Legionary, page 23
Of the seven present today, he could rule out two – Saturninus and Stilicho – for they had not been present at the Danubius incident. That left five: Promotus, Vespillo, Faustius, Arbogastes and Gregory. One of them had to be Peregrinus, surely?
Approaching the doors, Pavo appraised each of them. It seemed odd how Vespillo was standing alone fanning himself, while the others were in discussion. The eunuch’s eyes were alert, darting, taking everything in. Was the mind behind those eyes busy plotting? And what of Promotus: was he as much of an idiot as Pavo had presumed, or was that all an act? Bishop Gregory stood quietly in the corner, his face a picture of equanimity. Such power the man held, given Theodosius’ surging piety. Then there was General Arbogastes, the “Emperor’s Spear”; such a chequered past, this one had, yet these days he was earnest and fiercely protective of the emperor. And what of Faustius, the Goth who had helped conclude the Roman-Gothic peace? Had that been an elaborate means of wriggling his way into the Roman emperor’s inner circle – so he might then wreak havoc from within? The answer – and the culprit – was in this room. Surely?
When he and Frugilo stepped over the threshold, Saturninus looked up and coughed. ‘Ah, now that our guardsmen are here… finally…’
Pavo reddened.
‘… we may begin.’
Frugilo, reading his cue, deftly pulled the doors shut. ‘You stand by the window. I’ll keep guard here,’ he muttered to Pavo. As Pavo took his place in a shaft of streaming sunlight, the council members began to debate the approach for the invasion of the West.
In Theodosius’ absence, it fell to Saturninus to lead the session. He unfurled a large, yellowed papyrus map of the empire’s two halves, and pinned it at its corners with obsidian satyr weights. ‘This is the arena of war, and these,’ he paused as he laid out a few dozen small painted lead figurines of soldiers and horses, ‘are Maximus’ forces.’ He planted them carefully across the Diocese of Pannonia. ‘He is right now consolidating his conquests in this region.’
‘And these are our forces,’ he said, bringing out a second lot of figurines – soldiers, horses and galleys, and placing them near Constantinople. ‘The emperor has entrusted us to identify the smartest way to approach and engage Maximus. I invite each of you to propose your ideas. Then we will decide on the strongest.’
General Promotus – walking as he did on the balls of his feet to exaggerate his height – went first, picking up a cane. ‘The legions and cavalry should move west along the Via Militaris,’ he declared. Like a swordsman, he sliced the tip of the cane, shifting the infantry pieces at Constantinople along the famous highway. ‘The road is lined with waystations and good camping fields. Best of all, it leads right up to the land where Maximus lurks.’
‘Rather obvious, is it not?’ muttered Arbogastes.
Promotus shot him a look – a mix of anger and confusion.
Arbogastes picked up every single one of the pieces Promotus had only just manoeuvred into place and put them back where they had been.
‘How dare you?’ Promotus spluttered, aghast.
‘Your plan would bring us to the one good route through the Julian Alpes. Don’t you think he will expect this? Those mountains will be bristling with defences. It would be like walking into a corridor of knives. We need to approach more obliquely.’ Arbogastes now took up the naval pieces and put them down on the River Danubius, near the spot where Odotheus had been repelled, then gently guided them upstream with a hand like a child pushing toy boats. ‘We must instead take ship. The soldiers will stay fresh, and the river will allow us to bypass the worst of the Julian Alpes and make land a short and swift march from Maximus’ major bases in northern Italia and southern Gaul.’
Promotus scoffed with contrived laughter. ‘You don’t think he will have blocked the river too? Has that exceedingly bald head of yours seen too much sun?’ He looked around him, clutching his belly as if his own joke was the funniest ever told. ‘Emperor’s Spear? Emperor’s latrine stick, I’d say!’ he buckled over the table, enacting painfully contrived paroxysms of hilarity, knocking over some of the lead pieces in the process.
Arbogastes tried to right the pieces and Promotus tried to stop him. Within moments, the two were arguing over the figurines like children, he wagging his cane threateningly and Arbogastes jabbing accusing fingers in riposte.
Saturninus pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes like a man suffering a ferocious headache. ‘Perhaps… perhaps a third opinion can break this impasse?’ he turned to the trio who had not yet spoken.
Faustius, chin jutting and short hair combed in an impeccable Roman style, planted one hand on the map, the gold imperial bracelet on his wrist and the purple folds of his sleeve equally screaming of his loyalty to the Eastern throne.
Trying too hard? Pavo wondered.
‘The Via Militaris,’ Faustius said, carefully modulating his words to sound Roman as could be, ‘I am familiar with. So too are the warbands of my Haim. I could guarantee our safety all the way,’ he traced a finger along the highway to Pannonia, where East bordered West, then tapped there and shook his head, ‘up to here. After that, is another world. It doesn’t matter how we journey on after that, I say, only that we do so guided by someone who has marched against the West before.’ With a curt nod, he stepped back from the table. Many tense glances were exchanged.
Bishop Gregory shuffled forth. ‘I have ventured West before, to commune with Bishop Ambrosius at Mediolanum. However, as you can see from my attire, I have never held a sword let alone marched to war. My journey was in peace, without need to outmanoeuvre or worry about logistics.’ With that, he stepped back, washing his hands of the matter. Yet his eyes remained very much bright and alert, Pavo noticed, like a cat waiting in the long grass.
Now Vespillo took his turn. He began to drift around the table in that way of his – feet hidden by the trailing folds of his green garments. ‘I too am no military man,’ he said with a childlike innocence, ‘but I understand the dilemma: by river or by road? I am not the one to answer that. What I would stress is the importance of choosing a plan today, and confirming it. Hesitation could be the biggest mistake. How much more of Pannonia will Maximus chew away if we tarry here in talks?’
Pavo watched the eunuch carefully. Good, clean, well-meant words… on the surface. But was the eunuch desperate for a plan to be agreed so that Maximus might be thwarted… or informed?
Commander Stilicho was the last to speak. He ruffled the short curls of his beard, his face pinched in thought as he studied the map. ‘I must be honest. I have spent each of the last four summers locked in talks with the King of Kings. With so much time in Persia, matters here in the empire feel almost foreign to me. And as for Pannonia and the West? I know only the names of cities and provinces there. Reiks Faustius is correct: our route must be chosen by someone who has infiltrated that land before.’ He sighed and looked around the room. His eyes snagged on the gap between Vespillo and Arbogastes… where Pavo stood.
‘What say you?’
Pavo felt a surge of unease – not unlike that felt when one is undressed and hears an urgent knock at the door.
‘Him?’ General Promotus snorted. ‘He’s nothing but a glorified sentry and-’
‘Silence,’ Stilicho snapped. Promotus’ top lip wriggled in the way of a war dog angered. ‘Let Pavo speak. He was the Tribunus of the Claudia – the lone Eastern legion that marched west to join the fight against Gratian. He led them there, through all manner of hazards.’
‘And fought well when he arrived there, I must grudgingly admit,’ said Arbogastes with a grey look.
Saturninus nodded in agreement. ‘He is the only man in this room to have made that journey. His thoughts are vital.’
Pavo felt every pair of eyes upon him. Taking a deep breath, he stepped towards the map table, his stride feeling clumsy under scrutiny. When he halted at the table’s side all he could think about was how his mouth felt dry and how his palms were sweating. Fear of failure and of looking stupid danced in his belly. It reached up his throat and tried to pull his tongue and muddle his thoughts. Promotus, noticing his hesitation, began to smirk. Vespillo yawned and looked out of the window as if Pavo had been standing there silently for an hour instead of a few heartbeats. It felt for that long moment like he would have to mutely decline and step back to his guard post. This isn’t about me, Pavo said inwardly, this is about so much more. He thought of Izodora and Marcus. This is for them.
That one thought was all it took to banish his nerves. It was like sliding a saddle onto a wild horse and becoming its rider, its master.
‘May I have the cane,’ he said confidently, extending a hand towards Promotus.
Promotus, startled, uttered a few syllables of dissatisfaction, then grudgingly handed the cane over.
Pavo beheld the map table for a time. His eyes were constantly drawn to the lead pieces and the many famous cities. It was distracting, limiting, even. So instead, he closed his eyes and tried to visualise the situation, seeing the terrain of the empire as a great game board. It was a technique he had learned from Gallus – when he and the old Claudian Tribunus had played latrunculi in the taverns of Constantinople. See past the counters and their positions. Look instead at the space between, Gallus had said, shifting a few counters in a way that totally transformed the situation. The answer usually lies in the gaps.
And indeed it did. He saw the strategy they had to adopt so clearly that it almost spilled from his lips. He caught the words before they reached his tongue, remembering… that Peregrinus the Stranger was most likely right here in this room. Maximus’ ears, right here and listening.
He looked at the map again, his mind whirring. What to do?
If he were to expose this Peregrinus, it would not happen here and now. However, he mused, the truth might out… afterwards.
When he eventually looked up again, he made sure to meet the eyes of everyone around the table. ‘Any single approach will end in failure. Maximus has the defender’s advantage. He knows we have no option but to come for and confront him, and so he will be bolstering the main routes.’ He tapped the cane near the end of the Via Militaris and a nearby point on the Upper Danubius ‘Here, whether we come by road, or along the river by ship, we will be met with his fiercest troops, and here lies the greatest risk of defeat.’
‘Defeat,’ muttered Reiks Faustius. ‘He tells us how to ensure defeat.’
Pavo rolled his eyes round to the Goth. And what about you? he mused inwardly. ‘As I am sure you know, Reiks, to find a path to victory, one must first identify and avoid all possible ways of failure.’
General Arbogastes smiled thinly and chapped the table. ‘Then be on with it.’
Pavo took a deep breath. This was the moment, he realised. ‘To defeat Maximus, we need not one, but two prongs of attack. We send the first right at Maximus, in just the way he will be expecting.’ He used the cane to sweep a large number of the infantry and cavalry units northwest, up the Via Militaris to that dangerous gap through the Julian Alpes. ‘And another, along an oft-neglected route.’ He returned the tip of the cane to Constantinople, and this time moved a smaller set of infantry figurines almost due west, along the much older Via Egnatia, passing south of the Julian Alpes then veering sharply north, up the coast road of the Via Flavia, arriving further west than the first prong.
‘If the main expedition engages Maximus’ forces here at the alpine gap, then the secondary force can pour up the coast road and round upon his defenders’ backs. Anvil,’ he held a palm open, then punched the other fist into it, ‘and hammer.’
All shared looks. A silence passed. No protest.
‘Emperor Theodosius is due back here imminently,’ Pavo continued. ‘If he is – as we would expect – to lead the main expedition, then perhaps Valentinian could lead this second strike.’
Saturninus smiled gently, appraising the suggestion. ‘Excellent. The Egyptian legions are being shipped here and will arrive soon. Perhaps they could be put under Valentinian’s command?’
‘Perhaps,’ Stilicho mused, smoothing one lock of his beard. ‘Though we have not yet addressed the greatest problem: Maximus still outnumbers us massively. He has under his command enough men to overwhelm both halves of our forces, be they deployed as pincers or otherwise.’
‘Quite,’ agreed Saturninus. ‘We’ll need rafts of new first-class cavalry and heavy infantry, and to support this we’ll need new supply stations set up along the military road – the existing waystations alone will not be enough.’
‘The waystation preparation can be done,’ mused Stilicho. ‘But it would take at least a year to raise the troops we would need to swell the armies to match those of Maximus.’
‘Or it might take just one word,’ offered Reiks Faustius, his eyes drifting across the map, to the land above Constantinople. ‘We could despatch riders to the north of Thracia, raise the Gothic Haims – mine and the other five.’
All fell quiet at the idea.
Pavo could not help but think of what had gone on at the Danubius. The legions’ unwarranted attack on Odotheus’ Goths, the screaming, burning and death… and the brink to which the two Haims present had been pushed by the sight of such butchery. He appraised Faustius differently. Was there, behind that genial face, a plotting mind? Had he hatched the disaster at the river in an attempt to stir his people? Was this another plot? Is it you? he thought.
Saturninus broke the tense silence. ‘Raising the Goths or not will be the emperor’s choice. His fleet is due to set sail from Thessalonica imminently. Once it does, the voyage here will take him perhaps seven days. When he arrives, I will ask him to decide on the matter urgently. But as for the campaign route… the emperor granted me the authority to finalise our strategy. And that,’ he said, smiling gently in Pavo’s direction, ‘I would say, is now done. It goes without saying, of course, that this information is strictly confidential. It is to be shared with nobody but the emperor.’
‘The emperor,’ the council droned in unison, then began to disperse.
Pavo stepped over beside Frugilo, holding one of the twin doors open for the members to leave.
‘Planning the whole bloody campaign, eh?’ Frugilo muttered under his breath after the last of them had drifted from earshot. ‘You were supposed to just stand mute and hold a bloody spear!’
Chapter 17
May 388 AD
Constantinople
Pavo and Frugilo bumped shoulders and turned and twisted to make headway through the babbling throngs outside the palace region. Here, the tight streets and lanes were hot as a cauldron, seething with sweating faces.
Frugilo cocked his ear towards Pavo’s suggestion: ‘A tavern, you say?’ his eyebrows leapt up, and he rubbed his hands together. ‘Now you’re talking!'
‘Somewhere near here,’ Pavo said, shouting to be heard over the noise. A chicken burst from its coop and madly flapped up over the heads of the crowds, Pavo ducking as its wings brushed his face. The creature’s liberation and brief burst of flight were rudely ended when the stallholder grabbed the thing by its scrawny feet, brought it down upon a board and chopped off its head. A spray of chicken blood stained the air and the bird was rapidly plucked, gutted and spitted. ‘Maybe not too near here,’ Pavo mused. He looked around. ‘So long as it has a good view.’
‘I know just the place,’ Frugilo said, beckoning Pavo up the gentle slope of the city’s second hill, overlooking the Forum of Constantine. ‘Here,’ he said, veering into a decrepit-looking establishment. Pavo slowed on the threshold, appraising the place: the cool shade of the awning around the tavern edges looked glorious… but the place stank of vomit. More, a man with no teeth sat in the corner arguing with his own shadow. However, he reasoned – casting a look over his shoulder and back down the hill – the place gave a perfect outlook over the palace district on the adjacent first hill. Even better, he could see the gates to the palace region clearly.
They sat on a bench at a long, battered old table, the surface etched in every spot with raging penises or comically large breasts, along with slogans such as “Murcus three-balls was here”, and “Murcus & Fronto’s Mum forever.” Pavo had grown up in the seventh hill slums, and that run-down ward had made him. For that reason, he prided himself in never looking down on anyone or anything. But this place…
He wondered why Frugilo had chosen this particular establishment, and he quickly found out. The grim-faced man waved to the barmaid. ‘Two follis rings over here, please.’
Soon she came over with two cups and a small copper bucket of what Pavo could only describe as alcoholic swill – that smelt of vomit.
Frugilo scooped the two cups through the stuff, planted one before Pavo and took one great untasting gulp from the other. ‘Aah, lovely,’ he smacked his lips together, teeth stained dark red with the stuff. ‘That’s the best thing about a follis ring. Only one follis per cup. Can’t beat that,’ he said, smiling at Pavo when the barmaid held out a palm for payment.
Pavo took a moment to understand. ‘Ah, yes of course… my treat,’ he said, fishing in his purse and producing two bronze follis coins for the maid.
‘Good lad,’ Frugilo rumbled, then returned to gulping from his cup. ‘Lovely, lovely.’
Pavo swirled his cup, the surface oily and the smell growing ghastlier. ‘Hmm, yes… lovely.’ Thirst got the better of him, however, and he took a nearby water jug and mixed one part slops to three parts water. Fortunately, the water was cold enough to mask the taste. ‘Why do they call it a “follis ring” anyway? How do they make it?’
Frugilo waved a dismissive hand. ‘Ah, it’s an old technique, very complex.’
