The Scourge of Thracia

Chapter 5

The pinkish-orange light of another blessedly rain-free day crept across the fortlet at the Shipka Pass, glistening on the armour of the dawn watch. Inside Saturninus’ principia tent, Gallus sat before an untouched plate of bread and honey, his breath coming and going with haste and his skin, clothes and cloak still bathed in sweat from the rapid journey back across the mountains. The warbling, panicked ambassadors were led from the tent by Zosimus, and at last Gallus and the magister equitum were alone.

He turned to Saturninus, intent on summarising the ambassadors’ babbling and contradictory reports of what had happened. ‘They’re coming along one of these passes — maybe all five of them — and they’re coming soon. They were mobilising and may well be on the march as we speak,’ he panted, annoyed at the tremor of fatigue in his voice.

Saturninus paused a moment before replying — a commander’s trick that could present an air of diligence to cover a panicked mind; however, a twitching upper lip betrayed his discomfort in the end. He tucked his lank, dark locks behind his ears and shook his head, tearing a piece of bread for himself and dipping it in honey. ‘This does not change anything, Tribunus. Every day at these passes we wait on, no. . we expect the next Gothic attack.’

Gallus pinched his thumb and forefinger in the air as if catching the point. ‘But they are no longer just Goths. Are you prepared for the Huns? Or the Taifali?’

Saturninus chewed on his honey-sweetened bread, washing it down with water. ‘The Taifali are little different to the Greuthingi. And the Huns? They too are but horsemen, Tribunus. No wall has ever fallen to a cavalry charge.’

‘With respect, sir, do not underestimate the steppe riders. They are no mere chargers.’

‘Hmm,’ Saturninus mused as he chewed. ‘Then perhaps I will have scouts sent a mile or so north of each of the five passes later this morning — to watch for any advance and deny any element of surprise.’

Gallus sighed, dropped his head and ran his fingers through his sweat-damp, grey-streaked locks. He had been in this position before, listening to panicked reports from agitated scouts. A good commander remained rational, even in the face of a severe threat. He could not fault Saturninus for his stance. Then something from the previous night came to him again.

‘There’s something else,’ he said, his breath finally settled and his voice steady. ‘They have a champion — a brute of a warrior the likes of whom I have never before seen.’

Saturninus drained his water cup and shook his head as if annoyed by the notion. ‘The Goths have always had their champions. One deft swordsman will not win this war for them.’

‘I cannot contest that, but this one was different,’ Gallus countered. ‘He is more than just a warrior. He seemed to have the potential to lead as well. He roused the Goths in a way that the other reiks — or even Iudex Fritigern himself — could not.’

Saturninus held Gallus’ gaze, his eyes growing hooded. He nodded slowly, a stoic expression overcoming him. ‘My faith in you and your men was well placed, Tribunus. You did all I asked of you. I only wish I could reassure you that your efforts will not be in vain. But it seems that a storm is coming from the north. . and what else can I do but stand firm against it?’

Gallus leaned forward. ‘You can summon more men from the Great Northern Camp to this fort — ensure it will not fall.’

Saturninus stroked his chin then clasped his hands as if gathering his thoughts. ‘Aye, perhaps that would be prudent. If you were to take your men back to the Great Camp, and collect your new cohorts, could you be back here in good time?’

‘Give the order, sir, and it will be so,’ Gallus replied without hesitation.

Saturninus nodded thoughtfully, taking another swig of water before replying. ‘Then so be it.’

Gallus made to stand, when Saturninus added; ‘I hear you found the man you sought within the embassy — Dexion — and brought him back safely?’

Gallus sat back down. ‘We did.’

‘He means something to you?’

‘Not to me,’ Gallus shook his head, ‘but to one of my men. One of my best men.’ Then he shrugged, thinking of the snatched conversation he had heard between his men as they had returned along the ridge path; ‘but what for him now? He is a primus pilus — an officer without a legion, if I understand correctly.’

‘He is,’ Saturninus replied. He fell silent for a moment, then one eyebrow arched and a smile lifted the corners of his mouth. ‘And the Claudia is a legion with few officers, is she not?’

Pavo rested his elbows on the palisade stakes atop the Shipka fort and looked north along the ridge, bathed in orange and dappled here and there in shade. Dexion did likewise by his side. Both men chuckled wearily, still dressed in their dirt, blood and sweat-soaked clothes, their breath puffing in the fresh dawn air. It was the first moment of silence between them since they had returned to Roman territory. While the others had reported to Saturninus or crawled into their tent to sleep, he and Dexion had opted to come up here to talk, and their chatter had been incessant — resulting in a few raised eyebrows from the grumpy legionaries walking the battlements on sentry duty.

Pavo glanced over Dexion’s face once again: paler than his own with age-lined tawny-gold eyes that gave him ten years or so on Pavo, a broader jaw and a thick crop of hair, chestnut-brown like Father’s but short and curled on his forehead in the ancient Roman style. It was only the aquiline nose and heavy brow that physically marked them as kin, but Pavo heard it in Dexion’s voice, saw it in his mannerisms and in his eyes. A warm realisation blanketed him: I’m with my brother.

Then a bitter, fleeting angst blew the warm blanket away: fate had toyed with him like this before, had it not — when he had been reunited with Father in Persia for the briefest of spells only to lose him forever? Flashing memories of Father’s last moments plagued him and the angst threatened to grow and ignite until he halted the thoughts with a deep, calming breath. This was different, he realised, his heart soaring once more. He and Dexion had escaped the Gothic camp, made it back to Roman lands and they were both unharmed. There might be a future for them. Certainly, they had no trouble in making conversation.

Dexion had told him of a troubled childhood, living in various rural villages around western Thracia and Pannonia. Father had faded from his life when he was just two summers old. His mother had been a healer, devoted to the Christian God, travelling from town to town to spread the word. Yet for all her devotion she had been stricken with a cancer and died when Dexion was nine. And so Dexion was orphaned before Pavo was even born. His life after that had been a reflection of Pavo’s in many ways — sold into slavery before buying his freedom and joining the legions firstly as a recruit, then working his way through the ranks to serve as Primus Pilus, second in command of the I Italica — a limitanei legion broken at Ad Salices after which the survivors were then dispersed into nameless vexillationes, leaving him as an officer without a legion.

Dexion uncorked a skin of soured wine and took a long pull on it. His forearm and sword hand were laced with the cuts of a soldier, just like Pavo’s, and he traced these with a finger, as if reliving all that had gone before, then shook his head and chuckled in disbelief. ‘Father was an ethereal figure to me. I dreamt of him, wondered if the face in those dreams was his or just my imaginings. I often dreamt of many things that he might have done. Even this,’ he gestured towards Pavo. ‘I sometimes imagined unknown kin. But I never, never, expected to meet them. It makes me wonder if there are any others out there,’ he mused.

‘It seems that Father roamed far and wide in his youth,’ Pavo said with a fond smile, then glanced down at the leather bracelet bearing both their names, ‘but I am sure there is just me and you to show for all his. . efforts.’

Dexion’s face wrinkled a little and his eyes searched the shadows along the ridge; a troubled look Pavo had often seen in his own reflection.

‘How did he die?’

Pavo took and swigged from the skin of soured wine and stared at his half-brother, then chuckled dryly. ‘It’s complicated. Very complicated.’

‘Tell me. I have to know,’ he said earnestly.

Pavo gazed into the distance and unlocked the vault of memories. He told Dexion everything. Not just Father’s end, but his memories of Father from youth, of his years without him and the dark dreams that drew him to Persia. Finally, he untied the leather bracelet and handed it to Dexion, telling him of Father’s final moments.

Dexion stared wordlessly for some time, his fingers tracing the inscription on the piece. ‘I struggle to recall his face. I cannot even remember his voice,’ he said at last, his words cracking. ‘He was in my life only for my first few years and then,’ he paused, a watery veil coming over his eyes, ‘he was gone.’

Pavo leaned a little closer to him and showed Dexion the bracelet once more. ‘But he never forgot you. Never. He knew only too well his own failings, but he wanted nothing but good lives for us.’

Dexion tried to smile at this, but could not.

Pavo saw the rheumy look remain.

‘And what better life could you ask for but this?’ Dexion said at last, gesturing out over the ridge path. ‘Waiting on some hairy bastard Goth to gut you and then feed you your own entrails!’

Pavo cocked an eyebrow and a silence ensued, then both men erupted in weary laughter.

‘We are alive,’ Dexion continued as the laughter died, flicking his head back towards the south. ‘We have survived in this treacherous empire, avoided all the asps that lie in its grass,’ then he nodded northwards, up the pass, ‘and all the wolves that gather at its borders. And we have found one another. That is what matters to me.’ He held up his wine skin and took a swig. ‘Not half-brothers, but brothers,’ he pronounced.

‘Brothers,’ Pavo echoed, taking the skin and drinking too.

A rumble of boots sounded on the walls nearby, signalling the changing of the guard.

‘We should get some rest,’ Dexion suggested, his eyes combing the furthest discernible reaches of the ridge as if looking for the Gothic vanguard. ‘Today promises to be long and arduous.’

‘Aye, perhaps we should,’ Pavo twisted to look down into the fort. Sura stood there. His friend’s eyes were black-ringed and bloodshot. ‘Sura?’

‘You two had better get some kip. We’re moving out at noon.’

Pavo and Dexion looked to one another, confused.

‘We’re going back south, to the Tonsus and the great camp.’

‘What? Surely we’re needed here? Surely every man is?’ Pavo frowned. ‘Does Saturninus not know what is coming this way?’

‘He does. But he wants us to alert Barzimeres, pick up our new cohorts and then return,’ Sura said, then nodded to Dexion. ‘You’re to come as well, sir.’

Dexion let out a long, lasting sigh. ‘Ah, then back to Barzimeres it is. I will be reunited with the bearded arsehole at last. He was the reason I volunteered to come to this pass and go north with the embassy, you know. Despite all that happened,’ he said, flicking a clump of gore and dirt from his black breastplate, ‘it still seems like I made the right choice.’

‘You have my sympathies,’ Pavo nodded knowingly as they left the battlements, following Sura back to the XI Claudia tent.

‘I’m not sure what use I will be though?’ Dexion mused. ‘Your legion’s business is none of mine.’

‘Aye, there is more to it. Seems you’re without a legion and now your turma of escort riders are gone too, so. . ’ Sura shrugged, nodding ahead to Saturninus’ principia tent. Gallus stood there, watching their approach like a crow, the plume of his helm flitting in the wind. Under his arm, the tribunus carried another intercisa helm bearing a white plume.

Pavo had not seen the like since Felix had worn such a helm in his ceremonial duties as primus pilus. He shared a confused look with Dexion, then his thoughts switched to the Great Northern Camp by the Tonsus and another matter he had almost forgotten. ‘Dexion, there is something we should probably talk about. There’s a girl at the camp you might have gotten to know. . a capsarius.’

‘You mean Felicia?’ he beamed. ‘I know quite a lot about her, oh yes.’ He said this with a distant, mischievous look, reminiscent of Quadratus recalling his many rutting sessions.

Pavo noticed Sura chuckling at this and cast his friend a sour look.

Felicia scowled as a brood of chickens swept around her ankles, nearly knocking her off balance before they shot off across the dry, cracked furrows of earth that ran through the Great Northern Camp. The end of the rains had been a blessing, and for the first time in weeks she could wear open sandals and walk without having to lift the hem of her robes from the mire. It was a fresh morning — the last in September — and pleasant sunshine cast a forgiving light on the sprawling camp, and some men even seemed eager to go about their duties instead of simply wallowing in wine. The smithy was alive with activity as fresh helms and swords were being crafted for the first time in weeks, and the air was spiced with the comforting scent of baking bread.

The run of fine days seemed to have calmed the Tonsus, and the waterline had receded, nearly halving the breadth of the river. Better weather, better moods and a general purpose about the people of the camp meant there were less drunken mud-brawls and thus less injured men to treat. As such, the valetudinarium was empty. But while her colleague, Lucilla, chose to spend her free time washing garments by the river, Felicia had other business to attend to. She swept by the principia encampment once more. Barzimeres and his men had leered at her the first time she had passed, but this time, she noticed that they had left, then saw the dust plume heading over to the Scutarii encampment. Gone to play with his cavalrymen, she guessed.

Now the principia was deserted. She cursed under her breath: this was the first time in many weeks that the square of command tents had been empty like this. And with Dexion still absent at the Shipka Pass defences, that meant she had no valid means of getting in there. Just four legionaries were on watch, one at each corner of the area so no intruders could slip inside. Her eyes grew hooded and a mischievous grin spread across her face. She swayed her hips just a little more as she passed one of the legionaries, drawing a bulging eye from the fellow. When the legionary glanced up and saw he had been caught eyeing her, she winked and swept past him. Flustered, he pretended to be manfully scouring the distance beyond her, then reddened and turned his gaze the other way, studiously eyeing a toad sitting on the cracked mud. With a furtive glance all around, Felicia pounced on her moment of invisibility and sidestepped into the square of tents.

She peered cautiously around the small clearing inside the tent square, then fixed her eyes on the officium tent, the place she had seen the speculatore sneaking to and from.

‘Now, let’s see what those curs have been looking for,’ she muttered as she ducked inside. The tent was bare, with just three wooden chests side-by-side. She carefully opened each one, leafing through the papers inside. Military briefings, mustering reports, lead seals and unused scrolls. Nothing of any obvious value, but then the Speculatores drew value from the most innocuous of things. The written whereabouts of a unit or a soldier was all they needed to find and kill him or bend his arm to perform some dark task for them. The proposal of some military route could present a means of sabotaging the initiative and the general’s reputation along with it.

She closed the third chest and glowered around the tent. There had to be something else, there simply had to be. Then she latched onto an idea. That night when she had spotted the speculatore, it had been raining heavily. The agent had sneaked off with something from this tent and returned later. One of these papers meant something to the speculatore, she reasoned, flipping open each case and leafing through the scrolls once again, and that means that one of them will be. .

She stopped, her breath catching as she lifted one scroll out — still marked with rain-blots. She unfurled it hastily and peered at the writing. It was smudged and barely legible and she scanned it again and again, squinting to make sense of it.

When she did, her heart pounded like a drum and her blood ran cold, her eyes freezing on one word. One name.

‘No. . ’ she gasped, her fingers trembling. Pavo and the rest of the XI Claudia were in grave danger. Their leader most of all. Her eyes scanned the name again:

Gallus.

Cat-soft on his feet, the speculatore came up behind her. Bitch, he thought, she knows! He slid the hunting knife from his belt and held it flat, flexing his arms once, twice and again, readying for the kill.

Then he lunged upon her.