Legionary: The Scourge of Thracia (Legionary 4) (46 page)

‘I knew what devastation it could wreak, how it could crush the lives from so many men. It was the same with the tunnels. It . . . it . . . ’ Geridus’ face lengthened and he shrugged. ‘It is like when a man knows there is a dark side to his personality. He hides it, pretends it does not exist. Sometimes though, it must be embraced and brought to the fore to fight off a greater evil.’ He shook his head and gazed into the middle-distance. Pavo recognised that look – the same one Gallus wore after every battle, as if beset with guilt for those who had fallen under his command.

Geridus forced a smile and swept a hand through the air. ‘In any case the claw was but one layer of redoubt. Without the lilia pits and the burning wagons, it would have been over far sooner,’ Geridus countered with a knowing nod, sitting where Sura had been. ‘Without each of you tenacious whoresons, it might never have been. Each man played a part in this day. Each is a hero,’ Geridus countered.

Pavo glanced over the thousands of lumps in the snow – shards of iron, bone or raw flesh poking through. ‘Yet to forge a hundred heroes, a thousand good men must die, it seems.’

‘Talk like that’ll see you in the Senate House, lad.’

‘Never. My place is here,’ Pavo smiled.

‘Here?’ Geridus cocked an eyebrow and glanced around the bleak pass.

‘Not
here.
I mean . . . wherever they are,’ he nodded to the ragged men of the XI Claudia down in the pass, seeing Sura bantering with Libo as he joined them, cupping his hands to his ears and no doubt regaling them with his ‘Bat of Adrianople’ nonsense. ‘The pass is secured and so Emperor Gratian can come east. Emperor Valens will come west from Antioch also. They will unite in the plains of Thracia, face Fritigern’s horde and the Gothic War will be brought to an end. I will do all I can to bring my legion up to strength so we can help in that effort.’

He noticed Geridus shifting a little uneasily. Was it something he had said?

The Comes sighed deeply, then met his eye with a dark look. ‘Put your faith not in emperors, but in your gods and your comrades,’ he said at last.

Pavo frowned at this. The old man’s scars ran deep indeed, it seemed. He looked to lighten the mood. ‘And what about you, now your reputation is restored? No man can deny your bravery or cunning. You are truly the Master of the Passes. This sly dog, Maurus, perhaps Emperor Gratian will no longer see him as fit to replace you anymore?’

Geridus laughed in that deep, baritone burr that echoed along the pass. ‘Lad, Maurus is welcome to come and take this place off my hands – stinking in the summer and freezing in the winter. If there’s one thing you and your lot taught me more than anything else, it’s that it matters not what hot-headed curs out there say or think about you. It’s about here,’ he tapped his breastbone. ‘I know who I am, I am no longer trapped in that fog of illness my enemies threw me into. In there I was searching for a way out instead of looking for myself. And it was my mistake to let my guard down in the first place.’ He stood, groaning again. ‘So no, my military days are over. A villa in southern Greece, now that would be quite something,’ he said with a sparkle in his eye and a grin. ‘Bread, dates and chilled spring water brought to me by busty maids . . . aye, I’m sure they could teach me a thing or two.’ He made to leave the plateau, but stopped, weighing his words carefully and offering Pavo one last piece of advice, batting his fist to his breastbone. ‘Remember, lad: gods and comrades.’

‘Aye, sir,’ Pavo nodded.

Pavo watched the big man go down the scree path, then felt his thoughts return to the dark question. He glanced west again, seeing in his mind’s eye Gallus the iron wolf, and Dexion, the last of his blood. So long and not a word from them.

Just then, Pavo felt the twilight chill bite at him. He stood, swept his cloak a little tighter and descended from the plateau. As he came to the men of the XI Claudia, he saw Zosimus and Quadratus locked in conversation – savoury, for once. As he approached, he noticed how the light from the nearby cooking fires cast long shadows of the two across the churned, stained snow. The shadows danced and jostled with the flickering blaze. Pavo’s eyes darkened as he thought of the dream. While so many men had fallen, the shadow-man of the Augusteum had stayed with him. Every night, the scene had replayed in his troubled mind.

Show yourself or be gone,
Pavo mouthed.

‘Here he is,’ Quadratus said edgily as he saw Pavo approaching.

Zosimus looked round too, his face perplexed as he scratched at his anvil jaw.

‘Sir?’ Pavo said, a sudden sense of dread stirring in his gut.

Zosimus seemed to be weighing his words carefully. ‘It . . . it seems that the Sarmatians’ arrival was no coincidence.’ He nodded to the wing of scale-vested riders, now tending their mounts and preparing cooking fires of their own. ‘They were despatched here at haste.’

‘By one of our own,’ Quadratus added, then corrected himself. ‘Two of our own, actually.’

Pavo dared not speak the words, but yearned for the two centurions to say them.

‘Tribunus Gallus and Primus Pilus Dexion sent them here,’ Zosimus finished.

Pavo felt these words echo round his mind and wash through his veins like an elixir. ‘They . . . they are well?’

‘Aye, the iron tribunus and the tenacious dog that is your brother – you thought a winter journey across half an empire was beyond them?’ Quadratus chuckled.

‘The Sarmatians saw them to a Cursus Publicus waystation and on their way to Emperor Gratian. They’ll be arriving at his court any day now.’

Pavo swung to the western horizon. The fading daylight was fighting against the night, but out there lay hope. The XI Claudia would be strong again and Gallus would march at their head. Dexion would serve with them, bonding blood with brotherhood. Emperor Gratian and Emperor Valens
would
unite and the Gothic war
would
be brought to an end. Thracia
could
be saved.

The bitter winter’s night could not fend off his elation. The weary but hearty laughter from the XI Claudia nearby strengthened his resolve. Only the echoing words of Geridus could temper his burgeoning hope.

Put your faith not in emperors, but in your gods and your comrades.

Chapter 23

The Western Province of Belgica Prima was bathed in fine winter sunshine and sheathed in a thick fur of morning frost. The silver-grey roads that cut across the rolling hills and meadows all led to one place: the mighty city of Augusta Treverorum. The city’s beetling grey walls straddled the waters of the River Mosa, dominating the ancient river valley just as Emperor Gratian dominated his entire western realm from the palaces within. The place was a hallmark of imperial power: the vast, domed Basilica of Constantine, a fine and ancient arena, majestic temples, great bathhouses, wool mills and clusters of red-tiled villas segmented by broad streets and leafy forums.

The legionary garrison in the fourth storey of the high grey towers flanking the city’s mighty eastern gate strode back and forth, blowing into their hands and stoking the brazier, glancing from the arched windows and out across the countryside. There was always little activity in these winter months. But when they spotted a trio of riders approaching on the eastern road from Mogontiacum, they halted. The pace of these riders marked them out from the other few ambling wagons or herders.

‘Is that a messenger?’ one said, leaning on the sill of the opening.

‘Aye, looks like he bears the papers of the Cursus Publicus,’ his centurion agreed, nodding to the scroll clutched in the lead rider’s waving hand.

‘What of the other two?’ the first replied, frowning at the tall and gaunt man on one side, his dark, grey-streaked hair unkempt and his jaw sporting the beginnings of a beard. He wore a ragged, filthy red cloak. On the other side, a younger man rode, a hawk-like expression and a thatch of overgrown brown hair and similarly scruffy stubble on his chin. ‘They look like bloody barbarians.’

‘Hmm,’ the centurion mused. Ruses like this – with forged scrolls and men wearing stolen messenger robes – had been used in recent weeks by the rebellious Alemanni from across the Rhine to hijack Cursus Publicus waystations . . . but what harm could three men inflict upon this great city? He chuckled at his own naiveté, then nodded furtively to the archers deeper inside the tower eating bread by the brazier. At once, these men hurried over to the nearby window, nocking arrows to their bows and peering at the approaching three but staying in the shadows and out of sight. ‘On my word,’ the centurion said, lifting a hand, one finger extended.

He leaned his other hand on the sill and called down to the trio. ‘What is your business?’

‘I bring word for the Emperor,’ the Cursus Publicus rider replied.

Of course you do,
the centurion thought, seeing the furtive glances of the gaunt one by the rider’s side. This was no mere message. He teetered on swiping his finger down. The archers stretched their bowstrings in expectation of this.

‘From the East,’ the rider added.

The centurion’s complacency faded. ‘The East?’

‘From Thracia, sir, all the way from Thracia!’ the messenger insisted.

The centurion’s ears perked up and a shiver danced down his spine. The Quadi insurgents on the upper Danubius had cut off all communication with the east for over a month. Emperor Gratian had been enraged when he heard of this.
I must know of the eastern situation. My uncle, Valens, is expecting me to march to his aid. Yet I find that my own realm is in turmoil? The Cursus Publicus – the very fabric that weaves my cities and provinces together, is unravelling?

The centurion then began to salivate, for Emperor Gratian had offered a reward. Word from the east would buy those who brought it a fine estate and early retirement too. He waved the archers back then made to call down to the gatehouse, when a last modicum of caution gripped him. ‘Who rides with you?’ he challenged the rider again.

‘Tribu-’ the rider started to reply, when the gaunt, wolf-like one grunted something and bowed his head a fraction, so his features were hidden. The rider looked to the two flanking him and then back up to the centurion. ‘Two soldiers of the Thracian legions.’

Now the centurion saw the leather bags the pair carried over their shoulders. Legionary kit.

He let his doubts fade and focused on the reward.

‘Open the gates!’

Gallus’ head swayed with his mount’s every stride through Augusta Treverorum’s flagstoned streets as he and Dexion followed the messenger towards the palace in the city’s north-eastern quarter. The journey had been relentless since they had crossed paths with the Sarmatians. That moment when the lead rider had pinned him to a tree, blade on his throat, had been the nadir of their quest. Moments later, when the Sarmatian chieftain had recognised him and Dexion as Romans, the blade had fallen and the rider had embraced them. The steppe riders had led them to the nearest Cursus Publicus waystation then set off for
Trajan’s Gate at haste, eager to reinforce the legionaries there as Gallus had implored them to do
.
Loyal and fierce allies
, Gallus thought once again,
and Thracia will need them in what is to come.

As soon as the Sarmatians had set off, Gallus and Dexion had accosted the nearest imperial rider in the waystation. The young lad made little sense of their weary and garbled explanations, but soon they were off, the rider leading them overnight to the next waystation. There they swapped their exhausted mounts for fresh ones, and the imperial rider tasked his colleague at that waystation with leading them onwards to the next stop. And on it went over the next few weeks, Gallus and Dexion snatching just a few hours of sleep and rushed meals on the saddle as they galloped through fog, blizzards, flooded roads and gales. In the frenzied journey, he thought only of the objective.
Reach Gratian’s court.
Now, he had to confront the consequences.

Yes, the Western Praesental Army could now be hastened to the east. Yes, Thracia might yet be saved from the marauding Gothic hordes. Yes, his comrades in the legion, so far away, might yet know victory and see their families and friends safe and well.

But what about you, Gallus?
a dark voice goaded him from within.
What now, iron tribunus?

He looked up furtively, scanning the streets of this fine city. Passing eyes seemed to linger a little too long on him. Grim-looking legionary sentries posted in the forums they passed looked a little grimmer than they should. A boy tossing a stick for a dog ran to pick the piece of wood up when it landed before Gallus’ mount’s hooves. The boy’s playful expression fell away when he met Gallus’ ice-cold eyes, and he backed away, frightened.

It is written all over my face. They can see I am not here merely to bring word to Emperor Gratian,
he thought. ‘They know,’ he muttered to himself.

‘Sir?’ Dexion said.

The young officer’s voice stirred him from his morose thoughts. He looked to his primus pilus, seeing Pavo for an instant then recognising the few features that marked him out as that plucky lad’s older brother. Dexion looked every bit as gruff and weary as Gallus felt, and this gave him a degree of comfort. ‘Merely thinking aloud,’ Gallus replied.

As they followed the Cursus Publicus messenger uphill towards the palace region, Dexion rode a little closer. ‘Sir,’ he said in barely more than a whisper, ‘outside, when we were challenged . . . ’

‘Nobody in this place must know my name,’ Gallus cut him off. ‘You are Dexion, Primus Pilus of the XI Claudia. I am a veteran from your ranks, nothing more.’

Dexion flinched a little at Gallus’ tone, and Gallus immediately felt guilty. ‘I’m sorry. Like you, I’m exhausted. But
without
you, I couldn’t have made it all the way here. Your blood is every bit as fiery as your brother’s, and I want you to know that what happens next . . . well, I don’t want you to be part of it. I want you to return to Thracia, find the XI Claudia – Mithras willing that the Sarmatians rode to their aid in time – and lead them in my stead.’

Dexion’s face paled and he shook his head. ‘No, sir . . . what are you planning to-’

‘I don’t know,’ Gallus whispered. ‘But I know that I cannot rest until the shame of my past has been eradicated.
They
always follow the emperor and his court.
They
are here,’ he hissed, flicking a finger to the looming palace gates and the hulking marble edifice beyond – silhouetted in the winter sun. ‘The Speculatores are
here.
’

‘Sir, please, I beg of you, be wary . . . ’

Dexion’s words faded as they came to a halt before the palace gates, flanked by a pair of bearded, bronze-helmed guards there.

Heruli
, an auxilium palatinum legion
,
Gallus realised seeing their shields of concentric white and red rings. Part of Gratian’s Praesental Army.
The army of the West and maybe the saviour of the East?
He wondered.

The palace gates groaned open and they dismounted, surrendered their arms and armour, then left the Cursus Publicus rider behind and followed the Heruli inside. They strode through ornamented archways, fine lawns and gardens speckled with scented winter blooms and fountains babbling gaily. The aroma of spices and cooking meat wafted from the lower chambers of the great palace as they approached, and Gallus realised how long it had been since he had eaten properly. But hunger could wait . . .

Justice could not.

They climbed the marble stairs and entered the palace’s cavernous main hall. A cloying, sweet smoke wound from sconces mounted on the forest of porphyry columns. Every footstep echoed around the room, bouncing from tiled floor to frescoed wall and gilded ceiling. Slaves scurried past, shooting horrified glances at their tattered condition, while the noses of fine-robed courtiers wrinkled as they passed. When they came to a towering doorway, the Heruli halted, one slipped inside then returned. ‘The emperor will see you now.’

Dexion looked to Gallus.

Gallus shook his head. ‘This is not the time for me to speak . . . sir,’ he said, bowing deferentially as if Dexion was his superior.

Dexion beheld him with one last look, then nodded. ‘Then be seated, soldier, until my dialogue with our emperor is complete.’

Gallus watched Dexion slip inside the imperial chamber, then slumped on the bench by the door. For the first time since that dark confrontation in the Mithraeum in Constantinople, he drew the idol of Mithras from his purse. He stared at it absently, thinking of Thracia, of his brothers in the XI Claudia, of the hope for that land and his people. Then he wondered at how close the dark agents were to him right now – how close justice was.

Which is it to be?
The dark voice taunted him.

The thought troubled him greatly until, like the passing of a cloud, he saw that it was a false choice.
It can be both,
he retorted,
Thracia can be saved,
he glanced to the door of the imperial chamber, knowing that Dexion’s words would surely spur Emperor Gratian into action,
and I . . . I will have my revenge.