Legionary: Viper of the North (29 page)

Pavo watched as Gallus and Fritigern chatted. Roman scribes and workers from the horreum and their Gothic counterparts scuttled in and out on Gallus and Fritigern’s summons to confirm and correct the estimates.

As the pair talked, Pavo tried to piece together the secret of the Viper once more. But it wasn’t long before he felt the toll of the past weeks begin to pull on his eyelids, and his weary limbs grew numb. He eyed the other veterans and saw that they, too, were flagging. He looked to the doorway, thinking of his bunk in the barracks, when the conversation caught his attention once more.

‘And while we are camped on this plain,’ Fritigern said, ‘I will focus all my efforts into seeing this rationing is carried out fairly. I will appoint one of my most trusted men to oversee the policing of this system . . . ’ he stretched out a hand to the hulking warrior in the shadows. ‘This man has been like a brother to me for over twenty years, and has saved my life more times than I can remember. Indeed, without him, we may well have strayed right into the Huns’ path on our way here.’

Pavo frowned. As the warrior stepped forward, the shadows slipped from him, revealing a fine scale vest and forearms encased in leather greaves. Then the face was illuminated: long, silver hair and a beard, pointed nose, three bronze hoops dangling from one ear and a ruined eye that was a gnarled patch of scar tissue and milky matter. The figure grinned at him.

Fritigern nodded sincerely. ‘Ivo will serve our alliance well.’

Chapter 13

The beetling walls of Antioch shimmered in the late morning sunshine, merging into the terracotta infinity of Syria. Stood on the battlements, Emperor Valens sighed. Under his snow-white fringe, his sharp blue eyes examined the land to the east. Trade caravans speckled the sandy paths leading from the city to the banks of the River Orontes. His gaze passed along the precious waterway that spliced the land, its surface dotted with cogs and imperial galleys, drifting lazily to their destinations. Then his eyes narrowed on the hazy line where sand met sky and remained there for some time.

Reassured by the emptiness of the horizon, he turned to stroll along the battlements. While the centre of the city was abuzz with the usual activity of market day, the legionaries manning the walls were silent and pensive. They knew what lay beyond the horizon, in the eastern deserts. Each of them wore the lightest of linen tunics under their scale vests, skin glistening with sweat in the temperate climate, saluting promptly as he passed.

Wintering in the east would be a pleasant affair, he mused, breathing the warm air in through his nostrils, but for the looming threat of Shapur’s seemingly infinite, well equipped and well-drilled armies. The Persian King’s advances into Roman Armenia had drawn the empire’s every resource to the eastern frontiers: grain, artillery, craftsmen and most importantly every available comitatenses legion either side of Constantinople. And he, as emperor, had neither seen the capital nor set foot west of Constantinople since the summer, and it looked certain that he would not see it for several summers more. He paused, gazing out to the east once more.
Come on, mighty Shapur, make your move. Break me or break against me, before my empire crumbles behind me!

Every night so far he had wakened while all else was still, troubled by the imminent danger he had left behind in the distant Danubian borderlands. Due to the empty imperial coffers, the Moesian fleet had been effectively decommissioned, now numbering a token set of just eight biremes patrolling the river while the rest lay rotting in a pontoon bridge near Durostorum. Added to that the already poorly equipped border legions had been forced to forgo their yearly resupply of armour, arms and clothing. And their numbers had never been fully replenished since the erosive mission to the Kingdom of Bosporus. The great western river itself now presented more of a barrier to the Goths than the Roman defences did. All it would take was for one concerted push.

Despite the heat, he felt a shiver dance across his skin.

Then footsteps thudded up the stone steps behind him, shaking him from his memories. He spun to see a sweating, emaciated man hobbling up towards him. Like birds of prey, two white-robed
candidati
, Valens’ loyal bodyguards, sprinted nimbly to shield their emperor, clutching their sword hilts. But, on seeing the sorry state of the man – his hands and thighs bleeding from a long journey on horseback most probably – Valens raised a hand, and the candidati relaxed just a fraction.

‘Quintus Livius Ennius of the Cursus Publicus,’ the exhausted man panted, saluting, then he slumped to one knee and held out a scroll with a wax seal. ‘Emperor, I have sailed and rode for two weeks and have not stopped for rest in the last three days. This message comes from . . . ’ his voice trailed off nervously.

‘Speak!’ Valens demanded.

The man looked up, his face taut with fear and awe. ‘This message comes from the west, from Comes Lupicinus in Moesia. The Danubian hinterland around Durostorum and the XI Claudia fort has been breached.’

Valens pushed past his candidati, dipping to his knees as dread gripped him. He grabbed the man by the shoulders. ‘What? How?’ He tore the scroll from the man’s grasp, the wax seal crumbling as he unfurled it. His eyes flitted to the crux of the message.

. . . and now the majority of the Gothic tribes have united and marched upon the empire under Fritigern’s banner, ascribing the arrival of the Huns as the catalyst. Fritigern claims he still observes our truce, and offers his men as foederati in exchange for food and sanctuary. But the grain supplies are almost gone, and the limitanei ranks all along the river are equally depleted. It is only a matter of time before the Goths’ hunger turns to anger. Emperor, I implore you to provide sanction for emergency grain supplies to be delivered to the Danubian frontier. And, as a matter of equal urgency, I beseech you to send legionary support to Moesia . . .

Valens’ eyes swept over the rest of the letter and the estimations of the Gothic number, then hung on the signature; the scrawl was much the same as the rest of the text – not the worst he had seen but definitely not the fine, practiced handwriting of a scribe or an officer. Then he picked at the remains of the wax seal; although it bore Comes Lupicinus’ mark, it had been resealed, albeit carefully. He fixed his gaze on the rider. ‘I will ask you this only once. Know that the fate of the empire may depend on your answer.’

The rider blanched and nodded hurriedly.

‘Who gave you this letter?’

‘As I said, Comes . . . ’ The rider gulped, then blinked, sucking in a deep breath. ‘Centurion Qu . . . Quadratus, and Optio Avitus, Emperor.’

‘Who?’

‘Centurion Quadratus and Optio Avitus of the XI Claudia Pia Fidelis, Emperor.’

Valens snorted. ‘A centurion and an optio forged a letter from Lupicinus?’

The rider nodded. ‘They thought it was the only way to salvage the situation on the Danubius, Emperor. Comes Lupicinus is in command at the scene and he was refusing to send out a call for help, so Centurion Quadratus and Optio Avitus sent me east.’

‘Disobeying direct orders from their comes?’ Valens scowled. ‘By God and Mithras that legion has some rogues, and thank God and Mithras they do. And Lupicinus, that repellent and wayward character, brash as a lion one minute then as timid as a mouse the next? Perhaps he would have been less hazardous if I had dragged him east with me,’ he mused. Then he frowned, his mind replaying the last time he had dealt with the XI Claudia. ‘But you said
Lupicinus
was in charge of the Claudia?’

The rider nodded.

‘So Tribunus Gallus has fallen in battle?’ Valens recalled the tall, lean officer with the gaunt, wolf-like features who had once come to his palace.

‘No, Emperor. Tribunus Gallus was on a mission to parley with Athanaric. He should have returned by now, unless . . . ’

Valens sighed. ‘If Gallus is the man I remember, then he’ll have made it back. And if he takes charge of the situation, then all is not lost. But this scroll paints a bleak picture,’ he pinged a finger on the edge of the tattered sheet of paper, ‘and time is of the essence.’ He tried to imagine the entirety of Fritigern’s people, camped on the Danubian plain by Durostorum, but found the image dissolving in his thoughts every time. The key to managing this mass migration, he realised, was in keeping Fritigern’s masses where they were. They
had
to remain on the plain of Durostorum until military support could be provided. But the limitanei legions in Moesia and Illyricum were threadbare, and it would be a dire struggle to keep Fritigern’s men in check as things stood, he realised. But perhaps the Gothic horde could be assuaged, albeit temporarily, with provision of grain. Yes, if the many southern towns and cities could spare just a little from their stores, then it might be enough.

‘I’ll have my scribe prepare orders to provide food for the Goths. It will be your job, Ennius, to ensure that the order is delivered to Tribunus Gallus, assuming he has returned.’

With that, he snapped his fingers and looked to his pair of candidati. ‘Get this rider as much food, wine and water as he desires, then set him up in one of the palace bedrooms, and then send my capsarius to put a salve on his riding sores.’ He turned back to Ennius, helping him from his knees. ‘You will rest and recuperate until dawn. Then I will provide you with a stallion from my stables and the scroll containing my orders. After that you must ride, faster than you have ever ridden before.’

‘Yes, Emperor,’ Ennius said.

‘And when you’ve done this, I’ll see to it that you’re promoted to chief of heralds.’

Ennius gawped. ‘Thank you, Emperor. I will ride at speed, heedless of my wounds.’

Valens watched the rider being ushered away down the steps and through the throng of market day. He wondered what he might have had to return to in the west had this Centurion Quadratus not taken it upon himself to defy orders. Not for the first time in his reign, the finest thread of chance was holding the empire together.

Now he had to plot his next move. He turned and rested his palms on the battlements, eyes scouring the sand below, searching for an answer. He visualised the campaign map that would be waiting on him back at the palace, seeing the carved wooden pieces on the eastern border that represented his campaign legions. There were over thirty comitatenses legions facing Shapur’s armies. The figure sounded impressive, but the reality was that many of those legions were well understrength and stretched along the vastness of the Orontes, the Tigris and the Armenian borders along with the twenty four permanently garrisoned limitanei legions. That meant there were scarcely enough men to rebuff any advance by Shapur, never mind mount any kind of offensive. The sun burned on his neck as a solution evaded him.

Think, man, think!

He jostled the numbers, but every act of taking any significant number of legions away from the Persian front meant leaving a glaring gap for Shapur to exploit. No, he realised, he could afford to lose only two legions, three at most – some five thousand Romans. Then the nagging doubts started as he remembered the estimate of the Gothic numbers: over ten thousand Gothic cavalry and infantry, plus the eighty thousand who followed them who were no doubt armed as well? And if Fritigern’s lot had been driven south then it would only be a matter of time before the Greuthingi Goths and others flooded to swell his ranks further. His chest tightened. Perhaps another limitanei legion could be collected from the upper Armenian borders with limited risk. Then he thought of the eastern heavy cavalry in the palace stables; the swarthy, moustachioed men who rode those fine mounts, man and beast armoured like an iron centaur. Yes, an ala of
cataphractii
could be spared as well, he thought. That would provide nearer nine thousand men.