The Scourge of Thracia

Chapter 2

A clear blue sky hung over the Thracian countryside. A hot afternoon breeze blew, rippling through the grass on the green hills and the golden wheat stalks on the flatland. The Via Militaris cut north-west across this pasture like a great grey vein, running all the way from Constantinople, across Thracia, Dacia and into the Western Empire, ending at the distant fortress-city of Singidunum on the banks of the River Danubius. Here at this mid-section of the great highway, two days march north-west of Adrianople and six days into their march overall, the five legionaries of the XI Claudia moved swiftly under their silver eagle standard, the ruby-red banner hanging from the crossbar bearing the effigy of a bull. Gallus led them, eyes set on the western horizon, his red cloak and the black plume on his intercisa helm rippling in the breeze. Quadratus and Zosimus followed, marching abreast, with Pavo and Sura at the rear.

Pavo felt the strain of marching keenly, sweat streaming across his brow and his skin smarting from the late summer sun. The trials of Persia had strengthened certain muscles, while others had atrophied, it seemed. He had almost forgotten what the combined weight of a legionary’s kit felt like. The helm compressing the neck, the mail shirt digging into the shoulders despite the linen focale scarf worn under the collar, the wooden oval shield dragging on the left shoulder where it was carried on a strap, the weighty spear chafing the palms and straining the right arm, the trusty spatha and scabbard jostling and rubbing on the left hip and his leather boots chewing at his ankles. Worst of all, the extra kit strapped to his back felt like carrying a baby ox: two water skins, a shovel, rope, sickle, hammer, saw, axe, pick-axe and the framework of tent poles were all stuffed in there — with Sura carrying the goatskin that would shelter the five overnight. He grunted, hauling his shield higher on its strap and ridding himself of the nagging voice telling him to stop and rest his aches.

‘It’s been a while, eh?’ Sura gasped, reading his thoughts.

‘Changed days,’ Pavo muttered absently in reply, casting his gaze around and taking a swig of his water skin to wash the dust from his throat. ‘And a changed land too, it seems. Only last year this was considered solid imperial territory. Then, we could march without armour.’

‘What’s that?’ Zosimus grunted, looking over his shoulder. ‘Nah, nothing to be wary of. I know these lands like the underside of my scrotum,’ he affirmed, then frowned and wondered at the comparison and whether he had ever actually set eyes on that part of his anatomy. He was about to add something, when they passed another deserted imperial watchtower. Beside it was a crushed legionary helm. He glowered at the abandoned tower and Pavo heard a low growl tumble from his lips. The big man was a Thracian by birth, and the sight of his homeland in disorder riled him.

The watchtower was but one such sight. The further north and west of Adrianople they marched, the more destruction they witnessed: deserted or dilapidated waystations, empty field forts, abandoned farmsteads and a stark thinning of the rural population — many having fled to the safety of the walled cities. Crop fields had been left to seed, fallow ground lay brown and bare apart from the weeds that had taken root. Fig and olive groves had grown wild and untended. In the months they had been in Persia, Thracia had suffered. The small bands of Gothic raiders who had managed to penetrate this far south before the five mountain pass blockades had been set up had reaped a heavy toll, it seemed. Even to this day, a few such bands still roamed in these lands. They passed one field where a few farmers dared to tend their crops: they did so nervously, eyes darting to the countryside every so often, their harvesting sickles clutched like weapons. The great road was empty too — as far as the eye could see. They had passed not a single imperial rider or sentry patrol in days. Every man, it seemed had been pulled to the Great Northern Camp, to focus on the main body of Goths beyond the mountains, while lower and middle Thracia had been left almost bare of protection. He shrugged, pulling his shield up on its strap again — this time for safety rather than of comfort — and took to switching his gaze this way and that.

The march grew more wearing throughout that day as they came to long tracts of heathland, dappled in purple heather and punctuated with grey limestone boulders. Here, long sections of the Via Militaris had fallen into disrepair with flagstones sunken, raised, or absent — gouged out and taken for some other purpose. In parts, repairs had been attempted, though rather crudely, with chunks of yellow sandstone and even slabs of expensive blue-veined marble crammed awkwardly into gaps. He passed over one such stone that had a worn dedication to Mars etched into it — no doubt from a forgotten temple to the old war god. Changing days indeed.

Late in the afternoon, they came to a fork in the road, where the Via Militaris continued on towards the western empire while a smaller, more ancient and broken road led off to the north. This smaller road scaled a small set of foothills, almost being swallowed by the swaying long grass that sprouted between its flagstones.

‘The road to the Great Camp,’ Gallus said, halting them and unfurling a map.

Pavo joined the others in sucking hungrily from his water skin, removing his helm and mopping the sweat from his face.

‘The camp lies a half-day’s march to the north,’ Gallus continued, ‘on the southern banks of the River Tonsus. ‘Fresh cohorts and a fresh cause await us there. Let us stop here tonight then rise early.’

It was the first words he had spoken since breaking camp this morning. Pavo helped the others in setting up the tent. Later, as Sura and Quadratus bickered over who would light the fire, he noticed that the tribunus was standing sentinel-like under a beech tree, hands clasped behind his back, again gazing west. Always west.

Darkness fell, and Zosimus set about topping bread with cheese then lightly toasting it and soon Pavo, Sura and Quadratus joined him in sitting round the fire to eat. Pavo took his piece of bread and munched on it. The warming meal innervated his tired limbs, and a swig of cool water washed it down nicely. He noticed that Gallus had not taken his piece from the plate, so he lifted it and took it over to him. Silvery spears of moonlight pierced the canopy of leaves above the tribunus and threw his face into sharp relief. The harsh, unforgiving glare was still fixed on the blackness of the western horizon. The tribunus’ troubles were well-guarded, and Pavo knew it would be a mistake to broach what little he knew of them directly. He sought a different tack.

‘The Praesental Armies will put an end to this strife, sir. We will bolster the legions at the Great Camp and await their arrival. Come next summer, these lands might once again be at peace.’

Gallus’ head swivelled, his gaze pinning Pavo. ‘Aye, the Praesental Armies of East and West will unite in Thracia. When they do, it will be the first time they have come together in a long, long time. The Goths should be wary. . as should we all.’

The words were laced with foreboding. Pavo understood Gallus well enough by now to know it was not directed at him. ‘Whatever happens, sir, know that you can rely upon your men.’

Gallus nodded, his head dipping so his eyes fell into shade. ‘I know that only too well, Optio. That just four of you remain is a fact that plagues my every thought.’

‘Eat, sir,’ he said, handing over the cheese on toasted bread. ‘Then sleep. You need to sleep.’

Something flickered at the corner of Gallus’ mouth. A prelude to a smile? Whatever it was, it vanished again. ‘Aye,’ he said, taking the food.

Pavo returned to the campfire, sat, then looked north. At first, he saw only a wall of black. Then, as his eyes attuned, he made out a speckling of stars and the stark, jagged horizon, jutting into the sky like fangs. The Haemus Mountains, the only thing that separated the Great Northern Camp from the Gothic horde.

Apprehension seemed to hang around the small party like a fog, but it failed to dampen his spirit, for the Great Camp was so near and one name rang in his thoughts.

Felicia!

The next morning, a fine mizzle fell, stealing in through a gap in the tent flap and waking them at dawn. Gallus rose first to find not a single chink of blue in the sky — just layer upon layer of scudding grey clouds. They ate a swift breakfast of hardtack biscuit and spicy sausage, washed down with a bellyful of water and a sip of soured wine. While his men bantered as they disassembled the tent, he looked westwards into the roiling grey sky, and imagined Emperor Gratian’s Western Praesental Army gathering. . and his shadowy agents readying to journey with him. Come east, you dogs. I will be waiting for you. Memories of his years of running stung him like a cloud of hornets, but he swept them away. I was once your prey, now you will be mine.

‘Sir,’ Zosimus said, scattering Gallus’ thoughts. Lost in his reverie, he had not noticed them hoist their burden of weapons and armour once more. ‘Ready to march!’

He met the eyes of each man. Each of them gazed back, expectant, loyal, focused only on their duty. . as comrades should be. This stoked an ember of guilt in Gallus’ breast. If even one of them was to fall because of his distracted mind. .

He steeled himself, donning the iron veneer across his heart then stood, sweeping his cloak back, hoisting his own shield and pack. ‘Move out!’ he cried.

Before noon, they peeled off the north road, following a dirt-track that weaved off through the last few foothills. The muddy track was scarred and pitted with myriad wheel-tracks, hoof and boot-prints. As they rounded the hills, the fine mizzle thickened into a shower, soaking their cloaks, armour and clothes and churning the earth underfoot. Each of them had raw ankles and aching backs from this rugged last section of the march.

Gallus eyed a rise ahead. A thin pall of smog hung there and the air was spiced with the scent of woodsmoke. He heard the dull clink of tools, the chatter of voices and the lowing of oxen, then spotted the tip of a damp, golden banner rapping in the breeze. The Great Northern Camp, he realised. Rest, warmth and food for his men. Tonight, when they slept, he could contemplate his own affairs once more. Over the next few days, the training and organisation of these three new cohorts would be a welcome distraction. . until Gratian brought his agents east.

The very thought of having to integrate some seventeen hundred men set his mind aflame with ideas. The new cohorts would have to be evaluated in every aspect: their physical condition, their morale, their experience, their kit. New officers would have to be selected to lead them, for too many of his trusted men had been lost in these last years — Felix in Persia, Avitus at Ad Salices and Brutus to these damned Goths. And the role of the XI Claudia would have to be established with this Saturninus, the magister equitum in charge of the mountain passes and the Great Northern Camp. For a moment, he was lost in planning, then realised his dark thoughts of the Western agents had receded entirely.

He climbed the rise and slowed at the top, the four with him slowing too. For a moment, nobody spoke. Down the gentle hill lay a wide green plain through which the River Tonsus snaked from west to east: a broad river, its torrents swollen with the autumnal rain. Nearest them on its southern banks was a vast arc of muddy ground and a sprawl of tents, people and activity. It was vaster than any army camp he had ever seen. But this was no army camp, this was a jumble of mud-spattered legionary tents, wagons, roaring campfires and grubby, torn standards. Milling and jostling amongst this disorder were masses of people — some in armour, some in robes, many clearly not even military personnel. The scene was more akin to a vicus — the typical hotchpotch of lean-to taverns, trader’s tents and brothel shacks that usually sprung up outside a legionary fortification — than a great military camp. There were maybe fifteen thousand bodies, wandering to and fro like a grazing herd. Worse, there was no visible training taking place, and no sign even of a clear street plan, with tents at odd angles and pitched too close together or way too far apart. All this was set upon a tract of near-quagmire.

‘What the?’ Zosimus said, lifting his helmet off and scratching roughly at his stubbly scalp. ‘This is it? Where’s the perimeter palisade?’

‘Where’s the watch?’ Sura added, frowning and trying to find something other than a single timber watchtower that had been erected on the furthest edge of the camp — right next to the riverbank. Atop this, one man stood, gazing down onto the camp rather than across the river and off to the north where the danger surely lay.

Quadratus, however, did the sentry’s duty for him, looking beyond the camp and the river to the jagged fangs of the Haemus Mountains, still misty blue in the haze of mizzle. ‘I hope the blockades in the passes are slightly better organised than this.’

Gallus felt many urgent questions form in his mind, then multiply and grow before fracturing into jagged shards. His head ached at the mere sight of the mess before him. The mountain passes, just a half-day’s march north of this muddle, would fall indeed if this was any indication of their quality.

At that moment, he noticed Pavo, the only one who had not commented. He had overheard the young optio’s conversations with Sura, and knew that within the muddle of a camp before them, Pavo’s woman, the flame-haired Felicia, waited. He met Pavo’s eye for a moment, and saw the anticipation in there.

I envy you, lad. You’d march into Hades to protect her, wouldn’t you? Had I only been so brave. . when it mattered.

‘Centurion,’ he said to Quadratus.

The big Gaul read the signal, hoisted the XI Claudia standard and chopped it forwards.

The five marched for the camp.

They trudged forward into ever more boggy ground, boots sucking and squelching. They reached the first of the filthy tents without so much as a challenge, a salute or a sideways glance from the people wandering to and fro. Gallus caught a whiff of strong wine. He passed something vaguely resembling an ordered row of legionary tents and felt a pinch of optimism, only to spot the piles of armour and weapons lying at one end of the row: mail, swords and helms in a slovenly heap, wallowing in mud and soaked with rain. He cast a look back at the four with him, and realised their blanched and angered expressions were a good gauge of his own. On and on they walked, past horses wandering untethered, hideously drunk men urinating on the mud-track or lying unconscious and bare-breasted women coming in and out of soldiers’ tents. He spotted a trio of chatting men dressed in mail and with spears and shields resting by their sides. Sentries, at last. He called to the nearest one. The man swung round. His face was nearly purple, with a bulbous, pitted nose and rheumy eyes. His thin hair was plastered to his scalp with sweat and rainwater and his unshaven jaw was spattered with mud.

‘Aye, what d’you want?’ the man slurred angrily through blackened teeth.

Gallus’ teeth ground together. ‘Name and rank,’ he said in a low growl.

The man gazed through Gallus for a moment then snorted. ‘Ha!’ he said, waving a dismissive hand and turning back to the other two he had been talking with.

Gallus marched through the bog, slapped a hand on the man’s shoulder and spun him round. ‘You have one more chance before I have you flogged, you. . ’ he stopped and stepped back, his nose wrinkling at that stale stench of wine again. He glanced at the man in incredulity, then to the spear he held. ‘You’re as drunk as an ass — and you’re on sentry duty?’ he said, nodding to the spear.

At this the trio of men looked to one another then burst into laughter.

Quadratus and Zosimus stomped forward to flank Gallus, each half-drawing their spathas. The zing of the steel edge rasping on the scabbard mouth served to underline their tribunus’ flinty tone and quietened the laughter almost instantly. At the same time, Pavo and Sura flanked their comrades, levelling their spears. Now the drunks fell silent.

‘At ease,’ Gallus said under his breath, raising one hand a fraction. Reluctantly, the four lowered and sheathed their weapons. ‘I feel we could quarrel with this type all day if we so desired.’ He cast a sour look around the drunken rabble in every direction. ‘Mithras knows there are enough of them. Come on,’ he waved to his men, ‘we should head for the centre of the camp. We may find some answers there.’

Near the mid-point of the camp, he spotted a jutting frame of timber with a windlass mounted upon it.

‘Artillery work?’ Pavo suggested, squinting and craning to get a better view over the passing clusters of men.

‘Not quite,’ Gallus sighed, seeing that it was in fact a screw press, surrounded by countless barrels of grapes and amphorae of wine — doubtless the source of the vile, cheap stench in the air.

He heard the tink-tink of hammers once again, much louder and closer this time, and felt the wave of heat that could only come from a nearby smith’s furnace. ‘At last,’ he growled to his four. ‘Someone both sober and with a purpose.’ But when they reached the smith’s workshop — a small area covered with a sheltering timber roof — there were no new or mended weapons or armour to be seen. Instead, the fleshy smith was working on a curved sheet of bronze, tap-tapping away at it on the round end of his anvil. Gallus frowned, seeing the ripples in the bronze taking the shape of a torso, then noticing a broken stone cast a few feet away.

‘You spend your time fashioning an intricate chestplate?’ he said. ‘There are tens of thousands of Goths not a day’s march beyond those mountains,’ he thrust a rigid arm out, one finger extended to the Haemus Mountains. ‘Who gave you permission to waste your furnace and materials so?’

The smith looked up, startled, sweeping his long, grey rain-soaked hair from his eyes. He grinned. ‘I was ordered to, by the Master of the Camp.’

Gallus felt this was a modicum of progress. ‘The Magister Equitum, Saturninus?’

The smith scratched his beard and shook his head with a look of incredulity. ‘Saturninus? No, he has been engaged at the Shipka Pass for months now.’

Gallus frowned and shot a glance to the north, his eyes narrowing on the mountains. The Shipka Pass was the centre-most of the five rocky corridors blockaded to keep Fritigern’s Gothic alliance from flooding into Thracia. The centre-most and the most difficult to hold.

‘So your leader is absent. Then who is in command of this. . camp?’ he spat the last word like a knot of gristle.

But the smith did not answer. Instead he looked up and past Gallus’ shoulder and a sickly grin split his face. He clasped the bronze cuirass using wet rags and held it up. ‘Your new armour is nearly complete, my lord.’

Gallus heard a wet, sucking thud-thud of hooves approaching behind him, then felt the hot breath of a horse on his neck. He turned and looked up, slowly and with growing dread. Before him, saddled upon a black stallion mired fetlock-deep in mud, was a barrel-chested officer wearing a bronze scale vest and a white cloak. His face was round and ruddy with a thick brown tuft beard trimmed carefully to grow out to a point that disguised what Gallus suspected was a rather weak chin. His sunken eyes were further shadowed under a bronze helmet with a jutting brow band, a lengthy neck guard and two delicately crafted bronze wings, one welded onto each side just above the ears — clearly a recent addition and the work of the cloying blacksmith.

Gallus hesitated before speaking. The man wore no clear indication of rank — no stripes on his tunic sleeve and no obvious clue as to his unit.

A tense silence ensued. Those nearby gathered to watch.

‘Tribunus Barzimeres,’ the rider said at last, eyeing Gallus askance. ‘Leader of the Cornutii, heroes of the Milvian Bridge, and of the Scutarii, the finest chargers in Thracia.’ His tone was bumptious to say the least.

As he said this, Gallus noticed that a thousand-strong unit of infantry had marched into the camp in the man’s wake from the west, four abreast. The Cornutii he recognised straight away, distinguished by the eagle feathers they wore either side of their helms and which their leader had sought to outdo with his bronze wings. Their shields and the amber banner hanging from their eagle standard depicted a twin-headed red serpent, both heads facing each other, as if ready to quarrel. He had seen these men once before, in Constantinople. They were an auxilium palatinum legion, a specialist infantry regiment of Emperor Valens’ inner guard — part of the Praesental Army left behind in Constantinople whilst the rest were garrisoned with Valens on the Persian frontier.

Behind them came the Scutarii. These mounted men wore intercisa helms, scale vests and oiled black cloaks, with shields bearing patterns of concentric red, blue then yellow circles. These fine horsemen were a wing of the emperor’s horse guard — the scholae palatinae. These two crack corps were a precursor to what forces might be mustered here in months to come when the Praesental Armies of East and West came together.

But these two pristine divisions did not excuse the pitiful state of the rest of the camp. Legions of border limitanei and the comitatenses field legions had once been the pride of Thracia. This rabble was a disgrace.

Gallus sucked in a long, slow breath through his nostrils and held Barzimeres’ gaze. ‘I am Tribunus Gallus,’ he noticed Barzimeres eyes flare for an instant at the mention of his equal rank, a chink of fear in there, ‘of the XI Claudia Pia Fidelis. Emperor Valens despatched my men and I at haste to aid the effort in holding back the Goths, pending his arrival early next year. Magister Militum Traianus hastened us here from Constantinople, told us to seek out Magister Equitum Saturninus, the commander of this camp.’

Barzimeres gazed at Gallus for a few moments, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. Finally, a complacent look crossed over his face and he gazed past Gallus’ shoulder. ‘Ah, so that’s what you are: another few limitanei?’

Gallus felt his skin prickle as the man went on to bark out orders to unseen others, obviously more important to Barzimeres. He rummaged inside his cloak and produced the scroll Traianus had given him. ‘I have this message detailing our orders. . ’ he paused in disbelief as Barzimeres heeled his mount round as if to walk it away while he was still talking ‘. . a message for Saturninus — your superior,’ at this, Barzimeres’ wandering gaze snapped back to attention.

‘Saturninus is absent, Tribunus,’ Barzimeres sighed hotly as if reiterating some tired point to a recalcitrant child. ‘I am commander of this camp.’

‘Then you’ll have three cohorts of legionaries ready to repopulate my ranks?’ he finished, holding up the scroll.

Barzimeres’ sunken eyes shrunk further under an agitated scowl. He snatched the scroll and scanned it. ‘Yes, yes,’ he said, waving one hand around. ‘You’ll have your men, Tribunus,’ he said, that haughty look returning. ‘I’ll have them mustered soon enough. It’s difficult to replace a fallen man in the Cornutii ranks. And the Scutarii take years to train. But your limitanei? You can find recruits lurking in any city alley,’ he laughed as if he was sharing a joke. ‘I hear that these days they even recruit the curs who cut off their thumbs in an effort to avoid service!’

Gallus’ stony expression did not falter.

‘You can set up your tent by the riverbank,’ Barzimeres said, his levity fading and his lips growing thin, ‘and you will report to me after evening curfew.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Gallus replied hotly.

At that, Barzimeres clicked his tongue to guide his stallion away, waving his cavalry and infantry units with him towards the eastern edge of the camp, urging them unnecessarily with hectoring cries.

Night had fallen, blessedly darkening the horizon and veiling the menacing outline of the Haemus Mountains. The mizzle had stopped too, but the camp was still a morass. Worse, Barzimeres had assigned them — entirely deliberately — the boggiest patch of ground for their tent. Pavo finished tying the goatskin to the tent frame and hammering the guy-ropes into the soft earth. Next, he took the opportunity to wade into the shallows of the river, ducking under to soak his head. It was white-cold and perishing, but it washed every morsel of splashed mud and filth from the march from his person. A fair bit cleaner, he ducked inside the tent. Sura, Quadratus and Zosimus had laid out their bedding on a goatskin roll that would serve as some kind of floor over the mud and were now cleaning their armour.

‘Don’t know why I’m bothering,’ Quadratus moaned. ‘Every other bugger in this place looks like they’ve had a bath in pigshit.’

‘Apart from that winged bastard,’ Zosimus flicked his head in a random direction that was his best guess as to where Barzimeres’ tent stood. ‘I bet his lot bathe him by hand every bloody night.’

Quadratus’ face split in a grin as he made an obscene hand gesture. ‘Aye, I bet they do. . ’ he said, his shoulders jostling in a chuckle.

‘Oh for f-’ Sura started. A small channel of muddy water had found a way in over the goatskin floor mat and soaked his bedding. ‘Perfect,’ he cast both hands up, dropping his half-cleaned boots.

Pavo rummaged in his pack to set up his own bedding in the empty space beside Gallus. The tribunus sat cross-legged, bed already laid out, armour already cleaned and polished, eyes staring into the distance. ‘Sir, before I sort out my gear, can I — ’

Gallus looked up, startled, as if he had been in another place entirely. He shook his head as if to clear out whatever thoughts were in there. ‘Your woman?’ he guessed.

Pavo nodded.

‘Go,’ Gallus said, flicking his head to the tent entrance, ‘but return by curfew.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ he nodded, throwing off his damp tunic, roughly towelling himself then pulling on a clean, dry white and purple-edged tunic from his pack. It felt like silk on his skin.

In a flash, he was outside, hurrying through the sodden earth. He knew where Felicia would be. Just as when they were in Constantinople and she had helped out at the barrack valetudinarium, surely she would be in the medical area of this camp too. Though in this light and given the haphazard layout of the camp, it might be more difficult than he had anticipated to find the surgeon’s tent. But across the sea of wandering and seemingly constantly inebriated population of the camp, he spotted one larger tent further along the riverbank. Close to clean water and enjoying a spot on shingle as opposed to mud, this tent had a tall wooden staff erected beside it, bearing a winding, carved serpent — the staff of Asclepius, God of Healing — and a Christian Chi-Rho to boot. His heart thundered as he slowed, then it leapt as, through the sliver of tent-flap, he caught sight of her.

In the orange bubble of lamplight within, she looked like every one of the dreams he had escaped to in those tortuous nights of incarceration deep within Persian lands. Her long amber hair tumbled all the way down to the small of her back, resting on her generous hips and the waistband of her pale green robe. Her milky skin seemed flawless, her lips ripe and glistening. He reached out to pull the tent flap back and enter when a rather grotesque squelching noise sounded — his boot had been pulled right off by the treacherous mud. He hopped to one side, balancing on one leg before tilting carefully to retrieve his boot. Felicia had a way with words; she could reduce a grizzled legionary to tears and pleas of mercy with her acerbic wit, so to hop into the tent wearing one boot or to stagger in splattered in mud would not do at all, he realised. As he wrenched his boot free, he heard her voice. Her throaty, sultry voice.

‘Even that foul wine they make here is tempting right now. It’ll warm my blood and make me numb to my filthy, damp tent,’ she said then craned her neck back and yawned, stroking her neck as she did so.

The words were anything but sensual, but the way she said them sent the blood rushing to Pavo’s loins. Well, it has been a long time, he thought.

‘I hear your man is coming to the camp soon?’ the light voice of some unseen other woman said. ‘So perhaps you will have more than wine to keep you warm at night?’

Pavo frowned. Had word somehow reached her that he was alive and well and coming for her?

‘I know that look,’ the other said. ‘You’re in love! It’s true, isn’t it?’

‘Am I in love?’ Felicia chuckled. ‘No. . ’

No? Pavo’s smile faded and a scowl began to form.

‘Well, maybe,’ she added. ‘Yes. . yes I am,’ she admitted finally.

Pavo’s smile returned and he steadied himself, trying to slide on his boot in the dark as he listened in. Just then, through the sliver of tent-flap, he caught sight of the other woman, older, with grey-flecked hair. ‘Wading in blood and amputated limbs is no place for you. As an officer’s woman, surely you could be anywhere but here?’ she said. Pavo felt his chest prickle with pride, and when one sour-faced off-duty legionary stalked by, scowling at him, Pavo shot him an imperious look, as if to say, I’m an officer, don’t you know?

‘Ah, perhaps, but I came here by choice. I came here to help. And in any case, the life of a primus pilus’ woman is not the life for me.’

Pavo felt a cold pang of confusion. A primus pilus’ woman? This sent him wobbling on his one booted foot.

‘Wanting for nothing in some countryside villa? My mind would eat itself. A marble cage, as I see it. The primus pilus can have his pick of servile women, of that I have no doubt. But if he wants me, then he has to understand me.’

There it was again. Primus Pilus? Who was this Primus Pilus? His chest prickling with jealousy, he made the snap decision to confront her there and then. He wrenched on his boot, stood tall, sucked in a breath, strode for the tent flap. . then tripped over a mud-disguised and badly-placed guy rope, splashed face down in the mire and skidded inside the tent, face and body plastered with filth.

The older woman inside screamed.

‘What the?’ Felicia yelped, leaping back, snatching up a scalpel.

Pavo, clambering to all fours, waved his hands in supplication. ‘It’s me!’ he spluttered, spitting sod from his lips.

But Felicia shielded the older woman and backed around the scarred and bloodied surgical table in the centre of the tent. ‘We’ve had drunks, lechers and thieves crawling in here at all hours. So I don’t care if you’re bloody Mithras himself,’ she hissed as she held the scalpel up like a dagger. ‘Come any closer and I’ll have your balls off!’

Pavo hurriedly wiped at his face and swiped the worst of the mud from his hair. ‘Felicia. It’s me!’ Seeing her eyes dart over him uncertainly, he rummaged to pull a strip of filthy cloth from his belt, then shook the mud from this too, unmasking it as a rather sorry-looking strip of red silk.

She gasped, dropped the scalpel and stumbled back against a wooden cabinet. ‘Pavo?’ she croaked.

Pavo nodded, coming closer, swiping the remnant mud from his face. ‘I. . I. . ’

Suddenly, the older woman, in a fit of boldness, swept up the dropped scalpel and rushed for him, her face pinched and her shrill cry filling the tent.

Pavo leapt back from her wild swipe at his crotch.

‘Lucilla, No!’ Felicia cried. ‘He’s a friend!’

Pavo grasped Lucilla’s wrist, squeezing it so she dropped the implement. The woman staggered back, grumbling, clutching her wrist. ‘I’m sorry,’ he pleaded with her. ‘I’m not one of them,’ he nodded outside to the flitting shadows of passing drunks and ill-disciplined soldiers. ‘I’m here with the XI Claudia.’

‘You’re. . alive,’ Felicia stammered. ‘The Claudia live?’

‘I’m here. I’m alive.’ He grasped her by the shoulders, unmindful of his mucky hands.

Felicia’s fair skin was now paler than moonlight. ‘Lucilla, would you leave us please?’

The older woman sighed and nodded, then made for the tent flap. She did pause, however, just long enough to lift the dropped scalpel and replace it on the table, shooting a cautionary glower first at Pavo’s face and then at his crotch.

When she had left, Felicia’s brow wrinkled and she panted in shock. ‘But I heard rumours in the height of summer. They said that the XI Claudia had been lost in the desert.’ She looked him in the eye, more tears welling as she pulled a small purse of coins from under her green robe. ‘They even gave me your funeral pay-out.’

Pavo blanched at this, recalling instantly the moment from his youth when a scowling legionary had sought him out and dropped Father’s funeral pay-out into his hand. It had almost crushed his spirit. Almost. ‘I’m sorry that happened. I should have got word to you, somehow. The first chance I had was the Cursus Publicus messenger I paid to take word to you from Antioch. But he was too late, it seems. I. . I’m here now.’

‘Then you should have this.’ She tucked the purse into the belt of his damp, muddy tunic, then searched his eyes. ‘And the others?’

Pavo shook his head. ‘Only four returned from Persia with me. Tribunus Gallus, Zosimus, Quadratus and Sura. The rest gave their lives bravely.’

Felicia closed her eyes as if stifling a show of grief, then clasped his hands inside hers. ‘I need to know. Did you find him?’

The question caught him off-guard. So much had changed in those months in the burning sands. ‘I found him,’ he replied, trying to keep the emotion from his voice. ‘He was alive, Felicia. My father was alive.’

Her eyes widened. ‘Then where is. . ’ she started in a whisper, then faded away as she saw Pavo look away. Instead, she simply embraced him again.

Pavo felt her warmth against him, sensed his heart beating a little faster, felt his loins stirring once more. He pulled back, cupping her chin and moving to press his lips to hers. But he halted, inches away, recalling something from moments ago. ‘You said I was a friend.’

She frowned. ‘What?’

‘To that harridan who was determined to hack my bollocks off. Just a friend, you said?’ he backed away, shaking his head, the lust of moments ago crumbling.

‘Pavo?’ Felicia replied, her face knitted in confusion.

Pavo felt that creeping jealousy tingle inside his chest again as he pieced it all together. ‘You were talking to her about some primus pilus. About love?’

‘Pavo,’ she tried to interrupt.

But he was having none of it. Already he understood what had happened. He and the XI Claudia had been missing for only days, probably, when she had given him up for dead and thrown herself at another man.

‘Pavo!’ she roared. It was a cry that nearly knocked the rest of the mud from his flesh and clothes. Even the dull babble outside seemed cowed momentarily. And her paleness of a moment ago was suddenly consumed by a flushing red band across her nose and cheeks. Her look was flinty, to say the least, and Pavo was frozen by her demeanour. She strode to him, reached up, scooped her hands around the back of his head and pulled him down, pressing her cherry lips to his.

Pavo’s mind flashed with confused voices and thoughts. His loins were more single minded. He pressed his body against hers once more and they remained interlocked for what felt like an eternity. At last, they parted. She held his gaze with an earnest one of her own. ‘I am in love. . with an utter fool of an optio,’ she said with a wistful smile.

‘Then what was all that about?’ he said.

‘We can’t talk here,’ she whispered, then took him by the wrist and led him out and into the night. With a series of determined squelches, she marched him to a small tent on the southern edge of the sprawling camp. There, without ceremony, she picked up a bucket of water resting outside and hurled it over Pavo.

It was freezing cold — more so even than the currents of the River Tonsus. He gasped in fright, then stammered in confusion. ‘What the?’

‘You’re filthy,’ she said calmly. ‘Now come inside and take that sodden, grubby tunic off.’

‘It was clean a moment ago,’ he muttered, then obediently removed his tunic and hooked it on a pole outside before following her inside dressed in just his loincloth. Inside, she struck a flint hook to an oil lamp that poured an orange bubble of light around the space and revealed two beds — one for her and one for the harridan Lucilla, presumably. She handed him a towel and as he dried himself, she poured them each a cup of fresh water and broke a small loaf of bread. They sat cross-legged on her bed, facing one another, Pavo gladly helping himself to some bread.

‘This place is a wolves’ den,’ she whispered, glancing at their dancing shadows on the tent canvas, as if they might be listening in.

Pavo’s chewing slowed. A forgotten but familiar, stony feeling settled in his gut. In his time away from imperial lands, he had forgotten — or had chosen to forget — the web of intrigue that laced every corridor, the rust of corruption that weakened every city gate and the stale breath of perfidy that lingered like mist in every province.

‘The Speculatores are at large,’ she said, mouthing this in an almost inaudible whisper.

Pavo’s blood chilled. The Speculatores had no place here, in the Eastern Empire. They were a grim and ancient institution of the West. Yet these shades had been ever-present yet unseen in all his time with the legions. Men who operated like wraiths in the shadows, stirring up dissent, murdering and stealing as they pursued dark agendas lost on most common men. They had ruptured Felicia’s life, recruiting her young brother and sending him into the ranks of the XI Claudia as an assassin. They had tried to poison the cohorts of the Claudia again, assigning Avitus to the ranks. Both agents were now long dead. The man they had been sent to slay was still very much alive and seemingly forgotten by these shadowy agents. But what was it about Gallus? What had gone on in his past life in the West that caused them to harry him so?

He thought of Gallus’ few words in these last days.

The Praesental Armies of East and West will unite in Thracia. When they do, it will be the first time they have come together in so very long. The Goths should be wary. . as should we all.

Was the Speculatores’ presence a precursor of the Western Emperor Gratian and his armies coming to these lands? He thought of Gallus’ reaction to the news of Gratian’s army coming east. ‘Of course. . ’ he muttered.

‘Eh?’ Felicia said.

He shook his head. ‘Why are they here?’

Felicia held her hands out in exasperation. ‘I know nothing other than that they are here and have been for some weeks.’

‘You’ve seen them?’

‘I could not mistake their kind, Pavo,’ she said gravely.

‘Aye,’ he nodded, placing a comforting hand on hers, thinking of her dead brother. ‘Where, when?’

She leaned closer to whisper once more. ‘Near the principia.’

Her words tickled his ear and sent a shiver racing down his back. He tried to bury the stirring this brought about in his groin and thought of the haphazard arrangement of tents at the heart of the camp. Was the detestable Tribunus Barzimeres in league with the Speculatores? Or were they here to kill him or another? Suddenly, he feared for Gallus: what if they had come, after years of silence, to finish the job?

‘By day they behave like every other wastrel in this camp — drinking, spitting and swearing,’ Felicia continued. ‘They can blend into any background. But at night, I saw one of them staggering, alone. He tripped and stumbled along until the moment came when not an eye was upon him — except mine — then he suddenly crouched, his clumsiness gone, his eyes keen. He saw that the principia area was empty, then stole past the sentries and into the tents. I watched, seeing him dart from one tent to the next, searching for. . something.’

‘And the sentries?’ Pavo gasped, then slumped in realisation that they were doubtless inebriated and ignorant to the goings-on. He sighed, knowing that the seed had been sown in Felicia’s mind. With these agents present in the camp and with the dark furrow they had ploughed in past affairs, he knew she would not rest on the matter, and neither could he. ‘We must find out more. We must.’

Felicia’s face spread with a superior smile. ‘And that is why you heard me talking about a primus pilus.’

Pavo’s eyes darted, then he laughed wearily. ‘You’re leading on some poor officer with a tent in the principia so you can keep an eye on the Speculatores?’

She nodded haughtily.

‘Not leading him on too much?’ he cocked an eyebrow.

‘The more he wants it, the more I can get away with,’ she winked. ‘But he is gone for now — off to the Shipka Pass.’

Pavo felt the jealousy crumble away. But she was playing a dangerous game. ‘Felicia, you are putting yourself right on the end of their daggers. You know only too well what they are capable of.’

She seemed to sense a lecture was forthcoming and cupped his groin. ‘And you know only too well what I am capable of,’ she said in that throaty voice, casting her hair back from one shoulder to reveal the smooth skin of her neck, and letting the side of her robe fall to reveal a full, pert breast.

Pavo felt his worries scatter at the sight. At once, her robe was thrown to the floor and Pavo’s loincloth joined it. They fell back on the bed, entwined, tasting each other’s warm flesh. It had been so long for him with only dreams of her. Now he thought of nothing else other than making this moment last. As they thrust into one another voraciously, he forgot all that was going on around him. The Speculatores, the Gothic War, the precarious mountain passes that held Fritigern’s hordes back like a weak dam and the search for Dexion! Instead, he felt only pure, lustful intoxication.

They erupted in a shared cry of delight and fell back, panting. A sweet heady spell of contentment swept over them both and he lay there with her, their hands clasped, his thoughts drifting, spinning. She rested her head on his chest and he heard her sigh weakly. He traced a finger across her skin, soothing her. Moments later, she was asleep. And the effect was catching, it seemed, as Pavo felt his thoughts slip away from him. They tumbled through a nonsensical jumble of the day’s marching chatter, and off into the blackness of the past.

And he was there again. The Augusteum’s foully hot summer air wafting around him. The bite of the shackle on his ankle. The stink of the rich heckling and bartering to own him. The hollow certainty that slavery was to be his lot. Then, behind the sea of sweating faces. . the shadow in the colonnade, watching him, watching and waiting. . but for what?

He woke with a start, the dream-world fading as it was replaced by the ceiling of Felicia’s tent and the damp, musty air of the Great Northern Camp. Felicia moaned and shuffled a little. Pavo tried not to disturb her any further, but his thoughts began to gather again like dark clouds. He swept the most troublesome thought of the shadow man away, knowing well that it would be back to plague him soon enough anyway. His next thought was rather pointedly of the shrew, Lucilla. Should she come back to the tent whilst he lay, genitals on show, she might finally get her wish to harvest his balls with the scalpel. Shaken by the thought, he sat up and tied the towel Felicia had given him around his waist, taking care to make sure his crotch was well and truly covered.

‘What’s wrong?’ she muttered sleepily by his side, stroking his back.

‘Nothing. But I’d best be getting back to the contubernium. Evening curfew can’t be far away and Gallus is not in a mood to be vexed.’ He stood up as he spoke, crouching only to fold the blanket over Felicia’s naked form, stroking her hair. ‘Tomorrow, we have three new cohorts of men to add to the legion. I’ll be a true optio once more.’

‘Still an utter fool, though,’ she muttered mischievously, turning her back on him.

‘Just promise me that you’ll not act on these suspicions of yours until we’ve spoken again and planned what to do?’

‘Yes, Pavo. Goodnight, Pavo.’

He grinned at her pluck, then stood to leave, reaching for the tent flap. But a question sprung to mind and he swung back to her. ‘This tribunus you’ve been flattering. What’s his name?’

She yawned, then sighed. ‘You’re still here?’

‘Felicia?’ Pavo insisted.

‘Dexion,’ she said. ‘His name’s Dexion.’

Pavo’s stomach fell away.

The buccinas sounded around the Great Northern Camp, signalling evening curfew. Gallus wondered if any within this shambles of a camp would heed it at all.

‘Wine, Tribunus?’ Barzimeres asked, patting the jug on the table between them.

Gallus shook his head wordlessly.

‘It’s not the foul stuff they press out there. This is a fine Gallic, tart and warming!’

Gallus glanced past the jug, past the white-robed Barzimeres and around the tall, spacious tent. ‘I have enough problems to make my head ache intolerably, Tribunus, without flooding it with that poison.’

Barzimeres curled his bottom lip, stroked his tuft beard and shrugged. ‘So be it.’ He sat back, groaning and cracking his knuckles, then clasping his hands across his ample gut — no longer well hidden behind a cuirass. ‘So earlier in the day, you seemed to have some issues with the running of my camp?’

Gallus could not contain a snort. ‘You are a military man,’ he said. Of sorts, he added in his mind. ‘Don’t you take issue with what you see out there? Drunks staggering to and fro, women crawling from tent to tent like some open-air brothel, not a whiff of works going on,’ he hesitated, glowering at the new bronze breastplate, now hanging on the altogether more impressive torso of a timber figurine with his bronze-winged helm and the rest of his armour and weapons, ‘at least, not useful works.’

Barzimeres’ eyebrows flicked up at this, as if he had just been insulted by some spiteful youth. He reached forward to tear a strip of meat from the roast hare on the table, tossing it into his mouth. ‘When Saturninus led the latest reinforcements to the Shipka pass, he left me in command. Me.’ His expression darkened, the guttering candlelight struggling to illuminate his sunken eyes as he leaned forward towards Gallus. ‘I find myself in charge of some seven thousand men. A patchwork of legionaries. The broken remains of Ad Salices. Comitatenses in groups of just a few hundred. Limitanei like yourselves in tiny bands of just ten or twenty. Their comrades had died on the field by the willows, and the imperial borders they had known for years lay broken. I formed them into seven groups of a thousand. Now they are legions in their own right, just like the five defending the mountain passes. But my seven legions found their confidence weakened, sitting here like goats in a pen, waiting for the call to march north into the mountains to reinforce whichever pass had suffered the most casualties in the latest Gothic push. They were silent, pensive. . terrified.’ He sat back, his menacing expression fading and his tone lightening. ‘So I let them live here as they would in their homes. Now what you see out there is a group of men who know only pleasure and happiness. They do not dwell on the fate that awaits them at the passes unnecessarily. Leadership is not just about leading men,’ he waved a finger as if training a dog, ‘it is about managing the minds of those men. Their hopes, fears and expectations.’

Barzimeres fell silent. Gallus’ brow bent into a frown as the man tilted his head to one side, eyebrows raised. Then he realised that the bearded officer was waiting on Gallus to click — to understand his precious wisdom, and no doubt to congratulate him on it.

‘They are legionaries as relaxed as I have ever seen, Tribunus,’ he said at last. Barzimeres nodded and gazed into the distance at this, smiling haughtily. ‘Indeed,’ Gallus added swiftly, ‘I had trouble picking out the soldiers from the pig-handlers. Now, what of the palisades?’

Barzimeres’ grin faded and the sour look returned. ‘The rain has been incessant over the mountains for three weeks now. The palisade stakes sunk in the deluge and the ditches and ramparts crumbled. They were a hindrance to our foragers and to our supply carts so we used the palisades for cooking fires and filled in the ditches.’

‘Have you considered what might happen if there is a Gothic attack on this camp?’ Gallus continued.

It was Barzimeres’ turn to snort. ‘No. No more than I worry myself over the boil that grows on my arse. The five passes are secure, Tribunus. The mountains either side of them are far taller and more impassable than the walls of Constantinople. Any Goth who seeks to scale and pass over those jagged, rocky peaks will find himself lost in the bleak heights, or lying, legs shattered in some unseen gully.’ He tore a handful of grapes free and crammed them into his mouth. ‘The carrion crows would feast upon them while they still lived!’ he roared with laughter.

Gallus nodded. It was true that the Haemus Mountains were a perfect barrier to prevent Fritigern’s hordes from moving south. ‘Then what if the Goths were to journey east, around the mountains, or if — just if — one of the passes was to fall?’

Barzimeres’ laughter faded and he gazed at Gallus with glazed and mirthful eyes, then erupted once more in a fit of hilarity. ‘If the Goths tried to come round the mountains to the east,’ he chuckled, ‘then they would face the forces stationed there. . and we would receive word of it weeks before they reached us here. Weeks!’

‘And if one of the passes were to fall?’ Gallus reiterated the rest of his question.

‘They will not, Tribunus,’ Barzimeres sighed, growing weary of Gallus’ questioning now. ‘We have held them since spring. Six months have come and gone and Fritigern’s dogs have failed to break through. They have succeeded only in breaking great packs of their finest warriors on the walls and palisades we have built there. Indeed, their last attack was nearly a month ago. They are giving up hope now, surely.’

‘But what if-’ Gallus persisted.

‘If the Goths did break through?’ Barzimeres cut him off, his heckles rising. ‘Then they would be rushing into the maw of a trap. They would flood south, aye — to the river!’ he shot out a finger towards the dull babble of the Tonsus outside. ‘Over on its northern banks what would they do then? Gaze desirously across its swollen waters at our camp as they realise they can barely get within bowshot of our tents here on these southern banks? Maybe they would drink their fill. They would be wise to, for it would be their last. The armies at the other four passes would fall back and onto their rear, pin them against the riverside. . and crush them!’ he smacked a fist into his palm as he said this, then gulped more wine.

Gallus weighed the man’s logic. There was some logic in there, but the flaws leapt out at him like flashing blades. ‘If that was a viable tactic, then surely Saturninus would have arranged it already.’

‘Hmm?’ Barzimeres grunted, clearly having consigned the argument to his ‘victory’ pile, a rivulet of wine running down his overly-groomed beard and staining his white robes.

‘If enticing the Goths south and onto the riverbanks, as you suggest, was workable, would your magister equitum not already have done this — feigned the fall of one of the passes? Perhaps he might lose a few hundred soldiers, but to corral and defeat Fritigern’s hordes as you suggest that would be a cheap price to pay.’

‘Ah,’ Barzimeres swiped a hand through the air. ‘Saturninus is a timid, diffident fellow. Some fool tied him to a sword and shoved him into command. He loves combat only when he has a sturdy wall between himself and the enemy. He knows nothing but that which I tell him.’ He jabbed a finger into his chest as if to reinforce the point. ‘Yet he is still too craven to act upon my advice.’

Gallus let this bone of contention lie. There would be no convincing him that his glorious plan was folly. He sought another tack. ‘And when the rains stop, are you so sure the Goths would be halted by the river?’

Barzimeres’ face was ruddy like the wine now. ‘Why wouldn’t they be?’

‘The swollen river is broad and fierce, but only as long as the rains fall. When this bout of rain slows and stops, the Tonsus returns to being little more than a glorified brook — was it not so in the summer?’

Barzimeres’ lips twitched, devoid of a riposte.

‘And if winter brings ice, then it presents a solid, unbroken walkway for an army to march across, does it not?’

Barzimeres’ eyes widened with Gallus’ every word. ‘Well, we will act accordingly if that happens. The palisades will be re-erected. I have a tower on the riverbank watching for any signs of danger — be it from enemy soldiers or from Terra Mater herself.’

‘And will your men remember how to dig a ditch, how to line up atop the ramparts, how to hurl a volley of darts at an onrushing enemy?’

Barzimeres bridled at this interrogation, and suddenly shot to standing. ‘You think I do not know how to instil discipline in my men? Have you seen my Cornutii, my Scutarii?’

‘I saw them. I also noticed how they choose to camp further along the riverbank in small palisade forts of their own. The rest of this rabble remain here in this disgrace of a camp and uphold your command only because they can do as they please. They do not respect you, sir.’

‘I think you need a lesson in respect, Tribunus,’ Barzimeres raged then grabbed and unfurled a scroll lying on the map table. ‘Saturninus sent a messenger today, asking for reinforcements at the Shipka Pass. He specifically asks for men who know the region north of the passes well.’

Gallus felt the balance of the conversation turning.

‘Your lot know Moesia well, do you not?’ Barzimeres’ features wrinkled as he grinned in victory. ‘Tomorrow, you will march faster and harder than ever before to the Shipka Pass redoubt. My Cornutii and I will lead the way and show you just how much skill I expect from my soldiers.’

‘But my new cohorts,’ Gallus interjected.

‘While you are gone, I can have my best men muster your precious cohorts,’ Barzimeres purred, slumping back in his chair like a contented cat.

Gallus’ nose wrinkled at the reek of stale wine on Barzimeres’ breath. The only sound in the tent was of his teeth grinding like rocks.

Pavo stumbled back to the tent, his head spinning like a drunk’s. He barely noticed the squelching mud nor thought of the missed curfew. His eyes traced the etching on his leather bracelet again and again.

Hostus Vitellius Dexion.

He had made Felicia repeat his name, his full name, countless times.

‘You are sure?’ he had gasped even when she became angry at his questioning.

‘I told you,’ Felicia had insisted, ‘he’s at the Shipka Pass and has been for three weeks.’

She had only relented in her ire when he showed her the bracelet. Her eyes had widened as she read the etching upon it. In the silence that followed, he told her everything about those final moments when Father had tied the leather band onto his wrist. ‘Dexion is my brother,’ he had whispered to her.

‘Optio?’ a voice cut through his thoughts.

‘Sir!’ Pavo half-yelped, seeing that Gallus’ and his paths had crossed. His thoughts scrambled to conjure some excuse, but his mind was in pieces.

‘What’s wrong, Optio?’ Gallus asked, the expected rebuke not coming.

‘Sir, I. . ’ he untied the bracelet, holding it so Gallus could read the etching. ‘My brother is. . but a short march from here, at the Shipka Pass.’

Gallus’ eyes widened. ‘Then you may be the only one of us who will cheer the brief Barzimeres has just given me.’