Legionary, page 12
Pavo saw disaster right here before them, saw the hard-earned peace teetering on the brink of destruction right here and right now. All it would take was one death, and a whole new Gothic War might be kindled. ‘Halt!’ he cried. To his amazement, all did. Frozen like ice statues.
Then he realised that another voice had called out at the same time. All were looking to this one: a man, pacing confidently towards the scene – an officer. But no ordinary officer. Clad in Roman armour, a pale blue cloak and a golden torc awarded to him for his services to the empire, but crowned with a lime-spiked topknot of golden hair, he was the peace deal incarnate. A Goth who had embraced Roman life and was roaring his way up the ladder of power. A dark crow, perching on the man’s shoulder, cawed.
‘Eriulf?’ Pavo whispered. Another chapter of his past had just walked into his life again. How many years had it been since Pavo and the Claudians had led Eriulf and his Gothic tribe through the threat of the Huns and into the safety of the empire? And here he was now, Tribunus of the Thervingi – one of the most esteemed palace legions.
Pavo? Eriulf mouthed. The man blinked away the distraction and roared to the others: ‘Sheathe your blades.’
The Gothic tribesmen fumbled and shook like nervous hounds as they did so. The Claudians complied likewise.
‘Have you lost your minds?’ Eriulf raged at both parties. His crow cawed again. ‘Did you both not march here for the same reason?’
‘We did, but then they drew steel on our primus pilus,’ Pulcher complained as he and Darik dragged the unconscious Libo back from the no-man’s land slush path.
‘He came to our part of the camp looking to trade bread for beer,’ countered the giant Goth said. ‘He gave me stale bread.’
‘It is all we have,’ Centurion Betto reasoned. ‘The ovens will not light in this gale and so we cannot cook fresh loaves until it calms.’
‘It was a misunderstanding,’ said Sura, his voice like a lintel being dragged across a paved road. ‘And it won’t happen again,’ he finished, casting a gimlet stare at the giant who had drawn the first blade on the downed Libo.
The giant gave a sneer and a reluctant: ‘Aye, it is done.’
‘Good. Now back to your tents,’ Eriulf demanded. Again, both the Goths and the Claudians did so, Sura giving Pavo a furtive nod before he led his men back to their encampment. It was a measure of the esteem in which Eriulf was held by both parties. As Tribunus of the Thervingi legion, he was one of the empire’s top commanders. His past as a Gothic Reiks meant the Goths revered him too.
With the quarrelling parties gone, Pavo found himself opposite Eriulf on the slush track. Eriulf’s fox-like and handsome face changed then – from broiling anger to relief, then gladness as he eyed Pavo up and down. He smiled in a way that made him look boyish, his short blonde beard splaying out and his bright teeth shining. ‘Brother,’ he said, the whisper carried to Pavo’s ears on the blizzard.
The two stepped towards one another, Eriulf setting his crow to flight, then – as if it had not been years since last they had met – each planted his hands on the shoulders of the other, and they gently rested their foreheads together.
‘Brother,’ Pavo repeated. The affectionate term was, alas, seldom used between Roman and Goth. He stared into Eriulf’s eyes, and could still see the sadness in there. Indeed it was a sadness within him too. Years prior to wedding Izodora, he had loved another: Runa, Eriulf’s sister. In their short time together, Pavo had even allowed himself to imagine a future with her. A future that had all been ripped away in one bloody moment. Runa had been slain during her attempt to assassinate Emperor Theodosius. It had later come to light that she had been the leader of that shadowy Gothic sect, the Vesi.
Parting, they looked around them, seeing spots of Libo’s blood staining the slush.
‘Your timing was impeccable,’ said Pavo. ‘Tell me, honestly, is this the first instance?’
Eriulf sighed. ‘There has been squabbling more than anything else. About rations, about petty things like who gets the best camping ground. There was one mass punch-up on the first night here: a group of Faustius’ lot heard Orthodox prayer coming from the compound of the X Gemina legion. They, preferring the Arian doctrine, and being cold and grumpy, decided to wade in and kick up chaos. Tonight is the first time I’ve seen blades drawn, however.’
‘Are there any ringleaders?’
Eriulf frowned. ‘No, but all of them are capable of starting something. Do you have any suspicions?’
Pavo knew he had to say these next words. ‘My friend, I fear that… that the Vesi are still active.’
Eriulf’s lips twitched in amusement, as if Pavo had just declared that he was half-fish.
‘During the summer, the breakaway warband from Odotheus’ lot struck near my farm. They were defeated… but their leader wore a marking on his neck. The red serpent.’
‘Hmm, the ways of the northern ones have diverged significantly from the ways of us settled peoples. I would not read too much into it,’ Eriulf mused. He looked up into the floating snow and whistled. His crow spiralled back down and landed on his shoulder.
Pavo shook his head slowly. ‘Were it only that alone. Unfortunately, I fear the cult lives on amongst the Goths of the Haims also.’
Eriulf cocked his head to one side.
‘Before I left the legions, before I faced Gratian, we were up in these parts. It was the early days of the Haims then, and things were still settling into place. We witnessed some dark goings-on,’ he looked to his side, towards the tents of Reiks Garamond, where the humbled giant and his comrades were consoling themselves with cups of beer. ‘It was at the river fort of Oescus.’
‘Garamond’s settlement?’ Eriulf said. ‘You think there are Vesi amongst his followers?’
‘They whispered of such… and of a Vesi Master.’
Eriulf seemed frozen with bemusement, then he laughed again. ‘You have been gone from things for too long. My kin are settled and happy with the peace. The Vesi cult died out years ago. Most of the old Reiks have been replaced by their heirs or have – like me – moved into the Roman command structure. The real troublemakers are gone.’
‘I hope so, I truly do,’ Pavo said. He then gazed northwards and into the whiteout screening the river. ‘Tell me, this Odotheus: is he trustworthy?’
Eriulf stared out there with him. ‘Back in the days before we came to peace with the empire, we had an old saying about trust: if you have to ask another, you already know the answer.’
As Eriulf paced back to the Thervingi legion’s encampment, he was still smiling fondly after his meeting with Pavo. He acknowledged salutes from his legionaries standing guard, their pale blue shields emblazoned with a haunting, staring face flanked by two golden wolves. The sentries were fair haired like Eriulf, and one still sported the faded old stigmas of the tribe.
‘Sir,’ Bagulf, the legion’s praepositus saluted then fell in beside him as he crossed the camp, the man’s knotted chin beard swinging as he went. ‘Rations have been distributed, the watch rota has been updated,’ he muttered as he scanned a wax tablet and marked a little notch beside each of the nightly checks.
Men sitting in their tent-groups of eight raised cups, called out and saluted as the pair made their way towards the centre of the Thervingi pitch. When the two reached a stretch with nobody in earshot, Bagulf’s tone changed, his learned Roman accent fading, and the old, jagged tribal inflection rising like an adder from the grass.
‘The men grow impatient, Master.’
Eriulf’s ears pricked up, and his smile faded. Not “Sir”, but “Master”.
Master…
It had been Emperor Theodosius’ idea to raise this palace legion from the settled Goths. The Thervingi were garrisoned in the palace of Constantinople no less, and regularly stood guard at the emperor’s court room in the Great Chalke Hall. It was Theodosius’ way of gently trying to integrate the starkly-different worlds of the Haims and the imperial cities. For the secret core of the legion, it had meant something entirely different – bringing them a huge step closer to their cause.
Blood and honour to the Vesi. Death to the Romans…
That was the mantra by which the Vesi lived. And Eriulf was their leader – the master of which Pavo had heard the Goths at Oescus speaking. Theodosius had invited a serpent into his court.
‘This is the first time we have been out in the field with the emperor,’ Bagulf went on. ‘More, there are two Haims armies here also.’
Eriulf nodded discreetly. In each Haim there were powerful individuals and segments of the population loyal to the Vesi sect. Dormant, waiting…
‘All of the men present are ready, Master. All you need do is give the word… and the red serpent will rise…’
Eriulf halted. The chafing winds and stinging snow danced around him. His lips parted, and then he shook his head. ‘This is not the moment, Bagulf.’
The praepositus’ nose wrinkled. ‘Are you sure, Master? Some of the men talk of independent action, of-’
‘I will strike the head from any man who acts without my permission,’ Eriulf hissed. ‘To rise now would be to destroy the scaffolds of power and influence we have worked so hard to build.’
‘But Master-’
‘Do you understand?’ Eriulf seethed.
Bagulf shrank. ‘Of course. I will stress your orders to the men.’
Eriulf nodded hastily, then swung away from the man, striding for his tent.
To slay the Emperor of the Romans and to bring their empire crashing down had been his sister Runa’s reason for living – and for dying. He had sworn to her spirit that he would carry that flame on in her name.
Yet the burden was tearing him apart.
Death to the Romans? Pavo was a Roman. So too were many with whom he had naturally become close and true friends. By all accounts there were days when he found himself speaking the Roman tongue by default, and found his mind wandering towards Roman delicacies and pastimes. And what made a man a Roman? Almost none of those whom he called by that term had actually been born in Rome. The Claudia legion were a perfect example of that: islanders, northerners, Illyrians… and Darik, that big, handsome Persian. A mongrel legion of outcasts and misfits. But what a spirit they shared! He almost began to smile again when he recalled the days when the Claudians had lived with his tribe in the north for a time, before leading them safely into the empire. There was no Roman or Goth in those days, just people trying to survive. They had feasted, drank, danced, cajoled and encouraged one another. Race and origin meant nothing then. So why should it be different now?
You forget, Brother, whispered the spirit of his sister, Runa, in his mind. You forget the things done to our people in the name of Rome.
He whipped back the flap of his tent and stomped inside, casting down his swordbelt and unclipping his pale blue cloak, letting the damp garment crumple to the ground. He placed his crow in a cage – one of dozens stacked together, each housing a differently-coloured bird.
He slumped onto a stool and began rubbing at his temples, eyes shut tight. ‘Sister, things are not the way they were. The Romans have made good on their promises. Hundreds of thousands of us are settled and safe in the six Haims. We have been given good arable soil to cultivate.’
Think of the days before we crossed the river, before we sold our honour and became sheep, settled on Roman lands. Do you not see what you have become? They tell us we cannot have a king, that we must be grateful for these six patches of dirt in the north of one diocese, that we must bow and scrape to their emperor. That we must rush to his defence when he rings his little bell.
‘Is that not better than the days of old? The years of terror when the Huns came? That morning when we had to bury our young nephews who had been brutalised by them?’
You swore over my corpse that you would carry the red serpent banner after me, and raise it in my name. You swore!
‘When the time is right,’ Eriulf snapped. ‘You died because of your haste! As it is we have not the numbers to overpower the Romans – the war was proof of that. We spent nearly seven years hacking each other to pieces with no victor. That is why, for now, we must endure this peace.’
Ah, patience, is it? Runa laughed. Your favourite dogma. Or is it… sympathy? Are you softened to the Roman way? Have you chosen to delay interminably… because you have no intention of raising the Vesi banner?
Eriulf could not answer. He snatched a drinking skin hanging from the tentpole and plucked the stopper free, then upended it and drank half of the wine within in one long, untasting draught.
The crows cawed madly behind him.
In the lee of a few snow-heavy pines, Odotheus sat in the warm glow of a fire, upon which goat kids roasted on spits and around which barley beer was passed. There was an air of joviality – though most of that was due to the strength of the beer. All it took was one look beyond this bubble of warmth to see the countless sorry tents of his people, shaded in the darkness of night, crested with snow.
Nearby, young chieftains and champions gossiped. He heard their ideas: that he should throw off caution and force the emperor’s hand. A young man with a wild beard and a flat nose let loose a tribal howl then, conjuring a chorus from his fellow warriors. The agitators near the edge of the river who had climbed trees to chant old songs in the direction of the Roman camp heard this and rose to new crescendos.
Odotheus laughed to himself. Let the youth shout and prance. He will learn the hard way, as I did, that the path to wisdom does not begin with aggression.
He had the means to match the Romans, that was for sure. More spears and bows than they could muster. More, he reckoned that many of the allied Goths over in the Roman camp could at any moment elect to side with him. So many things stacked in his favour, apart from the damned river. Yes, the boats were complete, but they were rudimentary. The Danubius’ cold, dark and broad currents could not be crossed in anger. Only with welcoming arms at the southern side could they hope to set foot on Roman soil.
He reached down into a leather sack and lifted out the wooden tablet case. Opening it, he gazed at the markings. He was well-educated, and knew the Roman script. An invite to bring his people to the river. And a promise, a promise that they would be admitted across and into the empire. Indeed, the wax was marked with the emperor’s seal.
After nearly ten years of hiding in the northern hills, cut off from the world by the roving Huns, the message had been like a gift from the Gods. Odotheus glanced across the fire at Timo, the young hunter with the braided moustache. Timo had gained a reputation for roving far and wide, becoming adept at avoiding the Huns in the north and travelling to distant hunting grounds. Then last winter he had crossed the river, alone, and brought back the tablet. Odotheus had awarded Timo a torc of pure silver. ‘You will never bring home a finer catch,’ he had told the hunter that day, ‘for with this, you might just have guaranteed safety and plenty for us and our descendants.’
Branches snapped near the fire. Odotheus looked up, seeing a small party approaching. Two of his visor-helmed royal guardsmen, a few chosen archers too. With them walked a hooded man...
He sat up straight, suddenly attentive.
The man was guided to Odotheus’ spot at the fire, and he dropped to one knee in deference.
‘He crossed the river on a small Roman skiff, my lord,’ said one of the archers.
Odotheus stared at the shadows within the hood.
‘You?’ said Timo, rising from the opposite side of the fire, agog.
Odotheus glanced at the young hunter then the kneeling stranger, confused. ‘You know this man?’
‘It is Peregrinus,’ Timo said, pointing at the small bronze lion’s fang swinging from the man’s necklace.
Odotheus’ mind whirled. He held out the wax tablet case. ‘You… you carried this from your emperor and gave it to Timo?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then why… why does Theodosius tarry and deliberate? We came here as he asked us to. Why does he not invite us to cross?’
Peregrinus’ hood creased a little as he bowed a fraction more. ‘That is why he sends me tonight, Lord Odotheus. Theodosius, Emperor of the Romans, extends both his apologies to you for his deliberations. He meant merely to demonstrate to his troops his control over the situation by making you wait. That wait is over, for now he sends you his summons. He throws his arms open wide to you. Come, come to your boats.’
Chapter 8
November 386 AD
The River Danubius
Pavo, dog-tired, finally made his way towards the guest tent, near the emperor’s pavilion. The thing was now firmly pegged down and a welcoming glow of brazier light shone from within. His head began to swim once again with thoughts of the warm, dry soft bedding in there. Plenty of space – not like a legionary contubernium tent, cramped and rife with the stench of mixed farts. Best of all – for the first time in over a month, he wouldn’t have to suffer the evil stench of a certain drillmaster’s feet.
A shadow lunged from between two tents, towards Pavo.
‘Mithras!’ Pavo uttered, staggering away, before recognising who it was: Frugilo. ‘You startled me.’ He looked along the dark row between the tents from which he had emerged. ‘What are you doing?’
He tapped his nose. ‘A Protector is much more than a mere sentry. His job is also to roam, to observe, to listen.’ His expression changed then when he saw the greaves Pavo carried. ‘Ah, so now you know that you will be joining us. A twelfth Emperor’s Shield?’
‘You knew all along, I presume?’
Frugilo winked and flashed a cage of teeth. ‘I was asked to get you in shape, and now it’s down to me to show you the ropes – before our commander, Stilicho, returns from his Persian talks. The role is not like anything you will have experienced before. You have much to learn.’
