavo wondered if the next thing he would feel was the grim-faced legionary’s hands butting into his back and throwing him over. Instead, Patiens reached out and pointed. Pavo followed the line of his outstretched finger, and a momentary optimism gripped him when his eyes ran over the barracks of the legionary garrison. Auxiliary centuries? Maybe not the same prospect as hardened comitatenses legionaries, but men that knew how to stand and fight.

The twinkling of hope extinguished when Pavo saw that the governor was in fact pointing at the insulae — the serried rows of ramshackle tenements behind the barracks.

‘The slums are a stain on my city. Some say it is a necessary one, but I find the antics of the rats in that licentious maze nothing but an insufferable distraction.’ Patiens swung and nodded to his two guards. One of them hurried off inside. ‘You need men? You can have your pick of men from the taverns and shacks in that quarter of the city,’ Patiens grinned. ‘And I will even fund you for doing so. I’ll even have wagons of armour and weapons ready for you by the time you leave — and I assume that will be soon?’ he said, his eyebrows rising as if demanding an affirmative.

Pavo nodded, unable to judge this offer as a curse or a blessing, nodded.

‘And we have an understanding that once this gift has been granted, there will be no further attempts to requisition men or supplies from my city?’ Patiens added.

Pavo nodded, his face stony.

Patiens’ sickly smile reappeared and he clapped his hands twice in quick succession. Footsteps rattled up the stairway and the legionary returned, carrying with him a small sack that jangled with the unmistakable clunk of coins. He held it out for Pavo.

Pavo took it, eyeing the sack and reaching out for it gingerly.

‘Don’t get too excited, Legionary. It is merely a few handfuls of bronze folles. Enough for you to conjure the rats from their layer,’ he nodded to the slums again, a feral grin spreading over his features. ‘If they do not devour you. . ’

‘Duck!’ Sura yelped, hauling Pavo down just before a foaming cup of ale hurtled across the tavern and exploded against the far wall.

‘Mithras’ balls!’ Pavo gasped, then pushed Sura with him to avoid the rolling, thrashing tangle of three men beating Hades out of one another. Fists swung and boots sunk into bellies. The pair backed away from the brawl until they reached the grimy rear wall, wincing as they felt their backs stick to some unknown substance staining it. The grim inside of this place was nearly as dark as the night outside, with just a few candles and lamps lighting the ramshackle interior. The fighting mass tumbled this way and that, throwing up a haze of sawdust from the floor. All the carousing drinkers nearby roared with laughter, spat or threw punches and kicks as the fighters passed. A smirking, grey-faced fellow by Pavo’s side chuckled darkly as the one-eyed fighter with the wild brown hair, who seemed to be taking a merciless beating from the other two, suffered a finger being pushed into his good eye. This sent One-eye leaping back, arms milling round, knocking chairs over and shredding the table he landed on — ale fountaining everywhere.

‘Shouldn’t the tavern keeper step in here? This place will be kindling by morning!’ Pavo shouted over the tumult to the smirking man.

The man looked at him blankly for a second. ‘I am the tavern-keeper,’ he grinned. ‘And why would I want to stop the brawl?’ He patted the bag tied to his belt. Coins — more than Pavo had hidden in his cloak. ‘I make more from these fights than I do from selling drinks.’

‘They bet on this?’ Sura gasped.

‘Why not?’ The tavern-keeper shrugged, then took to roaring in delight, punching the air before him as One-eye came back, threw a hook at his first attacker then lunged in to head-butt the second on the bridge of the nose. The crack of snapping bone sent the second into a heap, but the first recovered quickly from the hook and barged One-eye to the filthy floor, then raised a foot as if to stamp on his foe’s head, but One-eye was sharp. Like a cat, he grabbed his attacker’s raised shin and hoisted himself up. His jaws opened, his foul teeth bared, his good eye sparkling. . before he sank his fangs into his attacker’s groin.

The noise that followed was something akin to a snarling hound tearing at flesh accompanied by the shrieking of a hoarse woman. With a meaty ripping noise, the fight was over. One-eye stood up, spat his opponent’s testicles onto the floor, dabbed entirely inadequately at the blood around his mouth and chin with a soiled rag of cloth, then brushed the sawdust from his person.

Sura turned away and threw up on the floor as the sawdust-flecked testicles rolled to a halt before him. Pavo felt his guts weaken too, and only caught himself when he realised One-eye was glowering at him now. The eye was judging him, suspicious of the leather bag in which Pavo’s mail shirt and helm were concealed in.

‘Hold on, you’re military!’ One-eye said, swaying, puffs of bloody spit clouding the air as he spoke. The babble in the tavern died and all eyes fell upon Pavo and Sura.

‘Not tonight,’ Pavo waved a hand as if sweeping away the attentions of the crowd — an action which in any case failed.

‘One of Patiens’ lot?’ a sturdy, lantern-jawed thug sitting in the corner growled. ‘The last of his shiny bastards that visited this place went missing, did they not?’ The dark chorus of laughter from all around sat uneasily with Lantern-jaw’s stiff glare, fixed on their military tunics.

‘We are legionaries, aye, but not Patiens’ men,’ Sura insisted.

‘Still, you’re not welcome here,’ the surly thug replied.

‘Unless they fancy a fight?’ One-eye cut in, his blood-soaked face bent in an awful grin, looking to the tavern keeper as if to start another round of betting.

Sura flinched at the suggestion, and Pavo felt a sudden vulnerability around his groin area. ‘We’re here to have a drink, slake our thirst. . then we’ll be gone. We don’t want any trouble.’

Lantern-jaw scrutinised them for a moment, then waved a finger to the tavern keeper. ‘Then have your drink and be gone,’ he said. The tavern keeper brought two cups, a jug of wine and a half-loaf of bread over to Pavo and Sura, ushering them to a free spot at one table.

They sat, munching into the bread — stale but welcome in their empty bellies all the same — and supping on the vinegary and greasy wine. The attention faded from them and the general babble of swearing, cackling and arguing struck up again. Then he noticed lantern-jaw through the forest of bodies and limbs, watching them from the corner.

‘Gah!’ Sura recoiled from the wine. ‘This stuff is vile.’ He lifted his water skin surreptitiously and watered the drink down, adding some to Pavo’s cup too. Supping it and managing not to scrunch up his face too much, he added; ‘so that was probably the worst possible start to our efforts. One-eyed maniacs, bitten bollocks and a tavern full of legionary-haters.’

Pavo sighed. This was the place, they had been told by a toothless hag in the streets, where the men of the slums went every night. ‘To scramble their minds and poison their bellies,’ Pavo muttered, repeating her description.

‘Eh?’ Sura said, cocking an ear towards him.

‘Nothing. This was a wasted trip. Patiens is using us to try and lure some of these thugs from his streets when he should have given over some of his centuries. If Gallus had the time to remain here and demand soldiers, I doubt he would have ended up in this latrine.’

Sura clacked his cup to Pavo’s in a gesture of support. ‘You pressed Patiens and pressed him well. The man is an eel. I was up for kicking his balls, but I suppose that’s why you’re an optio and I’m not.’

Pavo half-smiled and took a swig of his foul wine. ‘Regardless, we will walk out of this city tomorrow morning with no fresh men. Come on,’ he said, standing and pushing his stool back, ‘we should find a place to sle-’

A hand like a ham clamped down on Pavo’s shoulder, pushing him to his stool again, and another punched a dagger blade into the desiccated timbers of the table. Lantern-jaw sat between Pavo and Sura and released his grip on Pavo’s shoulder. Sura braced, a hand shooting for his leather bag where his spatha was concealed. A pair of hands gripped Sura’s wrist though, halting him. ‘That sword comes out and you can kiss your balls goodbye,’ One-eye hissed, his fetid breath wafting across the table as he sat the other side of Sura.

‘I told you, we’re not here for any trouble,’ Pavo said, matching Lantern-jaw’s flinty glare with one of his own. ‘But, by Mithras, we can kick up a storm if that’s what you want.’

Lantern-jaw’s scowl grew fiercer and fiercer, then melted into a grin and a dark chuckle. ‘Aye, these curs are definitely not Patiens’ lot.’

At this, One-eye lost his edge of madness — although the bloody face and wild hair suggested it was not entirely gone. ‘What are you then? Two legionaries from outside? I’ve heard of no passing patrols or mobilised legions in these parts. It’s turning into a savage wilderness beyond this city’s walls.’

Pavo weighed the situation. To say too much might guarantee a blade in their guts. Not enough could well end in the same result. It was a bitter choice of poisons, he thought, eyeing the vinegar-wine, but one they had to make. He and Sura shared a tacit glance and nod. ‘Optio Numerius Vitellius Pavo of the XI Claudia Pia Fidelis, Second Cohort, First Century,’ he said steadily enough so these two could hear but quietly enough that nobody else could.

‘Decimus Lunius Sura, Pavo’s Tesserariusin the First Century,’ Sura offered next, then beheld One-eye for a moment and added; ‘and one-time fist-fighting champion of Adrianople, I’ll have you know. I once knocked seven shades of sh-’ a jab of Pavo’s elbow ended the spiralling rhetoric.

‘XI Claudia. . so you are limitanei, not comitatenses?’ Lantern-jaw mused, leaning back on his stool, arms folded and the fingers of one hand stroking his chin.

Pavo and Sura shared another look, both expecting some slur on the role of the border legions.

‘The ones who do the real fighting on the edges of the empire?’ One-eye said, then brought his wine cup up and drank heartily. ‘I’ve heard what the limitanei face: Goths, Quadi, Franks and Alemanni from the forests in the north. You fight what comes for you and usually without warning. Then the comitatenses like Patiens’ lot come into play when it suits them — when the northern bastards have broken into Roman lands.’

Pavo could not help but smile wryly at the description. ‘It’s a complicated business, but you’re not far off the truth.’

‘Rectus,’ Lantern-jaw said, raising his cup and nodding. ‘I used to be a medicus, would you believe? Pulling swords from the flesh of the lads in my auxiliary century when I wasn’t ramming my own blade into Goths and the like.’

‘Libo,’ One-eye added with a flash of that foul-toothed, maniac grin.

‘We once served in the same century’ Rectus said with a bitter smile. ‘We garrisoned the walls of this city. I had a house on the hill near the palace — nothing fancy, but it was clean at least: no rat-turds in my grain, that kind of thing.’

‘What happened?’ Pavo asked, sensing the tension draining from the meeting.

‘Patiens was awarded the post of governor. Now he’s a man with certain tastes. . ’

‘He’s an arsehole!’ Libo yelped in summary, then shot furtive glances around to check nobody had heard.

Rectus gave him a reproachful look, then turned back to Pavo and Sura. ‘Let’s just say he likes to have money to spend on young slave boys. Plenty of money.’

Pavo shuddered as the words stoked memories of his years of slavery in Senator Tarquitius’ villa.

‘So when the comitatenses cohort was billeted here, and Patiens realised they were paid from the imperial coffers and not his governor’s budget, he saw a way to make a quick saving. Our auxiliary unit was disbanded.’ He held out his hands and shrugged, looking all around the tavern. ‘I couldn’t pay for my home anymore. A comitatenses legionary moved in as I was marched out. I slept in the grim shadows of this place — on street corners, in doorways, anywhere that I could sleep and still waken sharply enough should some cutthroat try to rob me.’

‘I know that place,’ Pavo said his eyes misting. Rectus was about to scoff at the suggestion, but Pavo continued; ‘When I was a boy, I spent months in the gutters of Constantinople, with no home or family. I was close to starvation when I was taken by slave-traders.’ He lost himself in memory for just a moment, his mind playing tricks with him as he saw the gloom at the rear of the inn roil and move like the shadow-man from his dream. A shiver passed over his skin. Who are you?

Rectus seemed to detect Pavo’s sober mood and his planned retort did not materialise. He nodded and chuckled dryly instead. ‘Then we misjudged you.’

‘And we you,’ Pavo replied, seeing the shadows at the inn’s rear vanquished as a fresh torch was lit there — revealing just a handful of men drinking and bantering. This triggered a thought. ‘How many of you are there?’

‘The auxiliary unit?’ Rectus said, then curled his bottom lip in thought. ‘There were nearly five hundred of us. A few hundred left before the Gothic War broke out, thought they might make a living or find a home out in the fields or down in the Greek parts. Quite a few have drunk too much of this poison and never woken up,’ he added with a wince, pinging a finger off the edge of his cup. ‘How many are left? Eighty, ninety men, perhaps? And there was a century of Cretan funditores too. Sharp-eyed slingers, they were, led by a wily dog by the name of Herenus. Most of them are still here,’ he said, looking around the tavern, his gaze snagging on a few swarthy-featured men.

‘What would you give to be soldiers again?’ Pavo said, holding Rectus’ eye.

Rectus frowned and sat back, his nose wrinkling. ‘I’d rather serve a rabid dog than defend Patiens!’

Sura’s eyes sparkled now as he latched onto Pavo’s thinking. ‘Screw Patiens. Our legion needs men.’

Rectus’ face lifted in surprise. ‘Legionaries? But our lot were a mixed bunch. Short lads like me — too small for the legions,’ he gurned.

Sura shook his head. ‘That is no longer a barrier to march under the eagles. We lost our primus pilus, Felix, just months ago. He was a hardy soldier, a savage warrior and one of the best men I’ve had the pleasure of marching with. Yet he could barely see over the bar at the local inn.’

Libo’s shoulders jostled in poorly-stifled laughter at this.

Rectus tilted his head one way and then the other as if in deliberation. ‘Your offer sounds sweet right now, but why do you come here in search of recruits?’ he flicked his head back and up. ‘What exactly is going on. . out there?’

Pavo knew his next words had to be earnest. ‘The Goths are coming, and we need more men to block the Succi Pass against them. Our comrades are right now bolstering the old fort at Trajan’s Gate, but men are in short supply. Patiens gave us a few coins to buy recruits and you can have them, but bring your old comrades together and come with us and you will have full legionary wages,’ he tapped his forefinger on the table as if making a solemn oath, ‘. . and you will have your honour and self-respect once more. Do you not crave the brotherhood your old unit once had?’

Rectus swished some wine in his mouth. ‘I had three brothers. Didn’t trust one of them. Not at all.’

Pavo cocked an eyebrow.

‘Two killed each other in a quarrel over a woman, and the last one,’ he patted his dagger, ‘I saw to him.’

A silence followed until Rectus’ broad grin suggested it was a joke. Or maybe not. .

‘But aye, there were many fine days when we were true soldiers,’ Rectus continued.

‘And many foul ones too,’ Libo added, eyebrows raised as he recalled some grim memory

Rectus and Libo seemed to share a conversation with just a few looks, then the one-eyed man spoke; ‘Shall I gather the lads, see what they say?’

‘Aye. But do you think it’s a good idea to ask Eunapias?’ Rectus said, nodding to the man from the fight, now clutching a bloody rag to his butchered groin, sweating profusely and gulping neat wine to ease the pain.

‘Nah,’ Libo grinned, ‘he doesn’t have the balls for it.’

It was a foul, grey afternoon and a wintry gale buffeted them as they came along the last stretch of road back to Trajan’s Gate, yet Pavo felt nothing but a burning sense of pride. He and Sura had left with nothing but now returned with a century’s-worth of Sardican legionaries and a century of darker-skinned Cretan slingers. He twisted in his saddle and looked over his shoulder to see Rectus and Libo and the chestnut-skinned Cretan, Herenus, near the front of the new recruits. Unlike Pavo and Sura in mail, cloaks and iron helms, the pair carried only their auxiliary spears and wore felt caps and thick cloaks to weather the worst of the wind. Many of the others with Rectus and Libo carried nothing more than a dagger. Some had bows or slings and a few brought just ancient bronze shields strapped over their backs. But if this was a problem then behind the column was the solution: Three wagon-loads of old armour: torn but usable mail shirts, battle-scarred helms, dull-edged spears and blades that needed work with a whetstone, along with a selection of well-used shields and ancient-looking boots. Enough to arm and equip the Sardicans and most of the youths back at the Trajan’s Gate fort, he hoped. Patiens had given them what he considered scrap. Pavo saw it as treasure.

As they came round a slight bend in the valley, Pavo saw something that further warmed his heart. Across the pass, the skeleton of a timber stockade was in place — some eight feet high. He could hear Quadratus’ gruff tones, marshalling the recruits. Timber struts were being raised on ropes and lowered into place in what might soon take shape as a battlement. Sharpened stakes were piled nearby for what would be the palisade front to the wall. Better still, when he looked up onto the fort spur on the northern valley side, he saw that the western towers were all but mended. With these two centuries from Sardica, they might yet block the pass and bolster the fort battlements before. . his thoughts grew icy as he looked off down the pass. . before Farnobius’ horde arrived.

A buccina wailed, heralding their arrival. The lads working on the timber wall dropped their tools and stood tall. At first, they all looked east in fear, assuming the signal was a warning. But then, when they switched their heads to the west and saw Pavo and Sura, they cheered and punched the air. The sound was like an elixir and the valley sides seemed only to amplify it.

‘This lot have been busy,’ Sura said. ‘Mithras, we should go away more often!’

‘You did it,’ a gruff voice waylaid them. ‘You bloody did it!’ Zosimus repeated as he jogged down the scree path from the fort spur. His joy was tempered slightly when he ran his eye across the motley bunch in tow.

Quadratus came up from the wall works to join them, and headed straight for the wagons, whipping the hemp blanket back to reveal a jumble of shiny and not so shiny apparel. ‘What the?’ the big Gaul scowled as he lifted out a bent Gothic longsword, then tossed it over his shoulder like a bored infant. The wagon driver watched on in bemusement. Next, Quadratus lifted out an iron scale vest, but it was more orange with rust than silver, and he offered a cocked eyebrow to Pavo as if questioning the haul.

‘We’ve fought with worse, sir,’ Pavo said, approaching the wagons, stroking the mane of one of the horses.

But Quadratus was absorbed with the arms and armour. He lifted a long blade with a curved end. ‘A falcata? I don’t like the falcata. I’m more dangerous with a spatha,’ he said, lobbing the curved sword back onto the pile.

‘You’re dangerous the moment you open your eyes in the morning!’ Zosimus roared with laughter.

As Sura took up the falcata and tried to give Quadratus an expert lesson in handling the blade, Zosimus approached and guided Pavo away from the column of Sardicans and Cretans. ‘Right, there’s been a lot of effort put in over the last three days, but the biggest part lies ahead.’

‘The stockade will be finished in good time now, sir, I’m sure of it. And then we can put our minds to what else can be done to this pass.’

‘Indeed, but first we need to sort out what men we have. We can have walls with all sorts of bells and horns on them, but if these men don’t know how to fight as centuries and all of them together as a legion, then we’re beaten.’

Pavo nodded. ‘The Cretans will be fine — they’re already well used to fighting in and around legionary cohorts.’ Then his eyes fixed on Rectus and Libo. ‘As for the Sardicans, they have served as auxiliaries in the past, so they’ll have some experience of manoeuvres and drills. They’ll know how to look after their kit and — despite appearances — they’re not in bad physical shape. I reckon they will make a century of decent legionaries. Rectus and Libo would make a good pairing to lead the legionary century. Rectus as centurion and Libo as optio. We could organise mock-combat, Quadratus’ century versus theirs — it’d give Trupo and the young lads a chance to experience shield to shield fighting, and it’d sharpen the Sardican’s skills.’

‘No,’ Zosimus said flatly.

Pavo balked at this. ‘What? We need to give them some form of combat practice, otherwise-’

‘I meant the bit before that. The Sardicans can form a legionary century, aye, but Rectus and Libo aren’t fit to lead them. Quadratus’ll be leading them’

‘But they’re the natural leaders of that lot, they-

‘That’s not how we do things in the legions. A man doesn’t walk into the post of centurion. He has to earn his rank through years of service,’ Zosimus clenched a fist and held it between them as he spoke, knuckles white, ‘spill his own blood to save his brothers, show that his life comes second to the success of the legion.’

Pavo saw the fire in the big Thracian’s eyes.

‘You’re not getting it are you lad? Quadratus’ll lead the Sardicans, so Trupo, Cornix and the whelps he has led until now need a new centurion.’

Pavo blinked, then nodded. Then realisation dawned.

‘You’ll lead the young lads. You’re a centurion now. I’m moving my lads into the First Cohort, and you’re taking my place as head of the Second cohort. You’ve earned it and more, Pavo. Gallus has known for some time that you were ready for this. He left it to me as senior centurion to make the call.’

The wind whistled around them. Pavo found no words to reply. He recalled the moment before Ad Salices when Zosimus had told him he was to be an optio. Then, doubt had riddled his body and his first thought was that the promotion was a mistake. This time, he simply fixed Zosimus with a firm eye and nodded. ‘I’ll lead them well, sir.’

‘And you’ll take that lunatic Sura as your optio?’ Zosimus replied with a cocked eyebrow, nodding to Sura’s wild lunges with the falcata as Quadratus looked on nervously.

Pavo smiled. ‘Aye, I will.’

Farnobius walked his silver stallion amongst the dead strewn across the south-central Thracian plain. Flies buzzed over the open guts and riven flesh. Crows cried overhead. An entire legion, he reckoned. Not one had escaped this time. He leaned to one side of his saddle and hooked an intercisa on the corner of his axe blade, then cast an eye over his Goths, Huns and Taifali. Some wore the iron vests harvested from the Romans slain at Deultum, but many still wore the frayed, crude dyed Gothic leather armour that had been passed down from generation to generation. He turned back to the staring face of the corpse he had taken the helm from: a gaunt, bearded fellow, features caked in dirt. He stared at the lifeless countenance, almost challenging it to take shape as Vitheric’s. But the dead boy-king’s face did not materialise, and the oft-nagging voice was not to be heard.

‘You fall quiet, boy. Perhaps you are at peace now?’ he whispered hopefully, glancing around anxiously in fear of any of his men hearing him. Vitheric did not reply and his men did not hear. Instead, they busied themselves unbuckling scale vests and taking up Roman shields, swords and helms for themselves.

Farnobius turned on his saddle and looked to the western horizon. The march north and west had been steady and enjoyable. Soon they would meet the Romans’ great western highway: the Via Militaris. Then they would move at haste for the Succi Pass and the fabled Trajan’s Gate. The riches of the West waited beyond. Nobody had come close to challenging him so far. Fritigern had not even dared send forces to curtail his efforts. Scribing his own destiny at last was an enjoyable thing, he mused. Then a nagging doubt spoiled his mood: the grain wagons were running low. Five thousand mouths demanded feeding before they would break this damned Roman pass for him. Yet grain could only be found inside the walls of the damned Roman cities.

I was not strong or gifted with the sword, but I had a good mind, the voice of the dead boy-king spoke at last, as if sensing Farnobius’ building frustrations. Perhaps I could have helped you with such puzzles?

Farnobius failed to suppress a sharp twitch of the head. Then he heard a dull thud-thud-thud. He turned to see one rather dim-witted spearmen bashing at something with a rock. He looked a little closer: the man had found a pack of walnuts amongst one dead legionary’s rations and was battering at one in an attempt to break inside its shell. This fellow had the dead Roman’s armour piled by his feet, claimed from the spoils as his own, it seemed. Only when the spearman picked up the Roman soldier’s helm and used its heavy rim, did the walnut crack.

You see? Vitheric asked.

Farnobius’ lips curled up into a smile as his thoughts converged and an idea began to form. .