Legionary, page 25
‘No perhaps about it,’ Sura said as if he was giving an order. ‘And bring Frugilo. If only so we can marvel at his tightfistedness.’
‘Until then,’ Pavo smiled, patting Sura’s shoulder.
‘Until then, Brother.’
As Pavo trudged back through the Golden Gates, he met the eyes of the most senior of the guards, recognising the fellow.
‘You stand guard here most nights, yes?’
‘Every night for the last month,’ the man replied with a stoic smile.
‘And have you seen anything odd in that time?’
‘No, not really.’ He clicked his fingers. ‘Oh, there was that ruckus last night, when one soldier out there put his back out while trying to suck his own-’
Pavo held up a hand, nodding, needing to hear no more. ‘Just do something for me: take note and name of any messengers that pass through here, yes?’
‘But the guards at the camp gateways are logging those kind of things-’
‘Your name is Decius, yes?’ Pavo interrupted. ‘Do this, and I will be sure to mention your efforts to the emperor.’
The man seemed suddenly quite encouraged. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said, saluting.
Pavo entered the city again, his head swimming with theories as he made his way home.
It was only when darkness began to fall that he realised that he had failed entirely to fulfil his promise to return home after the council meeting and play with Marcus. He sighed as he walked up towards the villa, ridden with guilt. War had not even begun in earnest, and already it was making him a lesser man.
Peregrinus watched Pavo trudge back into the city and up the third hill. From his vantage point he could even see the veteran enter his modest homestead on the edge of the estate of Saturninus. There, his pretty wife and young son greeted him. Yet she seemed angry and Pavo seemed vexed, distracted. He was a canny one, Peregrinus thought. Watchful and fastidious – just like the guards at the city and camp perimeter.
If the details discussed today were to reach Maximus, then he would have to find a smarter way to get them out of the capital…
Chapter 18
May 388 AD
Constantinople
One week later, near dusk, Pavo sat on the edge of a fountain at the Forum of the Ox, the water babbling behind him, chattering crowds passing to and fro all around. He had not had time to return home to change since the end of his palace guard shift, and so still wore his Protectores tunic and the white greaves.
His mind felt like a giant knot, growing tighter over these last seven days. He had been snappy with Izodora, impatient with Marcus, and even negligent in his guard duties. All because the riddle of Peregrinus had deepened and darkened – galloping away from him maddeningly.
It had started on that day after he had followed the messenger boy with the flute. Standing watch at the Chalke Hall, he had saluted the coming and going of the council. Promotus, Arbogastes, Gregory and Faustius clattered around the place, arguing and hectoring, sending slaves and helpers scurrying this way and that. Oddly though… no sign of the one man who mattered, Vespillo.
Nobody had mentioned anything until the second day, when Promotus had started to ask “where is the fat bastard anyway?”. At first there was little fuss. By the third day, the mood had grown tense. A palace attendant used the spare key to open the eunuch’s quarters. The room lay tidy but unoccupied, the bed made and uncreased, Vespillo’s belongings stacked along shelves and in chests. Pavo and Frugilo had been sent to ask around about the missing eunuch, but every villa, eatery and workshop in which they enquired led to nothing. It was as if Vespillo had vanished from the capital. All the while, Pavo could imagine him on horseback, pelting westwards – having somehow slipped through the city cordon with the full details for the campaign – straight to Maximus’ court.
He wrung his fingers through his hair, head pounding, the fragments of it all clinging to his mind like barnacles to a boat.
Just then, a racket of terrible singing and joking echoed from the western end of the forum. Pavo looked up to see the Claudia lads tumbling into view, already in high spirits. The big send-off tavern night had arrived. There were several other raucous soldier parties swaggering to and fro likewise, drinking enough wine to float a ship on these last few evenings before the emperor’s return… before war. Some legionaries called these nights “the last toast to Bacchus”. There was to be no maudlin talk, no fretting, no ruminating over the dangers to come. Just wine. And lots of it. Izodora had practically threatened him with a knife to go and to think of something other than his traitor theories for a few hours.
‘Ha!’ called Darik – his long hair slicked in a perfect sheen and his beard clipped immaculately. ‘My sister let you escape, then?’
Pavo smiled, rising. Dozens more friendly and jestful greetings were thrown his way.
‘Where’s the tight-arse?’ Libo asked.
‘Frugilo? Ah, he turned the invite down,’ Pavo said.
‘Right, time to go blind,’ Pulcher said, rubbing his hands together and grinning. ‘Tavern, here we come.’
‘Where did you have in mind?’ Pavo said. ‘I know a lovely, quiet place down by the harbour where-’
‘Nah, nah. It’s already been decided. We’re going to this place up by the second hill. Somewhere that’ll make our purses last longer.’
‘The second hill, you say?’ Pavo replied.
‘Aye. Trust me,’ Pulcher said.
As they swept along in a group, the city began blinking to life with myriad torches, sconces and lamps, and the cries of prayer mixed with the hoot and cackle of the drinking dens.
Pavo recognised the route they were taking. ‘Hang on, this looks like the way to…’
Sure enough, they came to the same horrible place Frugilo had taken him to. ‘Oh for fuck’s sake not this shitho-’
A number of hands barged him in the back, pushing him across the threshold.
Moments later, Pavo found himself staring dejectedly at a new cup of oily, filthy “Follis wring” slops. He held his breath, and drank it in one. As soon as he tried to make his excuses to leave, another cup was thrust into his hand. Soon, the throaty rattle of voices and camaraderie ramped up to new levels.
Pulcher was in full flow with a tale about his long-gone days as a recruit: ‘So the drill master said: I don’t care if you’re left-handed! Legionaries hold a sword in their right hand and a shield in their left – else a fighting front would be a mess. So you’ll just have to learn to hold your sword in your right. And I say to him: but sir, I’m useless with my right hand. So, he leans in all conspiratorially like, pats me on my shoulder and winks: I was the same, lad – a left-hander like you. You know what fixed things for me? I trained my right hand by using it to work the old pink sword,’ Pulcher made a ring with his fingers and thumb and jerked it up and down vigorously, ‘three times a night for at least a month. So, hop to it – back to your tent!’
His merry audience of Claudians and others gawped, then exploded with laughter.
‘That’s what he said, honestly!’ Pulcher insisted, roaring too.
‘And it’s stood you in good stead ever since,’ Libo cried hoarsely, ‘I give you Pulcher: the empire’s champion masturbator!’
The roof nearly lifted off the tavern, as men buckled with laughter, pounding the tables with their fists and guzzling wine.
Within what felt like moments, Pavo was on his fifth cup, and everything was beginning to feel decidedly hazy. His blood felt warm, his body light, his mind blessedly quiet. He had even stopped thinking about the mystery of Vespillo, and found himself swaying in time to a lute player’s song.
‘That’s more like it,’ Sura grinned, mouth stained red with the wine, patting him on the shoulder.
‘Sura, I haven’t drunk like this in years. If I return to Izodora in this state tonight…’
‘Aye,’ said Sura, eyeing his cup. ‘Julia will not be best pleased with me if I go staggering back to her reeking of this glorious swill.’
‘Then stay out all night, don’t go back until the morning!’ Durio slurred, then roared with laughter at his magnificent logic.
Pavo heard himself laughing hoarsely, and realised it had been so long – too long – since he had enjoyed a release like this. Flutes began to whistle and timpani drums rumbled, and a dance began. There was no shape or order to it, just drunken revellers throwing themselves around. Indus – in an attempt to impress a group of young women – performed a handstand, then began walking back and forth on his hands, his tunic hem flapping, bulging loincloth on show. He seemed supremely confident that the women were suitably ‘tantalised’ by this… until he hand-walked past a bench and one gnarled drinker there reached out and tore off Indus’ loincloth. The loincloth unravelled, and the large carrot stuffed within spun away onto the floor, leaving Indus’ bare and rather grubby nether regions on show. ‘Take a look, ladies. Not much to see, eh?’ the drinker cackled.
In one corner, Centurion Betto, eyes bleary with wine, stood on a table, reciting the diaries of Marcus Aurelius – word perfect apart from when he began referring to the author as “Arcus Maurelius”. Verax the medicus was busy in a debate with one of his junior staff about whether the foul slop wine might in fact be stronger and more effective for cleansing wounds than acetum. A dare began to do the rounds then – for both to drink a cup of acetum, neat.
Pavo sighed happily, gazing out to the streets – streaks of shadow and torchlight, with groups bustling to and fro. Fortunately, no pagan rioters or Christian temple smashers. He was about to turn back to the shenanigans, when something caught his eye out there. The swish of a cloak. Coming from the palace region. He blinked. The wearer walked with the hood raised. He blinked hard again, staring at the flowing garment: green, the hem embroidered in gold. Only one person owned a garment like that. The man who had been missing for days.
‘Vespillo,’ he whispered.
What was the eunuch doing out in the deadliest hour of night, alone?
Suddenly feeling sober, Pavo slid from the bench and edged out of the tavern.
The noises of clacking cups and hooting laughter faded behind him, and the fresh night air slapped him, bringing his blurry vision together a little. The street was still busy even at this hour; so many faces and bodies blocking his view. He weaved between lumbering wagons and dodged the revolting contents of a piss pot thrown from an upper window. All the time he kept the fluttering golden hem of the cloak within view.
Vespillo! he growled inwardly.
Right from the off, the man had reeked of dishonesty. Now here he was – armed with details of the grand strategy for the forthcoming campaign against the West, looking to spirit the information right into Maximus’ hands. But how? Pavo wondered, thinking of the strict controls at all of the city’s boundaries.
The eunuch moved through the night like an asp. Pavo followed him around the base of the second hill. The streets grew quiet here, almost deserted.
Like a flash, he was gone, cutting sharply around a corner.
Pavo approached the corner then stopped in his tracks, scouring the way ahead: a wide open, flagstoned space, centred around the Milion monument from which all distance measurements in the empire began. Deserted. No sign of Vespillo.
It was impossible, Pavo thought, for the eunuch to have sprinted across this space and out of sight at its far end. Impossible.
His bladder now helpfully began to bulge with all the wine. Chewing his lip to focus, he waited and waited for some sign of movement.
Then… the barest scrape of a sandal.
Pavo’s head turned slowly towards the direction the noise had come from. A low pale-stone wall only a dozen paces from where he was. Behind that wall was a small sunken precinct and the locked door of the Basilica Cistern.
A dead end.
Vespillo could not escape now.
Cat-soft on his feet, he edged over to the wall, pressing his back to it, listening. But there were no more noises. Leaning gingerly around the edge to look around and down into the precinct, he saw little in that well of shadows apart from the small nook recessed in which was the locked cistern door. Vespillo had to be hiding in that nook, he realised. Why? Did he know he was being followed?
Pavo slid round the wall’s end, cursing his lack of weapons – all he had by way of soldier gear were the greaves. He kept his back pressed to the other side as he edged down the few steps into the precinct, drawing closer to the door nook. His bladder now screamed for attention and his mouth felt dry as a boot. His heart pounded and he adjusted his stride to put his weight on his good left leg for purchase, expecting the hidden Vespillo to spring out at him any moment.
The nook was empty. The iron-strapped door stared at him mockingly. He looked around the dead end.
How could a man just vanish?
Until he heard a creak, it didn’t even occur to him that the eunuch might have gone through that door – for it was kept locked at all times, lest the vital underground water supply be tainted accidentally or by a saboteur. The realisation struck Pavo like a hammer: Vespillo, as a member of the emperor’s sacred council, was one of the very few with access to the key.
The creak sounded again, and the door moved ever so slightly in the gentlest night breeze. Pavo felt icy fingers of fear trace the back of his neck. He reached for the ring handle and carefully – still wary of Vespillo waiting on the other side – drew it open.
Nothing, again. Just darkness, and the smell of damp and the echoey plink-plonk of dripping water within. His eyes adjusted enough to make out the grey shape of stone stairs leading down into the huge underground vault, and the faintest wink of starlight from the night sky above the door caught some ripple in the black surface of the water down there.
Pavo knew it would be folly to go any further, blind like this. So, he felt for his purse, and brought out his flint hooks. Tearing a strip from the hem of his tunic, he struck the hooks together. The sparks kindled the threads on the rag, and a moment later, a dim globe of yellow light illuminated the stairs and the nearest section of a stone walkway at the bottom.
Still, no sign of Vespillo.
He descended onto the stone walkway – a grey finger stretching into the darkness ahead. The inky cistern water rippled at its either edge. He eyed the way forward, then padded gingerly along. The weak light from the burning rag revealed the forest of wet and shiny, algae-coated columns that bore the weight of the cistern’s stone ceiling. The shadows of the columns moved as he walked, playing tricks with his mind. Every time the rhythm of the dripping water changed – ever so slightly – he froze. The chamber was vast, and he could hear the echo of his own breaths and slight scrapes of his boot soles.
Right by his ankles, a splash sounded in the water. Cold wetness sprayed him. He leapt back from the walkway edge in fright, almost dropping the burning rag. A ghostly-white fish flicked its tail at the surface again and sped away back into the black depths. Pavo cursed the creature, and took a deep breath before carrying on.
The burning rag began to sting his fingers now, so he moved them to hold it by a pinch – but the light was dimming, the bubble of yellow shrinking. He glanced back whence he had come – the stairs leading down here were gone, swallowed up by the surrounding blackness. Ahead, there was nothing, nobody in sight, just the walkway stretching on into darkness. Then he spotted something… a second walkway cutting across this one a dozen steps or so ahead. Gradually, the rag light began to dim, and then the last flames seared his skin. He dropped the embers with a gasp.
In the blackness, he fumbled to tear another strip from his tunic. As he worked, he heard a new noise: beyond the plink-plonk of dripping, he could hear a gentle rushing sound – where the waters that coursed along the Aqueduct of Valens bled into this storage vault. Calm, soothing, reassuring.
And another noise, almost masked by the water.
Whispering?
A shiver raced up his back as he peered ahead, the flint hooks and unlit rag still in his hands. His ears told him that the sound was coming not from ahead, but off to his left, somewhere along the second walkway.
Whispering, definitely. Voices, deep in discussion.
Feeling his way ahead, he came to the crossroads of the two walkways, trying to discern something, anything, of the conversation.
He leaned closer, closer, then heard something that turned his blood to ice.
An unmistakable slice of steel.
A snatched yelp, then an almighty splash!
Suddenly, footsteps, charging from the direction of the splash, thundering this way.
Pavo’s body tensed up like stone. His lungs and heart almost burst from his chest as he tried to light the rag to see. No sooner had it caught light than he had to drop it to the walkway in order to defend himself. He thrust out his hands in an attempt to tackle whoever this was – Vespillo or the other he had been conspiring with down here.
The runner hit him like a runaway horse, barging him in the ribs, sending him staggering. He flailed backwards to the walkway edge and pitched into the water.
The coldness shocked him more than the barge to his ribs. Bubbles raged around him, and his ears throbbed with watery deafness. He realised then that he had not swam in years. He thrashed his arms, but the injured, scarred shoulder could not move like the other one, and so this only pushed him to one side instead of propelling him upwards. He kicked with his legs, but still the weak light from the walkway dimmed as he sank further. The white greaves, he realised… they were pulling him down like anchors!
Panicked, he reached down to find the greave straps. Doing this in the dark, underwater, and with multiple cups of wine in his system made this somewhat trickier than usual. With a dull clunk, he felt his soles touch the stone-lined floor of the cistern. The murk here was nightmarish, lit only by the pathetic light of the dropped, burning rag on the walkway up above. Schools of those ghost fish breezed past him, eyes and mouths gaping. The base of one column – a green, upturned Medusa head – glared pitilessly at him. On he fumbled in an effort to untie the greaves. In moments, his breath was stale and burning in his lungs. He kicked wildly to send one greave free, but the strap of the other was tied on with what seemed like the Gordian Knot.
