The Scourge of Thracia

Chapter 7

Pavo woke before dawn on the first morning of October after a blessedly deep, dreamless and refreshing sleep. That he felt refreshed and well caused him some guilt. He threw chill water over his face then cooked and ate a bowl of boiled, salted wheat porridge and some dried fruit hurriedly and absently in the darkness, before hastening to Felicia’s tent once more, his breath clouding as he went. The scene was the same as it had been last night: she was moaning, bathed in sweat. The bruise on her temple was black now, her eyes were partly open and she seemed to recognise him.

‘Pavo?’ she said weakly. The effort almost sent her back into blackness.

He clasped her hand and kissed it, dark thoughts crossing his mind. He had seen many soldiers take blows to the head in battle, fight on and seem well enough for days afterwards, only to suddenly collapse, the life leaving them like the light from a smothered candle.

‘She is getting better,’ Lucilla said softly, leaning over to hold a cup of honeyed water to her lips. ‘She is drinking and she ate a little bread earlier.’

Her words were like wine. He nodded and thanked her. ‘My legion will be away from the camp today on a. . marching drill,’ he lied. ‘We will return soon,’ he added, clasping Felicia’s hand tighter and praying this was not another lie.

He left the tent, squinting into the pale orange dawn light and nodding to the four veteran legionaries who had guarded Felicia and Lucilla well. They saluted in return as he hurried back to the XI Claudia tents by the riverbank near the lone watchtower. Gallus, Dexion, Zosimus, Quadratus and Sura stood in their full armour and marching burdens, watching like disapproving giants as the recruits scrambled around before them, drowning in a sea of partially-deconstructed tents. A marching drill would have been challenge enough, Pavo mused. But to steal away from the camp and race to the Shipka Pass in good time now seemed a fanciful notion.

The rest of the camp came to life around them, buccinas sounding for morning roll call and bleary faces appearing from tents all around. After what seemed like an age, the two XI Claudia centuries were formed up, tents stuffed away, spears, swordbelts and tatty, mismatching shields in vaguely the right place. Yet they stood not in a marching line but in something more akin to a swarm.

‘Into line! A line! What part of line do you not understand?’ Sura snapped. ‘Did you not listen to a thing yesterday?’

They shuffled and jinked until they stood in two separate squares, eight men along the front of each, ten ranks deep.

‘You,’ Pavo shot a finger at one who seemed to hesitate. His gaze was distant, a hand shielding his eyes from the early morning sunlight as he peered at the plains over the river. ‘Get into li-’ he stopped, seeing all heads switching to follow this lad’s gaze — even those of his fellow officers.

‘What in Hades is that?’ Zosimus muttered.

Pavo strained his eyes, seeing just a black, jostling mass — silhouetted by the sun — dust and clumps of dirt thrown up in its wake. A babble of concern broke out amongst the recruits and all around the camp. Pavo’s hand moved instinctively for his spatha hilt. The armour of his comrades rustled as they braced likewise. Then the call came from the nearby watchtower.

‘It is the magister equitum!’

A shaft of sunlight fell across the approaching shapes now: Saturninus rode at the head of a few hundred legionaries. Their armour was dotted with dried blood and their shields were scarred and bloodied likewise.

Pavo looked to Dexion, Sura and Gallus.

‘Looks like we won’t be requiring that marching drill after all,’ Quadratus said stoically.

Barzimeres gazed down from his black mount, stroking his recently trimmed and oiled beard as he beheld the sweating, soaked, whimpering and meek-voiced man who was theoretically his superior.

‘Line the riverbanks!’ Saturninus gasped, falling from his grey mare, splashing through the shallows of the Tonsus and throwing an arm back to the north. His long, dark hair, sleeves and cloak were filthy and soaked. A rainbow formed in the spray thrown up by the legionaries wading across the river in his wake.

Barzimeres shuffled in his saddle, irked by the magister equitum’s tone and somewhat unaccustomed to taking orders given that he had been the acting lord of this camp for months now. As a young lad led Saturninus’ mare away to tend to it, he noticed the magister equitum’s soldiers casting fleeting and frequent glances over their shoulders as they came to the southern riverbank. Hundreds of V Macedonica legionaries. Well, maybe a few hundred. Were the rest at the wall? He noticed that many of these ones had cast off their shields and helms, some had even thrown off their swordbelts and spears to aid their haste across the water. Oddly, he noticed something else at that moment: the russet dust cloud thrown up by Saturninus’ men seemed to remain, hovering over there across the river, beyond the green knoll to the north. No, it seemed to be growing, swelling. Was this some phenomenon of the dry weather?

‘Sound the buccinas; bring the men to the riverbanks!’ Saturninus cried out, hands clutching the air in frustration, his weak voice cracking.

‘The men are busy, sir,’ Barzimeres replied calmly, sure his composure marked him out as the true leader of the northern camp. Seeing the magister equitum’s blank, exasperated look of reply, he nodded to the heart of the camp. There, he had finally taken that firebrand Gallus’ advice and put the soldiers to work hewing new timber palisades. It would look better for when the Eastern and Western Praesental Armies came here, he thought.

‘Palisades?’ Saturninus spluttered, standing up on shaking legs. ‘We should never have been without them. And it is my mistake that I allowed you such a lengthy tether, Barzimeres.’ He frowned, looking all around. ‘Where is the XI Claudia?’ I gave them an order to collect their new cohorts then return to me at the Shipka Pass.’

Barzimeres bridled at this, coughing at the thickening air of dust, distracted by some distant rumble and the sight of the russet dust cloud in the north thickening further. ‘Perhaps we can talk back at the principia, sir?’

‘There is no time! The Goths are in pursuit.’

‘A few Gothic scouts is no cause for such alarm,’ he scoffed, seeing the legionaries of the great camp put down their breakfast bowls and tools and crowd around the bedraggled newcomers. ‘I’ll have my Scutarii formed within the hour and. . ’

Saturninus leapt for Barzimeres, grappling the collar of his bronze scale vest, part hauling him from the saddle. ‘The Shipka Pass has fallen. The Hun horsemen stole around the veiled path through the impassable mountains and sliced into our rear. Those defences now lie shredded. What you see here is all that remains of the V Macedonica. Thracia is at the mercy of the Goths — the entire horde! They pursued us through the night and are but moments behind us.’

Barzimeres saw the panic flaring in the magister equitum’s eyes and all across his face. The fear that the timid leader had managed to hide well until now was unmistakeable. And it’s infecting me, damn him! he thought, feeling his belly swirl in terror. He nodded, backing away, glancing up to the lone timber watchtower that stood on the Tonsus’ southern bank. ‘My sentry will see them coming before. . ’

He looked at his sentry in the tower enclosure. Only now was the man paying attention, his mouth agape, staring to the north at the russet dust cloud beyond the green knoll there, his face as white as his knuckles. The man fumbled a buccina to his lips and filled his lungs, when a dark streak sped across the morning sky like a swarm of raptors, then plunged into the trumpeter’s chest. The buccina sounded a discordant, single note as the trumpeter toppled from the tower, riven with short, thick arrows, then crunched to the ground.

The men of the camp gawked, frozen, many in just grubby tunics and carrying no arms or armour as they went about their morning business.

‘To arms!’ Saturninus bellowed as if to shock Barzimeres’ stunned legions to life.

Pavo stared at the fallen trumpeter, lying in a broken heap only paces away from him. The man’s legs were bent backwards over his head, a white shard of spine jutting from his horribly broken neck, his eyes staring and tongue trailing from his death rictus. Dread crept across his shoulders as he looked up to where the arrows had come from. The knoll across the river was empty apart from the dust cloud. A heartbeat later, it swirled and puffed, and a jostling, vast band of tall, fair warriors surged to the top of the knoll. Gothic spearmen in their thousands, archers too. And on the flanks, riders poured into view. Like some army of risen dead, they wore a mixture of plundered Roman helms and mail shirts, along with hardened red leather Gothic armour and bronze helms.

Saturninus’ words echoed in his mind. The Shipka Pass has fallen. Thracia is at the mercy of the Goths.

The Gothic archer’s bows pointed skywards. Another dark streak sped across the sky, this time far larger.

‘Shields!’ Pavo cried instinctively as the hail sped for them. But the few hundred young soldiers of the XI Claudia were slow, panicked, some crying out in fear and staring at the incoming hail. Some came to their senses and hoisted up their shields in time before the arrows battered down. Pavo heard the din of arrows pounding down on his shield and others. But this was drowned out by screams as fledgling legionaries were struck down by these first edges of steel they had ever faced — arrows in their foaming throats and torn limbs. Behind the cluster of XI Claudia men all was chaos too. Arrows had hammered down amongst the unprepared throngs — those struck disappearing as though hauled down by some underground creature with a spurt of their blood cast up in their place. Women screamed, snatching up their children and taking flight. Commanders barked to their scattered and unprepared men. Then the Gothic war horn wailed across the river like a vengeful shade and their mighty Greuthingi cavalry walked forward, lances pointing skywards. With them came the Huns, bows nocked, swords and lassos ready. This wall of riders came down the slopes of the knoll and splashed into the river shallows on the far side.

All around Pavo, men tripped over one another, shouting, arguing and wrestling to take the nearest mail shirts and spears for themselves. Lowing oxen thrashed in distress, dogs howled and whined. The Claudia recruits were edging away from the riverside, chests rising and falling in fear.

‘Stand your ground!’ Gallus cried, halting most with the ferocity of his order.

The blood thundered in Pavo’s ears. He saw the tribunus look this way and that, searching for a modicum of order in the panic. The waterline had to be held, he realised, but an organised army was needed for that.

‘Defend the riverbank,’ Saturninus cried, marshalling his few hundred V Macedonica men over beside the XI Claudia. ‘Form a line.’

At last, something akin to a defensive line took shape in the shingle of the southern bank, the depleted XI Claudia centuries forming the left and the Macedonica men the right, with Gallus, Dexion and Saturninus in the centre. Just over four hundred men. Then another few hundred partially-armoured legionaries bunched onto the right end of the line, more coming in pockets of tens and twenties — though some had not even brought a spear in their haste.

‘Shields together!’ Zosimus roared.

‘Push up!’ Pavo demanded, barging his shoulder into the young lad at the left end of the line and locking his shield into place. He felt the lad tremble violently, heard the youngster’s breath come in snatched gasps.

‘I. . sir. . I can’t. . I ca-’

‘Stay together, stand firm and do as I do,’ he roared in a tone devoid of fear. Yet inside it was different: his heart crashed like a war drum, some cursed god had seen fit to drain the moisture from his own mouth and direct it to his bladder as he readied his spear at the right edge of his shield and peered over the rim at the approaching masses. Sura barged into place with Zosimus by his side. Both men trembled with the visceral awakening that came before battle.

‘Come on you bastards!’ Zosimus snarled, leaning forward as if eager to lunge for the coming Gothic front. Sura rapped his spear on his shield and unleashed an animal howl, his eyes glassy with tears, spittle flecking the dawn air. This spirit seemed to spread across the recruits, who stiffened and stood a little taller. Still though, the fear was bettering these young lads.

A cluster of archers heeded Saturninus’ order too, rushing to the top of the lone watchtower, ducking and rising from behind the balustrade to loose their quivers on the Gothic horsemen, now wading saddle-deep across the centre of the river, raised shields taking the brunt of the Roman arrow hail — just a few fell foul of this weak volley, sliding from their saddles and splashing into the Tonsus to be carried downriver in a crimson-streaked current. The many thousands of Gothic infantry were now following, wading into the deeper water behind their cavalry.

Pavo locked eyes with the giant rider in the centre of the Gothic advance. Unmistakeable with his hulking frame, obsidian eyes, dark hair and trident beard. . and the welt of scab on his bicep from Quadratus’ plumbatae marksmanship that night at the Gothic camp. Farnobius glowered at Pavo and across the XI Claudia section of the Roman line, the grip on his great axe tightening. You, he mouthed, recognising the Claudia veterans.

As the Gothic cavalry waded clear of the deepest section of river, their pace increased, spray puffing up in their wake, dotted with haloes of sunlight. It was a walk, then a trot, then the ground shook and the air filled with whinnies and cries of Ya! as the Gothic riders urged their mounts into a canter. Then an iron rasp rang out as longswords were drawn and spears were levelled.

‘Hold the line,’ Saturninus cried, and some men fell to their knees to brace their spears.

Pavo flicked his head left and then right to see that the thin legionary line now stretched to cover the shingle banking. Beyond either end of the line were rugged sections of broken, steep banking or fen that would halt or delay the Gothic crossing. They had a chance, just a sliver of a chance. . then he saw the darting mass far to his left: a handful of Hun riders leapt from the waters, their ponies making light work of scrambling up the broken banking. They swept round the end of the Roman line and into the camp, coming round on the rear of the Roman line.

‘Sir!’ Pavo bellowed to Gallus and Saturninus at once. ‘They’re behind us!’

Gallus and the magister equitum looked to him, wide-eyed, faces paling. With a whirring, the Huns’ lassos licked out like lizards’ tongues, looping over men in the Roman line from behind, yanking and breaking necks, leaving gaps in the line like a bad set of teeth. One rope hooked round the fin of Pavo’s intercisa and slid down as if to strangle him, but he ducked out of it just before the Hun on the end of it yanked the rope tight. Men swung round to face this threat while others roared for them to turn back to the Gothic horsemen, now clear of the shallows and breaking into a charge over the short stretch of shingle.

The recruit by Pavo’s side gawped at the Gothic rider bearing down on him on a wild-eyed stallion, then looked over his shoulder, trembling in panic, hearing the Hun lassos whirring again.

‘Eyes forward,’ Pavo snarled. ‘The line is our strength!’

‘But sir, the Hu-

The lad’s words ended with an almighty clatter of thousands of spears hammering into the Roman shield wall. Pavo was driven back some fifteen paces such was the force of it. Legionaries fell, trampled or run through. Horses reared, faces smashed with Roman shield bosses. Gothic riders screamed as they were pulled from the saddle and gutted on legionary blades. Once more, the Tonsus riverbank was sodden, this time with blood.

Pavo thwacked his spear shaft into one rider then another — no time to execute a thrust that might disable either of them, then swept his shield out to catch the blow of the first of the Gothic infantry surge. He bedded his spear butt into the reddening mud just as another rider came at him. The horse ran onto the tip and issued an agonised whinny as it toppled to the dirt, taking the lance with it. Pavo drew out his spatha and hacked the hand from an onrushing Gothic spearman, then parried the blows of another two. The cap of some unfortunate legionary’s skull spun past him, showering him with stinking grey matter and blood, and he saw two Macedonica legionaries being torn apart by a cluster of frenzied Goths, loops of gut being thrown up on the end of their spears. All the while, he realised the thin Roman line was bending. No, capitulating. Back they stalked, then staggered, then he realised they were warped out of shape. His heart plummeted when he saw the young XI Claudia recruits had turned to flight while others were left as islands in the sea of Goths. Here the handful of legionaries who strived to hold the line were being driven towards the lone watchtower, he realised as he came together with Sura, Zosimus and a clutch of the recruits once more. Then Dexion, Gallus and Quadratus were with them.

‘We can hold the ground around this tower?’ Dexion gasped, blocking a spear that was thrust towards Pavo then glancing up at the watchtower.

Perhaps, Pavo thought, until he saw the Hun lassos shooting up to grapple the timber joists near the top.

Barzimeres blinked in disbelief, his mount pacing backwards as the Goths surged forward. The Roman line before him was buckling, bending and being driven back towards the lone watchtower. He guided his mount back in step with them, using them as a screen. His guts seemed to be in the hold of a giant, icy hand and he shook uncontrollably. A palisade might have saved them, he realised now. Gallus had been right.

Aye, but he’s also a fool! he thought, seeing how Gallus fought on beside Saturninus and a few hundred legionaries in the fragmenting line before him while the rest of the camp broke south in flight. Why should I give my life just to let some other beggars live?

He readied to join the fleeing masses, then hesitated. Here, screened by the fighting legionaries and obscured by the watchtower, he was momentarily safe from the Goths. His fear ebbed just a fraction. If he was to wait here for just a moment and be one of the last to flee. . then they’ll hail me as a hero, he surmised, a hero who stood to the last. A Gothic arrow flashed past him and suddenly, his stomach heaved. A moment later, he heard the whirring of ropes and the cracking of timber from above. Hun lassos had taken a hold of the tower joists. The tall watchtower groaned, shuddered and was wrested from its foundations. It toppled into the river, splintering like kindling, walls of foaming water leaping up from either side as the cries of the archers in the tower top were swiftly muted. Those who survived the fall were dragged from the water to have their throats sliced or their bellies ripped open — steaming guts and organs toppling into the shallows. With this tumult, the legionary line’s last vestiges of cohesion crumbled and the retreating front shattered, some men running, others falling back in small groups, still fighting.

As the line dissolved before him, Barzimeres’ bowels clenched. He was alone, his screen of protection gone. Then one of the Huns loosed an arrow that tore out his mount’s throat. The black stallion reared up, tossing Barzimeres into the dirt. He scrambled back from the thrashing beast, all thought now on saving himself and nothing else. As he glanced back he saw the Gothic spears and longswords swinging to and fro casting fingers, hands, arms and heads up in the air with spouts of blood. Coming through the melee like a titan was the trident-bearded giant with the axe.

Barzimeres stumbled for the south with the fleeing crowds, panic utterly controlling him as he sensed the giant Goth coming for him. ‘Get out of my way!’ he cried turning to flee only to bash against a legionary running towards the struggle on the riverside. He recognised him as the primus pilus of his Cornutii.

‘Sir?’ The feather-helmed officer gasped. ‘What’s happening?’

Barzimeres saw the man’s eyes searching his, saw that they had found the truth of his cowardice, heard the giant Goth’s axe singing through the air behind him, readying to come down on his skull, then realised what he had to do. Grabbing the officer by the shoulders, he swung the man round and into the path of the giant Goth’s axe strike like a shield. The primus pilus’ helmet was cleaved as was his skull. Brain and blood pumped from the awful wound and showered all nearby. He shoved the corpse at the giant then hurried on southwards until he came to the rest of the Cornutii, armed and rushing towards the conflict as their primus pilus had been moments ago.

‘Retreat — to the south!’ he waved them back ‘The camp has all but fallen.’

‘But sir, the primus pilus, he is in the fray.’

‘It is too late, I saw him fall. I tried to save him but I could not. Now turn around!’ He saw his Scutarii too cantering towards the battle, and waved them back likewise.

As his palatinae legions pulled back reluctantly, he stumbled on after them. In moments, he was lagging behind them, wheezing for breath and realised he needed a horse. He looked in every direction for some hope of salvation, then saw a terrified boy standing with Saturninus’ still sweating, frothing grey mare. He hurried over to the boy, yanking on the reins.

But the boy held on tight. ‘Sir, no, this belongs to the magister equitum. He told me to hold onto it.’

The boy’s words faltered and his eyes bulged as Barzimeres rammed his dagger into the lad’s gut, then twisted the blade. ‘Saturninus is otherwise engaged,’ he growled, then leapt upon the mare and heeled her off through the camp and on to the south, overtaking his regiments then crossing the hills, passing fleeing women and workmen on the plain.

The cool autumn wind roared in his ears and he cast glance after glance behind him, seeing the brave but futile last stand of the legions of the Great Northern Camp by the riverbank. The last traces of the Thracian armies would surely perish there. He had done the right thing in saving his two palatinae regiments, he affirmed. Then he thought he heard a clopping of hooves behind him, racing, catching him. He swung round in fright, bringing up the still-bloodied dagger, only to see nothing there. Nothing but a fresh autumn wind, and a burning sense of shame.

The fragments of the watchtower were swept off downstream and the equally fragmented Roman defensive line fled or fell further and further back into the Great Northern Camp. Pavo and Sura became separated from the other Claudian legionaries. They staggered backwards, barely resisting the Gothic press, a trail of blood and broken corpses littering the ground in the wake of the retreat and a vile stench of open bowels wafting through the mild air. They stumbled as they backed over fallen tents, still-burning campfires and discarded crates and belongings. Sura slashed the chest of one Goth and Pavo booted the foe back then stabbed out at another. The pair backed through a cluster of tents and for a blessed moment, they were free of the battle — but they were also separated from their legion.

A thudding of boots startled them and they swung to the noise, swords flicking up. Dexion halted just inches from the tips. ‘Whoa — easy!’ he cried, a wry grin on his face as the swords were lowered.

‘What now?’ Sura gasped.

Buccinas cried from behind them. The order to retreat sounded over and over again.

The three turned to see that the open ground south of the camp was already streaked with fleeing Roman soldiers and people. Every cluster of legionaries still fighting within the camp now broke and fled as well. Pavo swivelled on his heel as if to join them, then he froze and his stomach fell into his boots as a terrible thought snared him. At the same time, Dexion gasped and Sura’s face fell agape.

‘Felicia?’ the three said in unison.

Pavo’s eyes swept across the mass of tents nearby. The foremost Goths were leaping over tents on horseback, cutting down a few scuttling survivors who had chosen to hide, tearing down or setting light to Roman tents and crying out in victory. They were just paces from the area with Felicia and Lucilla’s tent.

‘She might have been carried clear of this place already,’ Sura said, guessing their thoughts.

‘We have to be sure,’ Pavo said.

‘Then by Mithras, we’d better be swift,’ Dexion added.

Like deer rushing for a pride of lions, the three hared across the sea of Roman tents, bounding over debris as a thickening cloud of black smoke swept over them and the pillaging Goths converged upon them and Felicia’s tent.

Be far from here, please, Pavo mouthed as they rounded the smith’s hut. Then they stumbled to a halt. In the clearing before the tents there, Farnobius stood, his great axe dripping with blood and plastered with hair and skin. By his feet lay a handful of corpses. A man, chest cleaved. . and two women. He stared at Felicia’s pained expression, lifeless eyes staring skywards, mouth agape as if calling for him. The wound across her neck was deep and her milky skin was now grey. Lucilla’s corpse lay by Felicia’s side, her back dark red where it had met with some blade, her arms cast over Felicia as if to protect her.

He fell forward, reaching out, hearing numb, other-worldly cries and not recognising them as his own. He saw Farnobius’ giant frame jostle in glee, saw the pack of Goths that flooded into the space to flank their leader and stalk towards the legionaries. He rose, hefting up a jagged boulder and hurling it. The rock ended Farnobius’ laughter abruptly as it smashed into his face, staving in his nose. The giant fell back, clutching his face as blood pumped from his shattered nose. Pavo leapt up, tearing his spatha from his scabbard to finish the job, heedless to the nest of Goths he was about to leap into. But rough hands hauled him back.

He thrashed and kicked, unintelligible curses pouring from his lungs. Yet Sura and Dexion hauled him back from the scene, speeding as best they could from the eager Goths.

‘She’s gone, Pavo. There’s nothing you can do for her,’ Sura cried, his voice tight and his face stained with tears, flashing glances back to see that the Goths had chosen to aid Farnobius, giving them precious moments to flee.

‘Come, brother,’ Dexion added with a bitter howl. ‘I have few friends in this world. Do not let me lose another today.’

Gallus and Zosimus found themselves facing a pack of seven Goths who had broken ahead of the horde. Gallus whacked one Goth on the side of the head with the flat of his spatha, sending the warrior stumbling backwards, stupefied, into his comrades. The tribunus then plucked up a dropped torch and put light to the tents immediately before them. A wall of fire shot up and this bought him and Zosimus moments to hasten their flight.

‘Run,’ Zosimus gasped, turning and shoving Gallus with him. They leapt over a series of fallen and torn tents then hurdled a broken wagon lying on its side. They ducked down behind it, each panting and praying that they had shaken off their pursuers. Both started when Dexion and Sura staggered round the wagon’s edge, dragging Pavo like a prisoner, and ducked behind there too. For just a moment, Gallus was transfixed on Pavo. The young optio’s face was twisted in a snarl and he shook visibly with ire. His chest rose and fell like bellows and his eyes were aflame. It was a hauntingly familiar look. He noticed how Dexion and Sura retained their marshalling grip on Pavo’s arms.

‘What happened?’ Gallus asked Dexion.

Dexion shook his head briskly, the dark look in his eyes answer enough.

Just then, Quadratus skidded round behind the wagon. ‘It’s over,’ the big Gaul snarled. ‘The camp has fallen.’

‘Break for the south!’ a hoarse voice cried out as if in confirmation of the earlier buccina signals. The six behind the wagon turned to see Saturninus. His lank black hair was plastered to his face with blood and he was still surrounded by a beleaguered century of his Macedonica men and the majority of the terrified Claudia recruits who had flocked to him for protection more than anything else. They were falling back at speed now. Just a small pack of Goths harried them — most were distracted by the prospect of plundering the abandoned Roman tents and shacks.

Gallus waved his men with him as he scuttled over to Saturninus, joining his retreat.

‘Sir, where do we go from here?’ Gallus said, eyes combing the southern horizon as they fled.

‘The cities,’ Saturninus bellowed in reply. ‘We hasten south and take shelter in the walled cities.’ Then he met Gallus’ eyes and lowered his voice. ‘But I need one legion to go elsewhere.’

‘Sir?’

‘We have little time to discuss this, Tribunus. But your brief is simple. Take your men to Thracia’s western borders. In the hills there, a narrow defile called the Succi Pass links these lands to the lands of the west. At the narrowest point of the valley stands a great fortress: Trajan’s Gate. It is our last hope. It must. . must remain in imperial hands.’

‘Trajan’s Gate?’ Gallus whispered, thinking of the maps he had studied — the long, tight Succi Valley and the choke-point that bore the name of a long-dead emperor. To say that Trajan’s Gate was arterial was to understate its importance.

‘Aye. Geridus, Comes of Pannonia watches over the Gate with his armies. He must be forewarned of what has happened here. He is a good man, Tribunus — not without flaws, but a good man. Many call him the Master of the Passes, and we can only pray that he can live up to such a moniker. Your forces should bolster his and see that the Gate stands firm. For it is through that corridor that Emperor Gratian and his western army will march to our aid. Now more than ever, we need his legions and those of Emperor Valens.’

The din of the rampaging Gothic horde and the panting, panicking legionaries faded away. All Gallus could hear was Saturninus’ words, ringing like an echo.

For it is through that corridor that Emperor Gratian and his western army will march.

Fritigern hefted his longsword round to sweep the head from the shoulders of a brave legionary, then swung round to locate his next opponent, the breath rattling in his lungs. But there were no more armoured men facing him. What remained of the legions of the Roman camp were in flight, harried by packs of his horsemen. He saw a group of Greuthingi horsemen running down a fleeing Roman woman, knocking her from her feet then dragging her into the remnant of a Roman shack. Her screams were shrill and never-ending. His own Thervingi warriors were no less merciful, putting Roman tents to the torch and slaying the few who had chosen to hide within when they came running from the flames. One of his men hoisted a severed Roman jawbone on the end of his spear like some sort of trophy. The Huns circled the camp, heads scouring the massacre as if disappointed that the slaughter was at an end. Thick, black smoke coiled around him and the stench of spilled guts, coppery blood and effluent was rife.

‘The legions are broken, Iudex. They flee in disorder,’ Reiks Saphrax said, panting, nodding to the escaping pockets of Romans now far south of the camp.

He looked to the squat reiks and said nothing, then strode to the square of tents that served as the Roman principia. The din of rapine and plunder was slightly muted in the centre of this square. The area was deserted bar the carpet of dead strewn on the ground. Then he saw one body twitch. An officer. The eyes of this one were upon him. The shaking hand stretched out to his spatha, lying a foot or so away. Fritigern stalked over and drove his longsword through the soldier’s chest.

‘The gates are open, Iudex. All Thracia is ours for the taking,’ this time it was Alatheus who had sidled up to him, his purring voice incongruous with the muted sounds of pillage beyond the wall of tents. Saphrax, as always, had come with him.

Fritigern saw that Alatheus and Saphrax had spilled little blood themselves — their armour and garb relatively clean. But they don’t need to for they have a champion to do their bidding, he mused, hearing Farnobius’ lionesque roar, just beyond the screen of tents. As if conjured by Fritigern’s thoughts, the tents on one side of the square crumpled or were pulled down, opening the principia area to the rest of the camp and revealing Farnobius on the other side, clutching three legionary eagle standards and a pair of severed heads. The cyclopean warrior’s face and armour were plastered in blood and strips of skin dangled from his trident beard. The horde, amassed behind their champion, erupted in a polyglot victory cry as he pumped the standards in the air, then took them, one by one, snapping the staffs over his knee and tossing them to the dirt.

‘We must press this advantage, Iudex,’ Saphrax urged him, one fist clenched before him, his eyes shrinking to slits. Then he raised his voice, turning his head as he spoke, so all the amassed warriors could hear; ‘What is left of the Roman armies must be cleansed from the land — plucked like lice from the back of a dog before they can gather again.’

A deafening cheer of agreement exploded from the many thousands of warriors.

With a pang of angst, Fritigern recognised the attempt to force his hand. He filled his lungs and spoke even louder than Saphrax. ‘Yet they have melted into the countryside already. It might take months to find them all, and by then, the Praesental Armies will have arrived. That is what we must focus on. That is what we must prepare for.’

‘Not quite,’ Alatheus said, his voice even and confident. ‘Yes, were we to chase over Thracia, hunting down numerous hiding bands of men, we would soon fall foul of the Praesental Armies when they arrive. But the Romans do not stay scattered for too long. They always converge upon their grey-walled cities. That is where the remainder of the Thracian legions will be headed. As the predator, we should attack the nest of our prey.’

Fritigern felt the well-worded response like the back of a hand striking his face. His chest itched as he sought some equally wise rejoinder, but before he could, the massed warriors of the alliance broke out in a babble. ‘To the cities!’ they cried.

Fritigern struggled to conceal his ire, knowing that Alatheus had judged the will of the people to perfection. ‘Then we should take what food, fodder, arms and armour can be harvested here,’ he nodded to the Roman grain sacks, mail and helms already being piled nearby, then eyed Alatheus and Saphrax. This horde is not only yours to manipulate, he seethed. ‘Then we should descend to the south, fall upon Thracia’s cities like Allfather Wodin’s wolves, show the Romans that we are not a people to be controlled or corralled, but a great race that is to be feared.’

Now the watching horde broke out in a tumultuous crescendo of joy and hubris, cheering their Iudex as if the idea had been Fritigern’s in the first place. Fritigern noticed Alatheus and Saphrax’s eyes grow somewhat hooded.

The giant Farnobius stalked before the horde now, hefting his axe then chopping it down into the dirt. ‘And as we march south, I shall lead the vanguard. The lands from here to the Hellespont lie open to us now. It would be an honour to lead my forces over the Roman walls,’ he gestured to the Huns and the Taifali riders who followed him, ‘and to destroy the last of Thracia’s legions. . ’

Now Fritigern’s eyes grew hooded. So this herculean warrior considered the steppe riders to be his, and his alone?

Farnobius scooped his hands to either side and filled his lungs to continue. ‘I will-’

‘Reiks Farnobius!’ Alatheus cut in, an edge of steel to his tone. ‘The Iudex will decide how and when we advance.’

Fritigern did well to disguise a wry smile. Farnobius was a ferocious dog, and one that even the scheming Alatheus was struggling to keep under control. He stepped forward, staring Farnobius down. The colossus bowed in a reluctant show of genuflection, his dark glower showing little deference. Then came that sharp twitch of the head; a troubling sign — like the first indications of some madness within.

Fritigern turned away from Farnobius, filled his lungs and called out to his horde. ‘Now, my people, tend to your wounds and fill your bellies. Then sharpen your blades and ready yourselves to journey once more. A great bounty awaits us in the south!’

Farnobius remained where he stood, skin burning with shame as Fritigern, Alatheus and Saphrax turned their back on him, strolling off to discuss their next move. The countless eyes of the horde hung on him, no doubt mocking him like the scorned child he had been treated as.

As the crowd dispersed to pore over the wrecked remains of the Roman camp, he wrenched his axe free of the dirt and eyed the blade’s edge. It needed honing, he realised. He wiped the blood from the hilt and recalled the day he had been given this weapon. The orphaned boy-reiks, Vitheric, had bestowed it upon him as his guardian and protector. Yet he had allowed Alatheus’ poisonous tongue to convince him to betray the lad. He had helped Alatheus and Saphrax take the boy from his tent and drown him in the Danubius to claim the title as senior Reiks’ of the Greuthingi for themselves. The babbling of the River Tonsus behind him, taunting him. He closed his eyes, only to see the staring eyes of the boy in the blackness there, underwater, gawping, hands outstretched as if pleading with his protector. Then the pallid, lifeless stare of death.

Only now he realised what a mistake that had been. He glowered at the backs of Alatheus and Saphrax. I could have drowned the boy-reiks myself and taken his place, he thought. Guilt bit at his heart for allowing such a thought to cross his mind. He shook it off. But then those jackals would be no master of me.

A bestial rictus grew on his face.

Aye, my only mistake was to share power.