The Scourge of Thracia

Chapter 20

The hall inside the quadriburgium on the sandbank island echoed with the snapping, cracking and squelching of a feast being enjoyed by many, yet only one man indulged in the fare. Gallus watched as the figure across the table set about his meal. The candle was guttering, and when cast in shade, Clothar the Quadi King had an air of humanity about him. But when the flame leapt up again, it cast his cadaverous skull-face and thin wisps of fawn hair into sharp relief. The man was ill, that much was clear, and seemingly determined to eat all he could as if to defy his sickness.

Clothar tugged at the end of a bone and drew it from his mouth, his decaying, yellowed teeth stripping it bare of every last morsel of flesh, the juices spilling down his receding gums and over his grey lips and bony chin. ‘What is wrong, Romans? You are not hungry?’ he said, taking up another joint of goat meat.

Gallus and Dexion said nothing. They had suffered no ill-treatment since their capture on the beach of the sandbank island two evenings previous. Indeed, they had been given water and bread each morning along with clean, dry tunics to wear. Despite this, Gallus sensed a bleak future. It was something to do with Clothar’s demeanour, the way he beheld his captives and even his own men with a wolfish, animal air. Clothar had set this captured Roman quadriburgium up as his residence, it seemed. A wise choice, given that the empire could not retake it without men and a flotilla of sorts. With Clothar at the table was another pair of Quadi — high-ranking nobles, it seemed, going by the jewelled bracelets they wore and their smooth and relatively unworked hands. Quadi sentries stood at each corner of the hall, and Birgir — the pale, flat-faced hunter — stood just behind Clothar’s chair like a guard-dog.

‘Refusing food is poor etiquette,’ Clothar tutted and wagged a finger, then chuckled at his own joke before gulping down wine. ‘Worthy of reprimand!’ he added, his skeletal grin broadening as he looked to his two fellow nobles as if to bring them in on the jest. The two — one shaven-headed and one red-haired — looked nervously at one another, then laughed too.

Their reaction confirmed everything Gallus had assumed about Clothar.

‘Three years ago, there was a banquet just like this,’ Clothar said, gesturing to the plates of meat, fruit, wine jugs and bread between them. ‘Romans ate with Quadi. Except,’ he held a finger in the air as if to freeze time, ‘at this banquet it was a Roman who had invited the Quadi to dine.’ He stopped to gnash at more goat meat. ‘And no ordinary Roman. . Emperor Valentinian, no less,’ Clothar leant forward, his teeth bared in a foul rictus uplit by the candle.

Gallus’ mind raced. Valentinian’s last years had been spent fighting these dogs — indeed, it was said that the old Western Emperor had died in apoplexy at their impudence. If only his agents had suffered such a fate too, he mused bitterly.

‘King of the Quadi before me — Gabinus, my brother — was Valentinian’s guest that evening.’

Gallus felt an even darker mood settle across the table: even the two nobles shuffled uncomfortably on their seats.

‘He came in good faith, hoping to strike some truce with your emperor,’ Clothar continued through a mouthful of meat. Then he slowed, chewing carefully, decisively, his colourless tongue lashing out across his lips. ‘But Valentinian had one of his agents put a cord around Gabinus’ neck as he ate. Choked the life from him,’ Clothar’s nostrils flared and his sunken eyes came alive with wrath, his shoulders squared and he stood a fraction from his seat like some corpse rising from the grave, ‘then tossed his body to the dogs!’

The end of the tale echoed around the hall. Gallus imagined a Quadi tribesman stealing up behind him with a taut cord readied to be wrapped around his neck in retribution. He did not flinch.

Clothar slumped back, then laughed mirthlessly. ‘If you do not wish to eat now, I understand,’ he purred. ‘For your minds will no doubt be on what fate I have in store for you?’

Gallus remained tight-lipped. He mocked the first gnashings of fear in his belly and refused to look away from Clothar’s steely stare.

‘The Roman garrison we bested to take this place and your fortress-city on the southern banks. . we took a few hundred alive. They have kept me entertained for some time — I believe you saw my means of making two legionaries from one, outside? Well, your emperor is always keen to raise more numbers for the legions, isn’t he? I was merely helping him in that respect,’ he said with a hoarse chuckle, then leant forward again, the feral grin returning. ‘But the thing is. . I have run out of subjects.’ He glanced to the leather bags lying by the doorway, Gallus’ plumed intercisa and Dexion’s white-plumed helm visible. ‘So to have two officers walk into my clutches is a fine thing indeed. At first light, the treetops will be bent down once again, and two officers will become four. . ’

Gallus stared through the high barred opening at the wisps of freezing mist that flitted by outside. This dank, dark and featureless chamber was to be theirs for the night and at dawn they were to be led out for execution at the grim elm trees. The chamber’s thick wooden door had been locked hours ago. They had sat in silence at first, then the fort began to echo with the howling and snarling of dogs and the wailing of some poor soul. That had finished some time ago, and Gallus guessed there were only a few more hours until dawn.

Dexion sighed, his eyes closed and his head resting against the cell wall. Gallus wondered what this one pondered in these, his final few hours.

‘Why did you leave him — and the others — behind, sir?’ Dexion said at barely a whisper.

The words were like a brand on Gallus’ neck. He could not meet Dexion’s eye as they echoed around the room. ‘Pavo and the Claudia veterans? Because I needed them to remain at the pass, not to die out here on this miserable journey of ours,’ he said at last.

Dexion did not reply. ‘Then I am disposable?’ he joked weakly.

‘No, you are a hardy soldier and I needed just such by my side. The Succi Pass requires a legion if it is to be held. The Claudia do not need me: Zosimus, Quadratus, Pavo and Sura, they could all lead my legion. They will lead the legion and they will hold the pass. That’s why I left them behind.’

‘That and, I suspect, because you care for them,’ Dexion suggested tentatively.

Gallus looked to Dexion, unflinching. ‘A tribunus who cares for his men will find himself beset with grief,’ he said, the truth of it lancing his heart. ‘I chose the best men to stay behind, and the best man to come west. These choices have to be made, and if that means some men might die, then it becomes a choice of whom. The choice of a tribunus. . a choice without a trace of glory or honour.’ His words trailed off with a bitter edge and he ran his hands across his face to rid himself of the prickling shame.

‘I understand,’ Dexion said quietly. ‘Back at that burnt-out villa, when Pavo and Sura were trapped inside as the Goths approached, I had no place questioning you. My emotions took hold of me when I should have known better. As an officer, it is expected of you to send men to their deaths and carry on, unblemished. Indeed, when I was a centurion in the I Italica, I posted sixteen men to hold a fort gate when we were attacked by Goths. I knew as I spoke those words that those men were going to die. But they would gain us a sliver of time — enough to see the rest of the century out of the rear gate and to safety.’ He gazed into the shadows at the far side of the cell as he spoke, as if imagining their faces there. For just a moment, Gallus almost thought he could see them too. ‘I didn’t have much time to think about it, and I only realised afterwards that I had chosen the lads I did not know so well. I had spared the ones I considered my friends.’ He shook his head and chuckled coldly, his breath puffing in the cool air. ‘And the next time I saw my optio, he looked at me as a drunk might behold a cup of water. Pure, utter loathing. Why didn’t you put me on the gate? he said. They were just boys.’ He shook his head. ‘I may not have scars on my flesh from that battle. . but some wounds are so deep that the scar lies buried within. Invisible.’ He fell silent, staring into the middle-distance.

‘It is said that a man’s choices define him,’ Gallus said at last. ‘And if that is true, it chills me to my marrow to think what I have become. But while I scourge myself over lost comrades, I know that not once. . not once. . has a man died needlessly or at least without good reason under my watch.’ His gaze grew steely. ‘But there are some who infest the empire like lice, burrowing, gnawing, feasting on the flesh of good men, breaking the spirits of heroes and dealing death like a black currency.’

‘You speak of the Speculatores?’ Dexion asked.

Gallus’ head snapped round upon him.

Dexion balked. ‘I. . I know now why I should not have asked after your wife and boy,’ he said.

Gallus frowned, then realisation dawned. In these last days of arduous travel, he had found himself for once drowsy and quick to sleep whenever they stopped and made camp in the forests. Most days he had awoken fresh and revitalised, but some days, the nightmares had persisted until dawn. ‘I have often been told that I talk in my sleep. I presume that in these last weeks, I have been somewhat rambling?’

Dexion smiled sympathetically. ‘You spoke of the agents of the West. Not in any detail — just enough to make it clear that they were responsible. I do not wish to anger you again, just to let you know that I understand.’

Gallus beheld him with a sideways look. ‘Do you, truly?’

‘Perhaps not,’ Dexion conceded. A moment of silence passed, then the primus pilus added; ‘But tell me, give me a chance to understand.’

Gallus sighed and slumped. It seemed for a while that he was finished and would say no more. ‘Those parasites feasted upon the blood of those I loved,’ he said suddenly, breaking the silence. ‘They took a simple man’s life and wrung it, strangled it of joy and affection. They created me.’ His mind threw up a medley of images: the numb escape from northern Italy into the Eastern Empire; the haunted face he saw staring up at him when he stopped to drink from a stream; the gaunt, unfeeling husk he had become as the weeks had passed; the utter lack of pity as he tore his blade across the throat of the first speculatore sent to assassinate him — the blade sawing back and forth until it rasped against the cur’s spine and Gallus’ whole arm was wet with hot blood; the many more who had been sent to complete the task and died just as abruptly; Avitus, the little optio who had been sent to try once more, but who had turned, instead defending Gallus loyally until his death at Ad Salices.

‘All I know of the Speculatores is that they are dark, dark bastards,’ Dexion said, his face lengthening. His eyes darted and he licked his lips nervously. ‘Sir, you came West only to alert Emperor Gratian to the situation in Thracia, didn’t you? Assure me of this. Tell me you do not plan to confront him or these agents of his?’

Gallus gazed into the blackness of the cell. He wondered if, by dawn tomorrow, his torment would be over — brutally but swiftly by virtue of the elm treetops. Then, who would know his story? Who would care? In these final hours, perhaps it was time to speak the words he had never spoken. He recalled then the solemn confession of Carbo, moments before the troubled man had met his end. If I cannot face the past, then perhaps I should share it? He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. ‘I have no quarrel with the Western Emperor. But his agents? Well, let me tell you a story. When I am finished, you can ask me that question again.’

Dexion nodded uncertainly.

Gallus’ eyes grew glassy as he searched back into the past. ‘There was a senator called Nonus who lived in Italia, not far from the city of Mediolanum in the north. He was an affable old fellow who could talk and talk without drawing breath. He owned plush farmlands in the Po Valley and needed many workers to tend them.’ Gallus held out his hands, examining the chapped, rough edges of his fingers in the ghostly moonlight. ‘He might have bought slaves to till the soil and gather his harvest, but he did not. My wife and I were granted a small, single-roomed home on his estate along with other families. We rose at dawn, worked in the fields all morning, rested and drank cool water and ate bread in the shade of the olive groves during the hottest hours, then worked all afternoon too. I suffered not a lash on my back nor a cross word from old Nonus. He had a strong company of hired guards that watched his villa, but nobody supervised his farmlands. Trust was granted and rewarded. When it came to harvest time, Nonus’ fare was legendary — dates, olives, marrows, carrots, asparagus and the sweetest honey — all bounteous and delicious, for we worked those lands as if they were our own. The old senator paid us well and treated us as friends. We had the pleasure of dining with him at his home more than once: not some stuffy, pompous show of affectation, no, just a simple meal enjoyed with earnest friends.’

‘Later, when Olivia fell pregnant, she could not work. I worried that her condition might anger Nonus or stretch his patience. But instead, when I told him the news, the old man embraced me with tears in his eyes. He said he would make sure that the finest obstetrix would be there to help with the birth. His wife had been barren and died young, you see, so he had never had children. He told me on that day that he saw those who lived on his lands as the closest thing he would ever have to progenies of his own. Marcus was born the following summer, on a sweltering July afternoon. Nonus was there, his tears flowing again. Olivia hugged our baby boy and I cradled them both in my arms. In all my life, I have never known such a tranquil moment, and I longed for nothing other than those I had right there with me.’

Gallus paused as a long-forgotten pang of emotion caught him off guard then. A thickening around his throat, a stinging behind his eyes. The hooting of an owl outside the cell brought the steeliness to the fore once again.

‘It was under a waning September moon that the Speculatores approached me. They came in the guise of wanderers, you see, a pair of them ambling across our farmlands dressed as common men. They said they were stuck without a place to stay and I offered them the hay bales in the barn by our home. They asked if they could have something to drink and eat before they retired and again I obliged, bringing them stew, bread and wine. We chatted in hushed voices so as not to wake Olivia and Marcus, and for all the world I could have believed they were who they claimed to be. Until one of them asked me if I had heard of Nonus’ recent activities in the Senate House. It seemed that he had spoken out against Emperor Valentinian’s policy of making war with the Quadi. I sensed it then — their true motive. I did not know the exact nature of what they were to ask of me but I knew it would be ignoble. And it was. Lead Senator Nonus to the cliffs by Lake Benacus, they whispered like friends seeking to help me, then walk away when you see our agents approaching. Then their friendly demeanour dropped from their faces. And if you consider defying us, one of them said then nodded towards the open doorway into my home. There, in the blackness, I could just make out Olivia and Marcus, sleeping on the bed. Standing over them was another figure, a third man in a dark red robe, his face masked in a veil. He twirled a small dagger in his fingers so as to catch the moonlight. It hovered just inches above their sleeping forms. The message was stark and unequivocal. They left after that. I spent the rest of that night, sitting by the bed, watching Olivia and Marcus, asleep, unaware. They knew nothing of the Speculatores’ visit. I looked out through the doorway and across the estate to Nonus’ villa — well-protected by his troop of bodyguards — and wondered if the old man had any inkling of what had happened, just an arrow-shot away from his home.’

Gallus sighed, his head falling towards his chest.

‘So I brought old Nonus to Lake Benacus on the day they told me to. We sat upon the cliff tops, chatting in the fresh autumnal air, gazing out across the placid waters. We talked of Marcus, of his future on the estate, of Olivia’s hopes and mine for a second child. It was getting on in the afternoon when Nonus issued a weary sigh and beheld me with an odd look I had never seen before. You are supposed to leave me here, are you not? he said. I will never forget his tone — that of a disappointed Father. I tried as best I could to stammer a reply, but he was having none of it. He nodded to the cypress thickets behind us at the cliffs. Go, leave me. The thugs waiting in there will be growing impatient. I tried to explain, but words had never felt so insufficient. I knew the risks involved in speaking out against the Emperor Valentinian, Nonus said. He has reacted as I feared he might. . and his Speculatores are seldom defied. You know I do not think ill of you for doing as they asked, don’t you? I read the fear in your eyes — it has been there all day. They threatened your family, didn’t they? That’s how they operate. The weather-beaten senator looked at me sorrowfully. ‘I forgive you. I understand. Now do not drag this out: either cast me on the rocks yourself or go, leave me here. You must know what will happen if you do not obey them? Think of your family, Gallus.’

‘His words struck me like a wasp’s sting. I had not even held a sword in all my life and here he was, asking me to do something as simple as walk away from him and condemn him to death. It was then that I finally managed to get my words out: I will protect them, Senator, but not at the forfeit of a good friend’s life. A snapping of twigs startled us both then. We turned to see figures emerging from the forest path leading through the cypress trees. Seven red-robed men, faces veiled. The Speculatores had come to execute the senator. One held a tensed garrotte. Nonus stood, lips trembling, backing towards the cliff edge. Be at ease, I whispered in his ear, then I lifted my fingers to my mouth and whistled.’

‘The shrill signal brought a pack of Umbrian bandits I had hired hurrying from behind the rock pile nearby. They fell upon the momentarily stunned Speculatores. The Speculatores fought like wolves, slaying many of their ambushers, but the Umbrians numbered nearly forty, and soon the last of the red robes had fallen.’

‘What have you done? Nonus beseeched me.’

‘Only what I had to, was all I could say in reply.’

Dexion nodded as he listened intently, then he shuffled as Gallus fell into a lasting silence. ‘A noble choice,’ he said quietly.

Gallus looked up at him. ‘A fool’s choice! For what did it achieve?’

Dexion was taken aback, his eyes widening.

‘Nonus was right,’ Gallus hissed. ‘Weeks later, I was returning from a market trip to Mediolanum when I saw something up ahead. I slowed the cart, sure my eyes were deceiving me, even as I stared up at the broken, bloodied body of the old senator. He was fixed to the trunk of a spruce tree by the roadside by a bolt hammered through either shoulder, his stomach slit and his guts spilled down his legs. Wolves had gnawed at the entrails and at his limbs. I raced home, caring nothing for the produce and tools that fell from the cart. If they had found Nonus then surely they would have carried out their threat on my family.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Dexion said, bowing his head.

‘It did not end there. No, they let me return home to find Olivia and Marcus. No harm had come to them; they were well — merely confused by my angst and my panicked story. We fled our home, taking to the road. The Speculatores let me live the life of a brigand for weeks, sleeping and eating on the wagon, always moving, wary of every passer-by. They let the dark parasite that is fear consume me, burrow into my mind. For those weeks I did not sleep, I barely blinked, I jolted at every noise, every movement.’ Gallus stopped, his lips trembling. ‘Finally, I became exhausted from the torment and let my guard down one night. I allowed myself to drain a skin of the venom they call wine and fall asleep instead of standing watch over Olivia and Marcus as they slept by the wagon. They found me that night. They carried out their threat, slew my beloved family and knocked me unconscious. I often wonder if the Speculatores meant to leave me alive so I could see their bodies. I had been consumed by fear for weeks, only to endure an endless plague of shame afterwards.’

The confession was over. A long silence passed. Gallus felt the weight of his troubles absent for a few precious moments. But gradually, the tightness in his chest returned. It had changed nothing. He looked to Dexion; ‘Now, do you still have a question for me about my intentions?’

Dexion shook his head. But Gallus knew he was not finished. ‘But had you not stood for your beliefs, Nonus the Senator would have died and his blood would have been on your hands. Yes, your wife and boy might have gone unharmed. But would Olivia have been able to look you in the eye? Would little Marcus shy away from your touch? Would you not have known equal shame whenever you caught sight of your own reflection?’

‘Is that supposed to offer me comfort, Primus Pilus?’ Gallus asked, squinting at Dexion.

Dexion shook his head. ‘Not at all, sir. It is just that. . sometimes the only thing that can truly destroy a man is himself. Blackness in the mind can suffocate the spirit and ruin a man more than any blade. Sometimes it needs another to show him the folly of letting the blackness win. I just want you to know that I see nothing but nobility in the choice you made.’

Gallus felt his flinty demeanour fall away at these words. ‘And you are the first to have heard of it. I always thought that if I was ever to share this tale, then it would have been with your brother. I see a lot of my younger self in him, and I think he more than any other understands me. But. . ’ he sighed, glancing around the cell, thinking of all that separated him from Pavo and the rest of the XI Claudia: thick stone walls, hundreds of miles and imminent execution, ‘. . it seems that it is not to be.’

Silence reigned once more. What more could a man do in his final moments than contemplate his past. Yet I was supposed to face it, he thought bitterly. The Speculatores would never be brought to justice. Olivia and Marcus would go unavenged.

He picked up a handful of grit from the floor, crumbling it between his fingers. Something hit him then: a smell, an earthy scent that seemed to have tumbled from his memories of the crop fields in the Po Valley. He held his fingers up, seeing that it was not grit but wheat kernels with flakes of chaff falling away. Old fare, he realised, so dry it was surely harvested years ago. A flash of realisation shot through him. He stood, his mind at once alert, his eyes combing the darkness. Then he sunk to all-fours, moving around the floor, running his fingers across the cold stone.

‘Sir?’ Dexion said from the blackness.

‘Move!’ Gallus hissed, shooing Dexion from where he sat.

‘What are you looking for?’

‘I knew it!’ Gallus growled, finding more wheat then standing, moving around the walls and running his fingers along the mortar. ‘This room was once used to store grain.’

He sensed Dexion’s confusion. ‘Grain must be kept dry. The only way to do that is. . ’

‘Ventilation,’ Dexion whispered urgently, realising at last. He squatted by Gallus, touching at the section of wall — a square, rough and pitted unlike the smooth blocks of stone around it.

‘It’s been filled with rubble and mortar, but it’s loose enough to come away,’ he said, grunting as he tugged at a piece in the corner to pull away a tiny fragment of the mortar.

‘But we have no tools, nothing to dig with?’ Dexion sighed. ‘And these fort walls must be several feet thick.’

Gallus cast him as hard a glare as he could manage — hoping it would cut through the blackness. ‘Then we use our hands!’

On and on they went. The roar of the Danubius outside did well to disguise the scraping and the tumble of small boulders of rubble from the vent. As pieces of sharp-edged debris came free, they used this to dig and scrape. On and on they went until Gallus fell back from the vent, panting, his tunic slick with sweat and layered with clumps of dust. An hour had passed, he was sure, and still they had tunnelled only a half-foot into the vent. Worse, his fear that it might narrow towards the outside seemed to be materialising — if the wall was as thick as they thought then the outer opening of the vent would have narrowed to be too small for them to slide through. He moved back to the vent as Dexion fell away in exhaustion this time. Taking up a piece of slate, Gallus hacked and chipped at the loose mortar. The slate snapped and so he took up the two shards, scraping, gouging, his lean frame working like a machine. Soon the slate was gone, ground to pieces, and still he pulled and gouged at the mortar with his bare fingers, heedless of the nails ripped clear of their beds or the blood running down his forearms. By his side, Dexion worked doggedly too.

‘We can do this!’ Gallus snarled. ‘There may be a foot to go but we can do this!’

‘But, sir,’ Dexion said, stepping back from the vent.

Gallus glanced round to see his primus pilus gazing up at the barred opening near the chamber ceiling. The silvery-black of the foggy night had lifted. Now, nascent daylight hovered out there, spilling into the cell and bathing it in a charnel grey. Over the rush of the river, they heard jagged laughter and babbling outside and up above.

‘It’s dawn. . ’ Dexion said, his tone flat, resigned.

Gallus glowered to the sliver of daylight beyond the bars, then to Dexion, then to the tunnel.

Birgir flitted down the steps to the stony corridor where Clothar’s prisoners were held, his horn vest clicking as the plates rose and settled with every stride. The place reeked of decay — mainly because of the corpses that languished in the chambers here. He held his breath, then beckoned his two bleary-eyed comrades with him towards the cell at the end.

They stopped by a cell halfway along, peering through the small grate on the doorway. Inside, the bald noble that had dined with Clothar and the Romans the previous evening lay in the corner, clutching his knees to his chest. The king had thrown the other noble to his hounds, watching with glee as the man had been torn apart. This morning, one of the hounds had been running around with the cur’s red-haired scalp clutched in its jaws. ‘We will bring you bread soon,’ he called through the grate. ‘You will be plump and hale for the dogs tonight.’ He watched long enough to see the noble curl up into a tighter ball and heard the man’s gentle weeping, then laughed and waved his two comrades on to the end of the corridor and the cell there.

‘Get back, Roman filth!’ he spat, pushing his face to the grate on this door. ‘Back against the wall!’ His eyes scoured the room in search of them. Once, twice. Nothing? Then his gaze snapped onto the odd, dark shape on the cell’s left-hand wall. A hole. . a tunnel?

‘The bastards have escaped!’ he snarled, his fingers fumbling with the keys, his mind racing with what tortures King Clothar might subject him to for losing these prisoners on his watch. In a blur, he thrust the key in the lock and barged the door open, his two men bundling into the room with him. He hurried over to the narrow hole and climbed in, but stopped, seeing that it only went a few feet into the thick walls. It led nowhere. His spinning thoughts came to a halt upon hearing the strangled half-cries behind him, and the wet rip of steel across flesh. He ducked back from the tunnel and spun round to see his two comrades lying dead on the floor, and the wolfish Roman — who must have been hidden, pressed flat against the wall by the door — rushing for him, stolen axe hefted. He felt only a dull thud and then blackness as the axe blade chopped down on his crown, splicing his head in two.

‘Be silent and swift!’ Gallus whispered as he and Dexion stalked through the prison corridor, heads twisting this way and that. He stopped by the door of the cell holding the whimpering man, then pushed the keys lifted from Birgir’s corpse under the door and moved on. They flitted up the winding stone steps and into the open square at the heart of the fort, which was streaked with mist and edged with colonnade. They ducked behind a set of barrels within the shadow of the colonnade, peeking between the gaps. A pair of Quadi were milling by a brazier, cooking a spitted hare over the flames. The main gate was just beyond them. Three of Clothar’s hounds — fierce, black mastiffs — lay asleep nearby, enjoying the heat.

‘They’re on watch, just like the men on the westerly road. They will not move,’ Dexion cursed.

‘No, they will move,’ Gallus growled, picking up a piece of loose mortar from the flagstones, then hoisting it, ready to throw. Just as he did this, one of the hounds roused. Its eyes were sleepy but its ears had pricked up and its head was turning towards the barrels. Gallus hurled the piece of mortar, watching as it arced across the square, then landed on the brazier, nudging one jutting piece of glowing red-gold kindling. The men never noticed, but the dog did, its head switching to the brazier. The kindling snapped and toppled onto the dog’s rump. The hound’s howl brought Gallus and Dexion’s hands to their ears and shook the fort, and in moments the other dogs had woken. The first dog leapt upon the nearest of the two sentries — its supposed attacker, then the others attacked the second.

From the walls above, Gallus heard dark laughter from the merciless Quadi sentries up there, no doubt enjoying this impromptu bout of dogs feasting on men. ‘Come on,’ he beckoned Dexion with him. They skirted round the edges of the square, staying in the shade of the colonnade, the fort’s open gate only paces away. They came past the doorway to Clothar’s feasting hall, saw the two leather bags which held their armour and snatched them up, then hurried on and down the darkened slope that ran through the gatehouse and outside into the wet sand and thick mist. Through the fog, they could see the Danubius’ rushing waters but nothing of Singidunum on the southerly banks.

‘Slowly,’ Dexion whispered, stopping Gallus from running too far from the shadow of the gateway, pointing up to the guards on the quadriburgium’s four protruding watchtowers. ‘Stay close to the walls until we come round to the boat,’ he motioned, pressing his back to the wall and edging round to the western side.

They rounded one of the towers and beheld the grim white elm trees with the riven cadaver still dangling from the tops. Gallus peered into the shroud of mist beyond until he saw the outline of the fishing vessel at the waterline, then clasped a hand to Dexion’s shoulder. ‘On my word. . ’

But another voice cried out; ‘archers!’

Gallus and Dexion’s heads shot up — from the tower above, Clothar glowered down on them, his wan skull face reddening with ire. A moment later, a cluster of Quadi archers bent over the wall tops, nocking arrows to their bows.

‘Run!’ Gallus bundled Dexion forward.

Arrows thumped down, quivering in the sand and in the bark of the elm trees. One skimmed Dexion’s neck, sending up a spray of blood. Another tore past Gallus’ thigh. He hobbled on, sure the next arrow would take him, but the hail had stopped, the mist had obscured them from the archers’ sights. Grunting, he and Dexion shoved at the fishing boat. After what felt like an eternity, the craft moved freely in the water. Dexion threw and oar into Gallus’ outstretched hand as if agreeing a tacit plan, then both men leapt into the craft and hauled at the oars, willing the water back, fighting against the current of the great river, desperate for the shore to slip into the mist. The quadriburgium began to fade and was gone, then the elm trees began to grey, then. . then Clothar loped into view on the sandy shore. ‘Stop them!’ he cried, waving to some unseen warriors behind him.

Gallus dropped his oar and stood.

‘Sir, what are you doing?’ Dexion gasped.

Gallus ignored him, hoisted the axe stolen from Birgir and hurled it. It flew true and pierced Clothar’s breast, ruining his heart and pinning him to the trunk of the nearest elm. ‘I can’t live with that bastard breathing the same air as me,’ Gallus said, shooting Dexion a wild look, then sitting to take up his oar once more.

As they slipped into the mist and further upriver, they saw the hounds racing out to the shore, then gnashing and tearing at Clothar’s twitching and bloodied corpse.

Next, they heard a war horn wailing. From the shore, jagged shouts rang out and bells rang from the direction of Singidunum’s dock. A splash of oars just beyond the curtain of mist sounded, followed by another and another, coming after them.

Gallus dropped and hoisted his oar again, then fixed Dexion with an iron look. ‘Row, Primus Pilus. . row!’

Reeds crackled and snapped and their boots splashed in the shallows as they hauled the fishing craft up onto the southern banks of the river. Gallus’ arms were numb and almost powerless. His breath came and went in rasps and the blood pounded in his ears. Hours of frantic rowing upriver had brought them two miles, maybe three, Gallus hoped, west of Quadi-held Singidunum.

‘Out of sight. . a little more,’ he gasped as they hove the ship into the gorse bushes. They hadn’t seen or heard their pursuers for the last hour. Had they given up? Surely two Romans were of little consequence?

Dexion groaned then dropped the colossal weight, staggering back, his face wet with fog and perspiration, leaves and grime clinging to his skin. He swiped the moisture from his chestnut brown locks and rested his hands on his knees, squinting downriver from whence they had come. The mist was burning off now, the cloak of grey lifting.

‘First, we should find the westerly road,’ Gallus panted, scouring the foliage of the riverbank and looking beyond at the mesh of pine and birch forest. ‘Once we’re upon it, we can gauge whether. . ’ his words faded as Dexion’s panting halted. He shot a glance at his primus pilus, saw how Dexion’s hawk-like features were tensed, eyes wide, then looked downriver with him.

Nothing. Then. . shadows. Next, the gentlest lapping of oars over the thunderous river torrents.

He saw the shadows take shape: a Quadi warrior, lifting a horn to his lips, his savage features unveiled just as he emptied his lungs into the war horn. The terrible wail shook Gallus’ heart. Another two vessels flanked this one. Thirty or so men, a nest of spears, bows and eager faces.

Two Romans were indeed a great prize, it seemed.

A tacit glance with Dexion, and they both darted from the riverbank, thrashing through gorse and reeds and towards the forest. Gallus’ fatigue derided his every stride. Branches thwacked into his face, gouged stubbornly at his legs and arms, knocking him from side to side. The damp, freezing air seemed to catch in his lungs and the stink of decay grew stronger as they plunged through semi-frozen swamp.

‘They’re ashore,’ Dexion gasped, looking over his shoulder.

Gallus heard the scraping of the Quadi boats being dragged into the shallows, then the thick, jagged cursing of the barbarian warriors and the crackling and crunching as they pursued. ‘Look forward, think only of what lies ahead,’ he urged Dexion, fighting for breath. ‘The westerly road cannot be far and if the empire has retained control of this stretch of the river then. . ’ his words tailed off as he heard something up ahead. Hooves. Clopping hooves. . on flagstones. Coming from the west. Imperial riders?

‘Equites?’ Dexion panted, sharing his thoughts. ‘Let it be so!’

Gallus spotted the frosted grey flagstones just a few bounds ahead through the branches, the road cutting through this forest and across their path like a scar. He saw everything he had staked on this journey spin before him like a dice. Olivia, Marcus. . justice for them and vengeance for the curs who took them from him. The men of the XI Claudia, the closest thing he had to family. . left stranded by him, depending on him, trusting him. But the unruly weave of thorny undergrowth seemed determined to hold him back, ripping at his flesh, snaring his legs. He drew his spatha and hacked through this snare in a frenzy, and Dexion followed suit. The guttural curses of the following Quadi seemed just an arm’s length behind him, when at last he slashed through a last coiled tendril of gorse and tumbled onto the road. At once, Dexion was by his side, both men with spathas raised towards the woods they had just left, seeing the cluster of Quadi bounding for them from those dark depths.

Gallus looked along the road to the west. The mists were swirling there as if stirred by a titan’s hand. The sound of hooves was thundering ever closer. Come on, come on! He mouthed, raising his spatha as the first of the Quadi cut free of the undergrowth and loped towards the road, screaming.

Just then, the mists on the westerly road drew apart. Horsemen burst into view — a hundred or more. Gallus saw them just as a blur of glinting armour. They saw Gallus and Dexion and the Quadi in the woods, then raced for the imminent clash.

Gallus’ hopes leapt for that precious instant. Then he saw what these riders were: bronze scale vests and helms; gleaming torcs around their necks; fair skin and blonde, flowing hair, beards and moustaches.

‘They’re not Roman,’ Dexion stammered, seeing the riders clearly too.

They held their lances level and lay flat in their saddles then charged. The Quadi emerging from the undergrowth by the roadside scattered like rats before a bright light, disappearing back into the woods, some throwing weapons down in their haste.

Gallus and Dexion too backed away from these charging riders. First a few steps, then they tumbled back towards the woods, seeing the snarling rictus on the lead rider’s face. Another rider broke forward and knocked Dexion to the ground with a swipe of his lance. Gallus stumbled and spun round, his back crashing against the nearest birch trunk as the lead rider slowed his mount to a trot then a walk. This horseman came a halt, stabbed his lance in to the dirt by the roadside, then drew his longsword, holding the blade’s edge to Gallus’ throat, pressing it until rivulets of blood stole down Gallus’ neck, eyeing his prize with the look of a starved jackal.

I’m sorry, Gallus mouthed into the ether to his unavenged loved ones, realising it was all over. I’m so, so sorry.