Legionary, page 11
Pavo’s whole understanding of this crisis changed at that point. Odotheus had been described to him as some foaming warlord, bent on invading the empire. On the contrary, this fellow was in fact a well-spoken and intelligent man – skilled at rhetoric. More, he spoke only of peace and cooperation. However, like a thorn slashing across his thoughts, memories came to him of the warband that had stolen across the waters and raided all the way to the farm. Were they rogues, or were they a glimpse of Odotheus’ true intentions?
‘Well, Pavo?’ General Promotus goaded him. ‘Let’s hear your golden plan. Do we attack, or do we invite them across?’
Pavo twisted, looking past Promotus – disinterested in the hothead – and the others. He had the feeling that there was only one person whom he should be speaking to. He turned from the river and paced back up the slope, towards the emperor’s tent.
‘Well?’ Promotus snarled after him. ‘W… wait, where are you going? Get back here.’
‘The emperor asked not to be disturbed,’ Arbogastes protested, jogging to catch up with Pavo. When he reached out to grab Pavo’s shoulder, Frugilo – silent until now – stepped in the way. ‘The emperor called on Pavo specifically, and tasked me with bringing him here.’ As a series of curt words were shared between the pair, Pavo slid inside the imperial tent once more.
Only the Inquisitors were inside, two of them standing before the veiled area where the emperor had retired to. When Pavo approached, they jolted to attention, crossing their spears before the veil.
‘The emperor wanted my advice. I come to offer it.’
The rightmost Inquisitor glowered down at him. ‘The emperor only listens to God’s will. Do you claim to speak the word of our Lord? Do you?’
The second one sneered at him. ‘Say yes, say it is true. Speak heresy.’
Pavo knew well the lengths this small corps would go to in order to root out impiety. Tales of high-ranking pagan priests meeting untimely ends or going missing in the night. One had been found in pieces, inside the bellies of dogs.
‘Let him enter,’ a weary voice spoke from behind the bedchamber flap.
The Inquisitors sighed in dismay, parting their spears.
Pavo entered the small space and let the veil close behind him.
Emperor Theodosius was sitting on the edge of his bed in a plain nightshirt, that forlorn look in his eyes as he stared into the flame of a guttering candle. He clearly hadn’t even tried to sleep.
‘You summoned me, Domine,’ said Pavo. ‘It seems only correct that we should speak.’
Theodosius did not respond for an age. ‘There was a time when I called for your head.’
Pavo kept his face emotionless. There had been much that had gone on in the past where he had directly disobeyed the emperor, even worked against him – but always, always for the right reasons.
‘They said you had retired to a farm south of the military road. A wife and a boy, I hear?’
Pavo took a moment before responding, the thought of them and the distance between he and they painful. ‘The farm lies empty now. Goths – the band that broke across the river – came raiding across my estate.’
Theodosius’ eyes softened with pity as they rolled round to meet Pavo’s.
‘The home is abandoned, but my loved ones are safely behind Constantinople’s walls. That is why I am here, Domine. This situation is grim. Those raiders were a warning of what might come to be if we get this wrong.’ Like the last time, when Fritigern came, he added inwardly.
Theodosius nodded slowly. ‘I have listened to my advisors prattle and hoot about the consequences for days on end. We might lose everything, they say. Well,’ he sighed, his shoulders slumping and his head dipping, ‘I have little left to lose.’
Pavo noticed that the portrait of the emperor and his late wife was now in here, resting opposite the bed. He felt wretched for momentarily forgetting the news Reiks Faustius had only so recently imparted. ‘My condolences, Domine. I did not expect or want to hear such desolate news as this.’
The emperor flapped his hands weakly. ‘News, condolences. It is all a passing thing for others. For me, it is everything. She was everything. With her by my side, I was the master of the Roman world. Now that she is gone, I am the king…’ his voice twisted with anguish, ‘… of ashes.’
Pavo frowned. ‘You remain the Emperor of the East, Domine. Arguably the most powerful man alive. That has not changed.’
Theodosius planted a hand over his heart, as if there was great pain in there. ‘No, but I have. Victory over these Goths will inspire celebration across my lands. Feasting, singing, joy. Yet I will still be left with nothing but emptiness within.’
Pavo began to realise why the emperor’s council had been so eager to sweep him away to his bedchamber. If anything, the Theodosius of old had been volatile – one moment languid and deep-thinking, the next brash and decisive. A creature of ice and fire, people used to say of him. Now it seemed like that fire was quenched and the ice melted.
‘Emptiness? What about your boys? Arcadius and Honorius – are they not the embodiment of what you and your wife were?’ Pavo said. ‘It is incumbent upon you to see this crisis through so that they will go unharmed, so they might carry yours and their mother’s legacy on through the ages. If we can resolve this matter with Odotheus, then you will have every right to know joy, to sing and to feast, in the name of your wife, for the future of your sons.’
Theodosius attempted something of a weak smile. ‘I had forgotten why I called upon you. Now, I think I remember. Wise words, spoken at the right time.’ He sat up straight and sucked in a deep breath.
Pavo gave a slight bow. In truth, he had edited his words carefully, seeking to encourage the emperor while keeping private his real thoughts about the spoiled Arcadius and infant Honorius.
‘You will have seen the situation for yourself by now,’ Theodosius said. ‘What do you make of it?’
‘There are at least as many Goths over there as there were back when Fritigern came,’ said Pavo. ‘However… the mood of the gathered horde across the water is not what I expected. Odotheus sounds… hopeful. He has seen and no doubt heard of the Haims settlements here in northern Thracia in which his Gothic cousins now live, enjoying good farming and grazing lands, access to the imperial trade routes and with the legions for once as allies instead of enemies. The Silver Stag speaks of peace, of cooperation.’
‘You believe him?’
One edge of Pavo’s mouth twitched wryly. ‘I want to. He is certainly a charismatic and convincing leader, well-trained in speaking. Very wily with his words. Perhaps… perhaps too wily. But that does not necessarily mean that he intends to deceive us.’
‘Even though he waves some false document, claiming it to be my invitation to him and his people? An invitation I know I did not write!’
Pavo’s mind reeled back to the early years of his military career under Gallus’ command. ‘One of my old mentors once taught me a valuable lesson, something that has stayed with me ever since: after you have evaluated a situation, put yourself in your opponent’s boots. What might he be thinking? Does that change any of your assumptions?’
‘And does it?’
‘If the wax tablet is false, then Odotheus must surely know he cannot convince you otherwise.’
‘So you do think Odotheus is lying?’
‘No,’ Pavo paused, effectively, ‘I think he genuinely believes that tablet is what he says it is. I think someone must have lied to him about its origin.’
Theodosius gestured towards his jewelled diadem, resting on a chair by the bed. ‘If it were you wearing that infernal thing, what would you do?’
‘Nothing.’
The emperor arched one eyebrow.
‘I would wait. Sleep. Nothing will happen tonight, nor should it. Come tomorrow, send me across the river in one of our ships. I will talk with this Odotheus, and I will gauge him more accurately, face to face instead of across a river with a snowstorm raging between us. I can set eyes upon and verify this wooden tablet he proclaims is a personal invitation from you. I can find out exactly who gave him the thing.’
‘That is exactly why I called upon you, Pavo. Few understand the Goths as you do.’ Theodosius sighed and rubbed at his face. ‘But first, as you suggest, sleep,’ he muttered. ‘Tomorrow, talks. Go, take rest yourself – you have earned it. There is a spot in the guest tent for you.’
Pavo saluted, then turned to leave.
‘One more thing,’ Theodosius called.
Pavo twisted round. The emperor had risen and was lifting something from the chest near his bed. He presented Pavo with a set of steel greaves – the metal was painted white, just like Frugilo’s baldric. ‘Numerius Vitellius Pavo, I grant you the title of Protector Domesticus. You will serve me. Like the few others with this sacred role, you too should bear a piece of my old armour. It once screened me from harm, and now that duty is yours. You, Pavo, are my shield.’
A long silence passed as Pavo stared at the fine armour.
Theodosius’ face changed, his expression hardening, his lips parting. ‘Is there a prob-’
‘It would be an honour to serve you, Domine,’ Pavo replied at last, ‘and to protect you, our empire and all within it. My family included. All that said, I must ask you this: when it is done – when calm is restored – you must accept these greaves back, and release me from your service. Will you make this oath with me, Domine?’
Theodosius planted the greaves in Pavo’s hands. ‘Unless madness takes me, it shall be so.’
In the murk of the snow-strewn night, nobody – not the regular sentries, not the Inquisitors nor even the Protectores pacing near the emperor’s tent – saw the cloaked one peel away from the edge of the purple pavilion.
Peregrinus had heard the discussion between the emperor and the limping veteran, Pavo. The mooted visit across to Odotheus’ camp could not be allowed to happen. He considered for a moment how easy it would be to kill Pavo in his sleep tonight. But Theodosius would simply send another. Another who would find out too much.
He had, as tasked, brought chaos to the empire’s edge. Now it just had to be unleashed…
If it was to happen, then it had to happen tonight.
Chapter 7
November 386 AD
The River Danubius
One more thing, Pavo thought. One more thing before a long, deep sleep in that dry, warm guest tent. He simply had to see his old Claudian comrades.
He traipsed through the biting cold until he reached their encampment. He had been hoping to be welcomed by the sight of a bubbling pot of stew and a sea of friendly faces. Instead, he heard moaning, and was confronted by the sight of Durio, being held down by his comrade, Indus, along with the help of Centurion Betto and Centurion Pulcher, while Verax the medicus was trying to pour the contents of a small cup onto Durio’s face.
‘Keep him still, for Mithras’ sake,’ hissed Verax– thwarted time and again in his efforts. Finally, he succeeded.
‘Mgoo, warooo!’ Durio howled as the thick paste slopped over his eyes, nose and mouth.
‘Oh shut up, will you?’ Verax tutted as he smeared the unctuous liquid into Durio’s skin.
‘What in Hades is this?’ asked Pavo, bemused.
All looked up. Durio who rolled away and retched and spat, wiping the stuff from his face.
‘Sir?’ Pulcher said first, face bright with a smile.
‘Sir!’ Betto beamed in delight, throwing up a hand in salute.
Verax gestured to the now empty cup. ‘Sir! A few moments earlier and you could have helped us apply this castorian skin paste to young Durio’s face.’
‘Skin paste?’ Durio wailed, still spitting. ‘It’s oil from a bloody beaver’s anal sac!’
Indus shrugged. ‘Well you were the one who went a bit crazy in the vicus brothel. Face itching like fire, you said. Verax says this paste’ll help, and he knows what he’s talking about.’
A red-cloaked figure emerged from the legion commander’s tent.
Pavo and he met eyes.
‘I wish I could say I was surprised,’ said Sura, a strange mix of emotions on his face. ‘Back at the farm, when I begged you to stay away from all this... I knew you were being evasive. I knew you’d come. I could see it in your eyes.’
Pavo stepped over to him. ‘I had to. Those Goths who raided the farm. I… I could not rest for thinking what might have been.’
Sura planted a hand on Pavo’s shoulder. ‘Izodora and Marcus?’ he said, guiding Pavo towards the fire.
‘They are safe – back in Saturninus’ estate in the capital.’ Pavo said, warming his hands above the flames. He looked across the speeding snow in the direction of the river and the Gothic masses on the far side. The wind dropped momentarily, and an odd guttural song sailed across the night air from the far banks.
‘You’ll get used to it,’ said Sura. ‘It is the bards of Odotheus, calling to the men of the Haims here in our camp. Singing old tribal songs, telling tales of past victories against the empire.’
Pavo chewed on his bottom lip as he tried to discern the singing and shouting ones across the river, to no avail. Were these bards firebrands, acting on their own initiative… or men carefully chosen and told what to sing by the Silver Stag himself – sirens looking to unravel the allegiance between the Haims and the imperial legions? His gaze rolled to the area next to the Claudian encampment, where the tents of Reiks Garamond and Reiks Faustius were arrayed – their combined forces amounting to nearly half of the manpower here on the Roman banks. Faustius seemed utterly devoted to working with the empire in the name of the peace treaty. Garamond, whom he had met only once before, he was not so certain of.
‘And how have the Haims warriors reacted?’
‘It has been tense,’ Sura sighed. ‘They have been quarrelling amongst themselves, mostly. Fortunately, Faustius and Garamond have stamped out any rowdiness.’ He looked Pavo up and down. ‘Anyway, you are here. Have you gone before the emperor yet?’
Pavo brought the white greaves from within his cloak by way of an answer.
Sura’s eyes grew wide as plates. ‘You… you are a Protector? One of the twelve? Gods, how you demean yourself by treading here in the frozen mud of a limitanei camp,’ he said with a chuckle.
‘Better here than in that purple pavilion with the emperor’s council,’ Pavo muttered. ‘Almost all of the ones we used to know – Modares, Bacurius, Richomeres – are gone. Those with him now are bombastic and… dishonest. I can feel it. Worst of all, he chose them.’
‘Aye. Promotus the angry ape; Vespillo the slippery eunuch; Gregory, the pious and prattling; Arbogastes the bald arse licker. And Reiks Faustius? He’s probably the truest of the Gothic chieftains – but he has too much bend of the emperor’s ear for my liking.’
‘Sir?’ another voice cut between them, the words lilting and soft. Darik stepped from his tent and approached Pavo. ‘My sister, my nephew…’
‘They are safe, Darik,’ Pavo calmed him. ‘In the capital and living in comfort.’
Darik sagged in relief. ‘Thank the God of the Sands. I did not wish to see you back here in the army, sir, for your own sake. However, that farmhouse of yours. It was beautiful, but… open.’
Pulcher joined them then. ‘What’s the plan then? I don’t know what’s more maddening – the thought of having to do battle with those brutes across the river, or the waiting.’
Pavo knew he was not supposed to share his conversation with the emperor, but the three gathered here were the Claudia’s senior officers – he trusted them like brothers. That was when he noticed that the fourth one was missing.
From the middle distance, somewhere in the driving snow, a yelp sounded.
All jolted.
Pulcher’s face creased as he grimaced into the blizzard. ‘Was that a guard dog?’
Another yelp, then a cry of pain.
Pavo and Sura looked at one another. ‘No… that was Libo.’
The group loped towards the commotion. They came to the track of slush and mud between the Claudian area and the tents of Reiks Garamond. A ring of Goths stood pumping their fists and jeering, some of them glugging on barley beer and clearly not their first of the evening. In the centre of the ring, an absolute beast of a warrior was circling with Libo, the Claudian Primus Pilus.
Both were stripped to the waist, fists raised. Libo – never the prettiest of men – looked as if he had witnessed a cattle stampede from underneath. One cheek was swollen and blue, his good eye closing over, and blood ran from a burst lip. Almost blind from the swelling, Libo lashed out with wild swipes and jabs. The giant Goth dodged these easily, his tail of scraped-back brown hair swooshing with his every movement. He was laughing too. Then, with a ham-like fist, he landed a right hook on Libo’s jaw. The Claudian’s head snapped left, a gloop of blood and a few teeth flew from his mouth, and he pitched onto his back.
Pavo, seeing all this in a blur as he drew close, knew well that the tribal warriors enjoyed brawling. He knew too that Libo liked a good dust-up – indeed the day he had first encountered the man in a Dacian tavern was during a scuffle in which Libo had bitten off his opponent’s testicles. But when he saw the giant kneel beside Libo with a murderous look and pull out a dagger, he felt a fiery fright rush through him.
He had no weapons or armour, bar the pair of greaves he was carrying, yet he surged towards the scene as fast as his hard-won leg muscles would carry him. Yet he could not keep up with the Claudians, who surged ahead. Sura thundered in and booted the giant Goth in the chest, sending him toppling off the downed Libo. The ring of onlookers were startled for a moment, then they snarled and lunged towards Sura. That was when Pulcher came barrelling in, headbutting one Goth and bursting the man’s nose then hammering a fist into the face of a second. Darik swept in next, leaping, bringing a knee into the chin of another Goth, and Durio, Verax, Indus and Betto grappled with the others. With a series of snarls and curses, the two brawling parties threw each other off. The time for fists was over as, with glints of steel and a series of rasping sounds, Roman spathas and Gothic longswords were ripped from sheaths, the blades held level, the bearers ready to fight for real.
