Legionary, page 20
Part III
Chapter 13
January 388 AD
Thessalonica
The turquoise waters of the Mare Aegaeum sparkled in the low winter sun. A flotilla of seven imperial galleys sliced south, leaving trails of white in their wake. A lone figure stood near the prow of Emperor Theodosius’ purple-sailed trireme, head bowed.
Pavo traced the well-worn rail, the cold sea wind gently buffeting his hair – now grown in to a mid-length, dark crop, flashed with silver at the hairline. His mind churned like a thundercloud. The look in Izodora’s eyes when she had seen him return from that gathering, still carrying the white greaves – it had almost killed him. You promised me it was over…
Yet his duty – Emperor Theodosius had explained – was not over… it had simply changed. Yes, the threat to the East from the Goths had been calmed. However, something far darker had arisen in place of those troubles.
He chapped the rail, still unable to believe what he had now heard. ‘Not until I’ve seen it with my own eyes.’
It had all erupted in the last few days. Panicked communications. Hurried preparations. This fleet had been pulled together at haste during the night. Pavo had been summoned in the last hours of darkness onto the boats. And now they had arrived at their destination…
‘Drop sail!’ a crewman bawled from the spar. With a mighty roar, the purple sail toppled, and like a centipede waking, many oars stretched out and began lapping at the waters, guiding the ship towards shore.
Pavo cast his eyes over the hinterland: a huge bay city that hugged the coast like an amphitheatre. This was Thessalonica – the second metropolis of the East. The triumphal arch, the domed rotunda, and the white-marble odeum towered above all else, shining in the winter brightness. There was a palace ward festooned with orchards, a grand racing circus and an aqueduct, picking its way across the packed wards of the city carrying on its back water from the wooded slopes of nearby Mount Cissus.
The seven ships glided into the harbour area. The waters here were like glass, and schools of tiny silver mackerel darted to and fro beneath and around the vessels anchored along the wharfside. As the imperial flotilla bumped up to its mooring, Pavo cast his eyes around the dock area. He noticed one ship amongst the others already tethered there: a weary-looking vessel with a faded purple sail, furled untidily, a golden draco embroidered upon it.
It can’t be, he told himself.
Bishop Gregory – Theodosius’ chief advisor on this visit – shuffled down the gangplank first. The rest of the emperor’s sacred council were tied up elsewhere: Reiks Faustius was still trying to smooth things over out in the northern Haims; General Promotus remained in exile; and Saturninus the statesman had been left in charge at Constantinople with General Arbogastes and Commander Stilicho to aid him, and Frugilo to guard him. The only one absent without a reasonable excuse was that unpleasant fellow, Vespillo the eunuch, who had somehow wriggled out of this visit – claiming he had some private family business in the capital that needed his attentions.
‘When the emperor moves, you move with him,’ said a voice – dripping with disrespect. It was Lucius, that soft-skinned Protector in the white breastplate, whom Pavo had first encountered at the Danubius camp. He was pointing towards Theodosius, now edging down the gangplank, and the small train of chosen Protectores screening him. ‘That is the duty of an Emperor’s Shield, after all. That is why Commander Stilicho selected me and these fellow Protectores to escort the emperor here. For some reason he also chose you. A crippled failure.’
Pavo pushed away from the ship’s rail. He didn’t bother challenging the man. Lucius had been almost steaming with jealousy when the emperor had personally commended Pavo’s part in the battle of the ships at the Danubius. His problem, not mine, he mused.
It all made him realise that he was actually missing Frugilo – even his malodorous feet, his incredible parsimony, and his constant sarcasm. Yes, he was growing fond of the odd man, though he’d swallow glowing coals rather than tell him so.
He thought of the man’s grim, corpse face, chewing noisily on a raw onion, and actually found himself smiling. And there it was again, that fleeting, passing flash of recognition. It was as if somewhere before, in the long-gone years of earlier life, he and the man had already met. It made him think of something Stilicho had said. Maybe some of the others know him better than I do. A few of them have been in our unit for many years.
He caught up with Lucius, and the pair walked behind the emperor, ‘You’d have preferred it if Frugilo was here instead of me?’
‘Hmm? I can’t say I care for him more than I do for you. At least he’s a worthy Protector though.’
‘What did he do to earn his white baldric?’
‘What?’ Lucius snapped, scowling. ‘I can’t remember. Something to do with bringing the emperor a vital message from the West.’
‘He was a spy in the West?’
Lucius swatted at a fly on his neck and sighed in irritation. ‘No, he came from the West. Four years back. Now shut up and keep your eyes open for trouble.’
Pavo turned this over in his mind. Yes, there had been something, well-disguised, in Frugilo’s voice – an accent. The hard edge of a Latin tongue speaking Greek.
Crowds thronged the way, hemmed to the street’s sides by the city garrison. From the rooftops, trumpet players blasted a triumphant tune in time with the emperors’ step, and women on the balconies tossed down petals before him. Yet there was a strain in the air, a look of worry on most faces. A look that reminded Pavo of the supposed reason for this hasty visit.
He felt the tension in him grow and grow with every step. It can’t be… it simply can’t be.
They ascended the sloping streets to come to the palace region – a network of halls and shrines interlinked by a maze of gardens and gurgling fountains. They arrived at a terrace of brilliant white Parian marble, with a long, blue pool running along its centre. Sculpted fish were fixed at the pool’s corners, spouting fresh water from their mouths, and schools of real, gold and amber fish darted amongst the polished rocks and weeds growing within. A table was set up near the pool.
Pavo blinked a few times, recognising the two seated figures there. A slightly-stooped, grey-haired woman in a fine white stola and a luxurious silver fur, and a tall, broad young man wearing an ivory circlet and a brown leather cuirass decorated with a golden gorgon head.
Justina and her son, Valentinian, Caesar of the West.
The last time he had met them she had been smooth and dark, he a mere boy. Had it been that long?
Yes, a voice answered within him. He hadn’t been in their presence since the moments after the Battle of Remorum Vale in the heart of Gaul, when both Valentinian and Pavo had been caked in gore, exhausted, eyes wet with tears of victory, the West liberated from Gratian’s tyrannical grip.
Their presence here meant all of that had been undone.
Yet still he refused to believe it.
There had to be another explanation.
With the royal pair were just a handful of advisors in senatorial robes and a quartet of older palace guards in tarnished armour, weary from a speedy eastwards voyage. One held Valentinian’s purple draco standard. It too was tatty and dull, just like the sail of the ship in the harbour bearing that same emblem.
He watched as the pair rose then dipped in respect before Theodosius. Justina spotted Pavo then, and greeted him with a look. He discreetly nodded in reply, seeing in her eyes great distress – a burning need to speak. Yet she was long schooled in the ways of imperial politics and knew to bide her time. Valentinian too shuffled in a way that made it look like he was holding his breath. His dark eyes were intense, shaded under his brown curls of hair. His lips began to twitch with anger.
‘Young Caesar,’ Theodosius quarter-bowed to Valentinian, then took and kissed Justina’s hand. ‘Lady Justina, it is a delight to have your company once again, … and a deep regret over the circumstances under which it has come about.’
‘He used my ambassadorial approach to his advantage,’ Valentinian interrupted, the captive breath loose at last. ‘Maximus took my offer of peace and shaped it into a knife.’
Pavo’s eyes slid shut, his hopes that he had been wrong evaporating. His worst fears, he realised, were now real.
Valentinian spread his hands as if trying to impart the size of his troubles. ‘He… he-’
Justina planted a hand over her son’s chest, calming him. ‘The emperor knows of his injustices,’ she said. ‘And he will do what is required to make things right. That is why we are here,’ she turned and gave Theodosius a coquettish look that made her advancing years drop away, ‘and that is why you are here… isn’t it?’
Theodosius took a moment before responding: ‘From what I have heard, and from the manner in which you have had to flee to my lands like this, there can be no doubt that Maximus has broken the oath he made to me: an oath of non-aggression towards you,’ he smiled bitterly. ‘How did it begin?’
‘Quintinus and Nannenius,’ said Valentinian. ‘They were murdered – ground to paste in the jaws of a lupus.’
Bishop Gregory groaned at this, clearly recognising the names and understanding the weight of this development. But the other guards and advisors in Theodosius’ retinue shared looks, confused. ‘They… they were agents of the Western Caesar,’ Theodosius explained calmly to these ones, then looked back to Valentinian. ‘I had restricted knowledge of their true loyalties to those within my sacred council.’ He gestured towards the bishop.
Valentinian slumped a little in apology. ‘Forgive me for my loose words.’
‘Sadly, it doesn’t matter now,’ sighed Theodosius. ‘Go on.’
Valentinian straightened up. ‘Next, Maximus slew Bauto, my great general and one of my only friends. He tricked his way into the mountains and through the new Alpine walls that we were building – defences that should have remained in place for one thousand years to the empire’s benefit. He flooded into Italia with his armies. All the major cities – Ravenna, Mediolanum, Rome itself – are now his. He had my mother’s Gothic guard regiment executed. He has seized the fleets too. Thus, the armies – too afraid of the consequences of resisting his superior numbers, and thinking me dead – turned to him. Worse, he has already sent legions to Africa to make that land his own.’
‘Africa?’ Bishop Gregory croaked. ‘The bread-basket of the empire entire?’ A few others muttered in shock too.
Pavo listened, feeling waves of a marrow-deep chill pass through him. Yet part of him still could not accept these revelations. Maximus had started a civil war in the West?
The man he had helped raise to power?
You created this, Pavo…
He tightened his grip on his spear, his knuckles turning white.
A painfully tense silence reigned over the group for a time. Theodosius stared into space for an age, before speaking at last. ‘Grim news. Grim indeed. There is much discussion to be had. But let us not converse on empty stomachs.’ He took his place at the table, gesturing for his advisors to do the same, then clapped his hands.
Food was brought out: rich-smelling game and pots of spiced vegetables. Golden, glistening honey cakes and fresh flatbreads that made the mouth water. Pavo, like the other Protectores, took his place standing guard at the edges of the dining area. Closer to the Eastern dignitaries, he could not help but overhear the muted and private discussions between Theodosius and his advisors.
‘The answer lies before you, Domine,’ muttered Bishop Gregory. ‘You have here a boy and an old woman, begging for your help against a seasoned general who has smartly and soundly won the Western crown, and who has tens of thousands of legionaries backing him. More, although he has seized Africa – are the grain ships from those parts not still arriving in our ports?’
A grey-faced advisor agreed: ‘Maximus is undeniably stronger. More, he was born in Hispania, like you. Best of all, he is stoutly Orthodox. Would it not be wiser to agree terms? With you and him as the twin eagles of East and West, we could rid the empire of the Arian and pagan heretics,’ his voice fell to a whisper, ‘including the Goths.’
Pavo’s top lip wrinkled in disgust. Have you learned nothing, you fool? No, of course, for you were not there during the war. You do not understand how precious our peace with the Goths is.
Gregory leaned closer, so only Theodosius would hear, but Pavo could read his lips. ‘Endorse Maximus as the Emperor of the West. As for the mother and boy here…’ he flicked his eyes towards the scabbard of Lucius, the nearest Protector, ‘… just give the word.’
Pavo’s stomach turned. He knew – after so many years being twisted through the cogs of empire – that a single word was all it would take. Worse, Theodosius did not even flinch at the suggestion. He simply chewed on a grape and gently blinked to indicate he had understood and was considering the proposal. He seemed to be considering it for a very long time. His eyes slid up to regard Justina and Valentinian more than once. Both were busy eating and talking with their own small band of advisors, unaware of what was being proposed.
Heart thumping, Pavo knew he had to intervene. But – as he now understood – it was not the place of a Protector to speak at these conferences. An interruption then, perhaps? He let his spear slide from his grip. It clattered on the ground, startling all. Bishop Gregory tutted and others scoffed. Lucius the Protector too sneered at this “indiscretion”. The distraction had – mercifully – broken the dark train of thought that Theodosius had seemed to be considering. He clapped his hands for the plates to be taken away. ‘Now, let us talk. What Western assets remain in your control?’
‘As I said, the fleets are gone, the armies too,’ Valentinian answered. ‘The senatorial families were quick to side with Maximus also once they heard of his march into Italia. Even that weasel, Bishop Ambrosius, who caused us so much religious trouble, threw himself at Maximus’ feet as if the Dark Eagle had rescued him from a dungeon.’
‘All that means little,’ Justina said. ‘Those Western commanders and aristocrats would be just as swift to change their loyalties were they to see my son return. They have been turned once. The sight of my son and your armies will turn them again.’
Pavo’s head began to swim. Your armies? The legions of the East marching to fight those of the West? His hand began to tremble and his eye twitched. No…
Justina traced a finger along her collarbone as she added: ‘Just as I will gladly… turn, for you.’
The innuendo raised a few eyebrows. She was clearly aware of Theodosius’ weakness for her.
‘Do not listen to her seductions, Majesty,’ Gregory muttered in the emperor’s ear. ‘She is old and barren. What use would she be in giving you more heirs?’
After letting the alternative meaning dance in Theodosius’ mind for a time, Justina explained in full: ‘Back us with your military might. Renounce Maximus, and we will turn away from the Arian gospel… and convert to Orthodoxy.’
A few gasps sounded around the table, and Bishop Gregory’s mouth fell open rather stupidly in shock. Even those in the Western delegation seemed taken aback. This was clearly a measure she had kept to herself until now. It was quite something, Pavo thought, in this age where men were more willing to die for their faith than even consider changing it. It perfectly neutralised the plots that Bishop Gregory had whispered in Theodosius’ ear.
‘Support us – for am I not the widow of the last strong Western Emperor, Valentinian the Great? Is my son not his son and rightful heir?’ she continued. ‘And ask yourself: can you truly tolerate a tyrant in charge of Italia – the strategic heartland of the West, the key to control of the western waters and the granaries of Africa?’
‘Back us, my lord,’ added Valentinian, ‘because you know it is the right thing to do. Just as it was right that you demanded Maximus should pledge never to encroach on my part of the Western Empire. Maximus gave you that pledge, then spat upon it. Can you ever trust a man who has betrayed you so?’
Theodosius seemed to be falling under a new spell – a nobler one than that conjured by Gregory. Justina could see this too, and so she called behind her. ‘Galla, come forth.’
Pavo frowned, glancing over at the empty steps there, leading down to a hedgerow maze on a lower terrace. A young lady emerged from the mouth of the labyrinth. She was almost nimbate, the sun glowing behind her. She wore diaphanous robes that betrayed the sleek curves of her body. As she walked up the broad steps onto the white terrace, the reflected light from the gentle ripples of the pool danced across her face – youthful, lean and beatific. She was the image of Justina, but touched by Juventas, the Goddess of Youth.
Many Eastern eyes around the table – beholding Justina’s daughter for the first time – grew wide as plates. Bishop Gregory averted his gaze and muttered a prayer. The grey-faced advisor by his side dabbed at his lips with a rag, realising a line of drool had escaped one corner of his mouth. For Theodosius, the spell was complete – his eyes were lost somewhere in the vision of Galla.
‘I offer you the hand of my daughter,’ Justina concluded. ‘She would bring you more issue of good stock. More, your marriage would tie the Eastern and Western thrones together – as they were always meant to be. Two thrones occupied by the selected and rightful occupants, not by greedy, ambitious generals looking for wealth and fame.’ She leaned forward. ‘And do you, Domine, not deserve the hand of a loving wife once more, after all you have been through?’
Theodosius’ lips parted and a gentle sound emerged. It might have been the beginnings of a reply, or a muted sob. A tear escaped the corner of one eye and rolled down his cheek.
‘All we ask is that you support us with your legions,’ Justina underlined once more.
‘Domine,’ let us think about this,’ Gregory hissed. ‘We should not be hasty in this matter.’
And Pavo, for all he knew Valentinian’s cause was just, could not help but agree with the bishop. Every time he blinked, he saw in the momentary blackness the Roman boy pierced on the end of his sword. Were the East and West to go to war, how many thousands of Romans might die like that?
