The Scourge of Thracia

Chapter 21

As sleet lashed Trimontium’s walls, Governor Urbicus thrashed in his bed. The pheasant he had enjoyed for his evening meal had filled him with gas and troubled his fitful sleep with black dreams. Every howl of the gale, every snort of a passing pony or cackling of some drunk had him waking with a start, soaked in sweat. When one wild cry was cut short, he sat up, muttering, wiping the perspiration from his handsome but lined face and smoothing his black hair from his forehead, vowing to enforce a curfew after dark more strictly from now on. If I had the men to enforce it, he mused bitterly. He had heard nor seen nothing since the visit of that damned tribunus with the gaunt, cold stare. Nothing! No sign of a relief garrison, not even a single imperial messenger to advise him on when he could expect such a boon. He mused once again over acting on Gallus’ advice and training the thugs and beggars from the city to serve as militia. They’d sooner slice my neck than save it! he scoffed.

Just then, something rapped violently in the wind. He eyed the shutters, seeing they were not closed properly, then slid from his bed and strode to them. When he reached out, a violent gust blew them wide open and at once, his bedchamber was filled with icy winds and stinging sleet. The night flashed before him, forks of lightning streaking the sky and illuminating his town momentarily — the three hills within the walls running with meltwater and weathering the worst of the wintry deluge. The fineries of his room and the bedding were cast across the floor, his neat hair writhed and his robes rapped wildly as he fought to grasp both shutters. But he stopped, the shutters almost closed, yet not quite. Something was moving out there.

Gingerly, he prized the shutters open just a fraction more and peered into the blackness. Another fork of lightning. Yes — movement! At the northern gatehouse, his precious few sentries there were signalling to each other, their shouts weak over the gale.

‘Open the gates!’ he heard one cry.

He froze, seeing the thick, iron-strapped gates groan. Through them came a sight that had him rubbing his eyes with balled fists. ‘Reinforcements?’ He gawped at the silvery column that entered: intercisa helms, mail shirts, shields and spears. He squinted at the banner they carried. A black eagle on a red background. The VI Herculia. In they came, hundreds of them, soon a thousand. He clutched his Christian Chi-Rho and half-laughed, half-wept. He had prayed for a legion and a legion had been delivered. The walls would be safe.

‘I must greet them, ensure they are here to stay,’ he muttered as he swung away from the shutters to search for his oiled cloak and boots. Then an odd thought struck him. A good six months ago he had received a scroll detailing the losses from Ad Salices. Many soldiers had fallen. Entire legions had been lost, the VI Herculia one of them. .

A serrated scream pierced the storm and a clash of iron followed. Urbicus swung back to the shutter and peered out again. He palmed at his eyes once more, for the dream had become a nightmare. The legion had turned upon his handful of sentries. A streak of lightning threw this cold truth into sharp relief, one of the Herculia legionaries was holding a sentry by the throat and driving his sword up and into the man’s gut. The blade came back out with a wash of blood and the other Herculia legionaries roared in delight while the last few sentries ran.

‘No. . no,’ Urbicus mouthed, sure he would awaken any moment. But when some of the Herculia soldiers threw off their helms and chanted, he saw them for what they were. Flowing blonde and red locks, beards and tattoos. He noticed now that only some of them wore legionary garb, those further back were dressed in Gothic leather armour and carried spears and longswords. Like a fire fed with fresh wind, they spilled from their formations and out across the network of streets. In moments, the screaming of his few sentries was replaced by a cacophonous shrieking as doors were battered down, homes raided, women dragged into the streets. As the northern quarter of the town was put to the torch, Trimontium’s three hills were lit in orange and dancing shadows and the Goths forged on into the heart of the settlement. He saw a brute of a man on the back of a silver stallion, waving them on. A giant in a winged, bronze helm and a jutting trident beard. This one swept a great axe at the citizens who scattered before him, blood leaping in the air as it sliced through flesh. This one was coming for the palace on the slopes of the three hills. In moments, the rider had slipped out of sight, disappearing behind an old Temple of Jove adjacent to the palace.

‘Guards!’ Urbicus cried, backing away from the shutters. ‘Bring my horse to the courtyard, be ready to ride.’

The two men he kept here in his villa would escort him, shield him in his flight. I can be in Sardica within a few days, he realised, thinking of his cousin, Governor Patiens.

He heard footsteps echoing down the corridor outside his bedchamber, then muted grunts and the wet slap of something heavy hitting the tiled floors. Then he heard more footsteps. No, not footsteps. . hooves. He edged gingerly towards the closed doors of his chambers, fingers outstretched to the handle.

Then, as if his nightmares had escaped from his mind and into reality, the bedchamber doors were dashed back from their hinges, shredded wood flying across the room, the thrashing front hooves of the mount that had broken them still swirling in the shattered doorway. The silver stallion settled back onto all fours and the giant rider heeled the beast into Urbicus’ chamber, ducking under the doorway. Urbicus staggered back, stumbling over furniture, face agape. The colossal horseman was streaked in blood and his axe was plastered in skin and hair. His face was bent with bloodlust, obsidian eyes scourging Urbicus, smashed nose wrinkled and teeth gritted above his jutting three-pronged beard.

‘I. . I’ll give you anything you wa-’

The giant’s axe flashed out, cleaving Urbicus’ chest. Urbicus touched a hand to the awful wound, his fingers sinking in through the sundered ribs and feeling the pulsing, hot organ in there, haemorrhaging hot, wet, black blood.

As he crumpled to the floor, he heard cries ring out all over the city, drowning out the screams.

‘Far-no-bi-us! Far-no-bi-us! Far-no-bi-us!’

Farnobius sat on a carved chair in Urbicus’ atrium draped in one of the dead governor’s purple cloaks, one foot resting on a toppled statue, absently throwing grapes into his mouth. The sleet storm from earlier in the night had turned into snow, and this spiralled silently in through the opening in the centre of the roof. He eyed Egil and Humbert and wondered if these two might ever become the burdens that Alatheus and Saphrax had been. The difference is that you are their master and they are your dogs, Vitheric’s weak voice assured him. Farnobius nodded as he considered this, seeing the deferential, round-shouldered stance the two adopted. Your dogs to command, to scorn. . or to slay. . you are adept at slaying those who trust you, are you not?

Farnobius’ head twitched and his knuckles grew white on the arms of the chair. This town had yielded a full silo of wheat, another of barley, and a healthy treasury. Coupled with the men raised from the mines two weeks ago, they were well-stocked. He gazed at the tattered VI Herculia standard on the floor he had harvested from the back of one of the Roman wagons. That and the imperial armour had been the key to this town. Just as I showed you it would, Vitheric said.

‘You are no master of me, boy,’ he growled, his head twitching again.

‘Reiks?’ Egil said.

Farnobius ignored him and took a deep swig of wine.

Egil and Humbert exchanged nervous glances. ‘We have grain, men, weapons, armour and riches,’ Egil said. It was not phrased as a question but it demanded an answer.

‘You think we should stay here, then?’ Farnobius said flatly.

Egil licked his dry lips and shuffled where he sat. ‘It is an option. Continuing westwards brings us to Trajan’s Gate. The Romans are skilled at holding such narrow defiles, and the dead of winter is almost upon us.’

‘And Veda did not return,’ Humbert added. ‘If the rider he was pursuing managed to forewarn the Romans then. . ’

Farnobius raised a finger and it was enough to silence the man. He thought of what lay ahead. His horde could be at Trajan’s Gate within a few days. Sooner, even, were he to send his riders on ahead. To remain here and settle for the meagre takings of this city, or to forge on, seize the pass and ravage what lay beyond?

‘Do you truly fear the scraps of men and steel that Rome’s broken legions might pit against us at this pox-ridden pass? I certainly do not. I have settled for too little, for too long. No, we will stay here but one day and wring every last morsel of grain and gold from this place. Then, when we leave, we will march through this much talked-of narrow valley.

Rise, death-bringer, Vitheric’s voice mocked, for your axe is surely thirsty again after mere moments without blood.

Farnobius stood, kicking the fallen statue to one side as if to banish the voice, his head twitching violently.

‘There, we will fall upon Trajan’s Gate like Wodin’s wolves!’