Legionary, page 27
Sura tilted his head back a little, chuckling dryly. ‘You sly toad. That night in the cistern, you allowed the Arcanus to escape with the information. Sham information!’
‘I wanted to expose Peregrinus, that was the main thing. The false strategy was a precaution should he outsmart me – Gods know, he had us all walking in circles for months.’
Sura planted his hands on the wooden balustrade overlooking the harbour works and gazed over it all. ‘So… the ships?’
Pavo looked around to be sure there was nobody within earshot, and dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘This was the strategy that first leapt out at me that day when I looked at the map with the council. The one I kept to myself. I put it to the emperor that night on his return from Thessalonica, after the two thugs tried to rob him. He, Valentinian, Justina, I and soon you are the only souls alive who know of this plan in full.’
Sura stepped closer, moving an ear close to Pavo’s lips.
‘We will march up the military way with Theodosius, that part of the strategy remains the same.’ He wagged a finger towards the boats. ‘The second pincer is what has changed: Valentinian and his mother will lead this fleet round the Greek peninsula, to Epirus. There they will stop and resupply. Then they will strike across the Ionian Sea, around the heel and toe of Italia. Finally, they will come… to Rome.’
The word fell like a tombstone, just as it had when he had suggested it to Theodosius. At that moment and again now, he felt the eyes of history – of Gods and heroes – upon him.
Sura rolled his head back for a moment, blinking. ‘Rome? You once called me a lunatic – that time I said we should steal an elephant from the Persian army, remember? Now you’re telling me you’ve organised an assault on Rome?’
Pavo nodded confidently. ‘For all that the city stands for, and for what it will mean to Maximus. Were he to lose the historic capital, the old senatorial families there would quickly return their loyalties to Valentinian. The Italian legions too. The young Caesar has assured me of this. With Rome, we can block central and southern Italia, and the seas either side. Think about it – Maximus would have no grain supplies from Africa with which to feed the colossal force he has raised. More – just like the false strategy – it would raise a second allied force at his rear… only one far mightier than the few Egyptian legions that the traitor’s message will tell him about. Maximus will be blind-sided – with half of his army waiting to block the non-existent approach of Valentinian’s forces up the Pannonian coastal road.’
The two stood together, the sea wind beating at their hair, digesting what lay ahead.
‘Rome,’ Sura said with a wry look. ‘Never been there, probably never will go. Makes you wonder, eh? All this time, through all the wars and missions we’ve been on, and never once have we set foot in the city that spawned it all. And here, now, we plot its overthrow.’
‘Fuck Rome,’ said Pavo.
Sura looked at him sideways. ‘Don’t mince your words, old friend.’
Pavo’s face remained stony. ‘Fuck Rome and its fat aristocrats and magnates. All that matters to me is my family, right here in Thracia. They are my empire.’
Sura said nothing, simply resting a hand on Pavo’s shoulder. The sound of shipwrights and chattering workers drifted over the two for a time as they watched a mast being hauled upright on one of the new vessels. Neither Pavo nor Sura noticed the young man approaching them until he spoke.
‘Pavo,’ said Valentinian.
‘Caesar,’ Pavo dipped his head in respect.
‘I hear the land army is set to move out today?’
‘Aye,’ said Pavo.
‘Then this fleet will launch a few weeks later,’ said Valentinian. A playful smirk rose at one end of his mouth, enhancing his boyish handsomeness. ‘They say that if a man wants to learn how to pray, he should go to sea.’
Pavo and Sura both chuckled. ‘May Poseidon keep the swell even for you.’
A silence lasted, all three looking at one another.
‘So, the next time we meet…’ Valentinian started. A great, unspoken ‘if’ hovered in the air above them like the Sword of Damocles.
‘Will be in victory,’ Pavo finished for him.
As soon as he had spoken, a paean of trumpets sounded from the imperial palace hill. The chorus was known to all: a ceremonial song heralding the emperor’s imminent departure from the palace and along the main way, en-route to war. The sound of cheering arose – and angry shouting too. Soon, the slow, ordered rattle of many hobnailed boots rose like a drumbeat, as the city-billeted legions peeled from their garrisons to join the emperor’s procession.
Valentinian seemed apprehensive. ‘I… I can’t help but think of all the dark things that have brought us to this moment.’
‘That is why you do this,’ said Pavo. ‘Me also. To bury the past… to let it go.’
The young man seemed to brighten, as if the words had knocked weights from his broad shoulders.
‘Farewell, Pavo.’
‘Farewell, Caesar.’
Pavo and Sura hurried to the military area outside the land walls. The sun was climbing, beating down on the army as the effort to strike the great camp began. They passed through throngs of hectoring officers, bantering troops, officials picking their way around, making counts on wax tablets, lowing oxen, braying mules and nickering warhorses. Tents sank and wagons were loaded with provender, water skins and casks. Parents, wives and children were here too, saying farewell to their loved ones. Pavo and Sura’s necks stretched as they sought out the ones dear to them.
No sign.
Was it too much for them also, he wondered, his heart aching?
They came to the Claudian area, where the troops were busy packing up their tents and preparing their marching gear.
‘Sir!’ many called out to Sura, and to Pavo also.
Sura instantly strode a little taller, walking around his charges, offering encouragement and issuing instructions.
Pavo noticed that the young legionary, Durio, and his friend Indus were still on their haunches around a cooking fire, hastily trying to prepare bread for the march ahead. ‘Add a little salt,’ he advised. ‘It’ll keep you thirsty on the march, and that’ll keep you drinking. Nothing worse than a day’s march where you feel strong and don’t touch your drinking skin…’
‘…then come evening in the camp, you feel like an elephant is standing on your brain.’ Libo, nearby, agreed.
Pavo pulled at the collar of his linen tunic. The sun wasn’t even close to its high point yet and the red cloth was dark with sweat already around his chest and the small of his back. He took a small pot from his leather bag, and prized off the lid. Scraping his fingertips across the surface of the sweet-smelling jasmine paste inside, he then wiped it across his neck, face and forearms. It was delightfully cool on his skin. He tossed the pot to Durio. ‘And put a little of this on the exposed parts of your body, or you’ll be cooked like a crab before we’re even out of Thracia.’
He and a few others heard the rising swell of cheering – and jeering – from within the city walls. Growing closer, closer…
Pavo noticed Verax the medicus, kneeling as he packed his supplies. His head was bowed, and he had a rather grumpy look on his face.
‘Something troubling you, Verax?’
The medicus looked up. ‘Ah, sir! Troubling me? Hmm,’ he scruffed at his trident beard. ‘Apart from the heat, the flies, the impending march downwind of Pulcher's sweaty arse?’ He laughed, but it was a tense laugh. ‘I suppose there is. But it's likely nothing.’
Pavo nodded. ‘Very well. But you know you can share anything with me, yes? You saved me from the gates of death, remember. I owe you my ears and my advice at the very, very least.’
Verax tilted his head a little in respect. ‘Thank you, sir.’
Pavo stepped away.
‘It's just an odd thing I heard, anyway.’
Pavo turned on his heel. ‘What is?’
‘When I was picking up these bandages and pastes from the city valetudinarium yesterday, I saw many of those who studied with me back in my days as a trainee. Some are with the legions now, some with the city garrisons. Natox was there – probably my closest friend from those days. He did alright for himself – he’s the palace physician now. We talked about old times. You know, this and that. Then he said something strange.’
Pavo leant closer.
‘He was the one to clean and prepare Vespillo's body – after it had been fished out of the cistern. A right mess, he said. The eunuch was in a state of poor health at the time of his demise. Hadn't eaten for days. Severely dehydrated too, well,’ he shrugged, ‘before he ended up in the drink, that is. And there were strange markings on his skin as well.’
‘Stigmas?’ Pavo guessed, thinking of the legionary tattoos and the Christian markings he had seen some of the aristocratic types sporting.
‘No, no. Bruises, worn skin. All around his wrists.’
Pavo's eyes narrowed. ‘There was some sort of struggle in those moments before Vespillo's throat had been cut. Perhaps that explains it.’
Verax tilted his head to one side, the same edge of his mouth rising slightly. ‘Aye, perhaps.’
Pavo was just trying to make sense of the conversation, when a glimmer of light shone on the city walls.
A troop of sixteen men strode out onto the roof of the Golden Gate, the air up there like a mirage in the June heat, the sunlight sparkling on the G-shaped brass cornua horns each carried on one shoulder. They halted in a line and in perfect time like soldiers facing inspection, then each unslung and brought their instrument to their lips. As one, they blew a triumphant, stirring series of notes that echoed out over the vast military camp.
Bishop Gregory emerged up there, and shambled up and down before the trumpeters, shouting in between each blast: ‘Rise, legions of God. The day has arrived. It is time to make war against the wretched Maximus!’ he crooned to the masses of soldiery as if they weren’t already in the process of rising. ‘Rise!’ Another blast of the horns. Gregory wailed on: ‘God will watch over us. With His power and His protection, we will crush the tyrant!’
‘Is “He” any good with a spatha?’ Sura muttered wryly.
Pulcher smirked at this. ‘I trust “He” will take his turn at slopping out the latrines too?’
With a final, exultant, blast from the cornua players, the Golden Gate flew open. Emperor Theodosius emerged from the city with a swell of cheering from the crowds lining the main way. Astride a chestnut mare, he wore a silver helm, a purple cape and golden armour on the chest of which shone a Chi-Rho emblem. Striding either side of him went the six most senior Protectores – Stilicho, Frugilo and Lucius included – and the dozen Inquisitors. Bishop Gregory and his straggle of Christian clergy waddled down from the Golden Gate roof and out like geese to join the procession.
Next emerged the emperor’s Praesental Army– all glittering steel and bobbing Christian labarum standards. These were the cream of the Eastern fighting forces who had enjoyed the honour of quartering within the city as opposed to out here in the filthy camp. All four palace legions – the Lancearii, the Hiberi, the Nervii and Eriulf’s Thervingi – marched in step, the bright plumes of each legion shuddering, giving them the look of an army of peacocks. Next, with a clip-clop of hooves, came the Scutarii – the two thousand-strong school of cavalry elites, the horses’ flanks shining in the heat and the scale-draped riders glittering.
‘Brace yourself, here they come,’ Sura said.
‘Aye, some sight,’ Pavo said, watching as the emperor’s parade moved to and halted on the military road, before calling for the camped legions to take up their respective places in the marching order.
‘No, I meant them,’ Sura smiled, strode past Pavo and fell into an embrace with the tall, curvaceous and raven-haired Julia. Sura and she started passionately kissing, conjuring a round of whistles and applause from Pulcher and the lads. She looped a twine around his neck; upon it hung a small copper cat charm. Sura looked like he was about to burst into tears, and so he kissed her again. The wives and children of the other Claudians arrived too with a chorus of sobbing and sweet words.
Pavo saw them then: Izodora, leading Marcus by the hand. His heart almost melted. The lad was walking confidently these days – no longer a toddler. He seemed engrossed by the strange sights, sounds and smells all around him. Pavo dropped to one knee to scoop him up, kissing his head and swinging him from side to side. Izodora watched with a glassy look in her eyes. Pavo’s throat bulged with a lump as he looked up at her. What was there to say?
Marcus broke the silence. ‘When will you come back, Papa?’
Pavo stroked the lad’s mop of fine brown curls, looking at Izodora. Both knew the answer to that was neither straight nor in any way guaranteed.
‘When you call out to me, I will come,’ Pavo answered. He knew it was neither a fair nor rational answer. He set Marcus down, and the lad turned this way and that, entranced by the sight of a palace cavalryman cantering past, their blue and gold ribbons floating in their wake. Izodora stepped over to Pavo and rested her forehead against his. ‘This war. Let it be done, then let that be an end to it.’
‘My oath with the emperor ends when Maximus has been deposed.’
One side of her mouth rose in the beginnings of a most sour smile. ‘He said you would be released from duty after the Gothic crisis at the river.’
‘One crisis bleeds into another. It is the way of these times.’
She turned from him, but he caught sight of the teardrop that had escaped one eye. ‘Izodora, don’t…’
She cut him off: ‘I have dreamt terrible things in these last nights.’
He moved round so they were facing again, and planted a finger on her lips. ‘Leave the wretched nightmares to me,’ he said with a sad half-smile. ‘I go west to make our world safe once more. Remember this, and that I am not in the legions for this campaign – I will not be in the front lines, should it come to battle.’
It was Izodora’s turn to smile unconvincingly. ‘Should it come to battle?’
‘Papa?’ Marcus said, tugging on the hem of his tunic. Both looked down to see the lad holding his hand up, offering something. Pavo took it. It was the toy wooden soldier, once the possession of Gallus’ son. ‘You should have this, because he looks like you.’
The gesture almost took his legs away from under him. Sucking in a breath to choke back the deep sob that tried to escape his lips, he swooped to pick the lad up again, holding him close with one arm, and using the other to pull Izodora to him. He kissed both over and over, tasting the brine of his tears and theirs as he did so, before finally planting his lips on Izodora’s. The three were one at that moment, and Pavo wondered if he did not open his eyes or part from the kiss, if they might escape time and fate.
Military buccinae pealed across the dissolving camp, breaking the spell. ‘Come on, come on!’ a nearby commander hurried his troops in their preparations.
Marcus slid down to stand on his own. Izodora peeled from his embrace. Their hands remained linked as she stepped away before their fingertips brushed and they parted at last.
Darik – lurking discreetly nearby – now stepped over to hug his sister tightly, whispering to her in their old desert tongue then amusing Marcus with a giraffe trinket he had bought from the camp traders. Pavo turned away from them. It felt like tearing off a limb.
He sank beside his leather bag, and drew his greaves from within, buckling them on. Next, Pulcher and Betto helped him into a ringmail shirt. He buckled on his sword belt, slung on his white cloak, took up his spear and planted his fin-topped helm on his head. Finally, he hoisted the leather bag, now just containing his porpax shield, over his good shoulder.
The horns pealed again, the shouts growing urgent for the families to disperse and for the column to form up. The first of the scale-clad comitatenses field legions shuffled into place behind the palace troops, their eagles glinting and banners floating in the weak, warm breeze. Next it would be the turn of the Claudia and the few other less esteemed legions to take their place near the rear. And, Pavo realised, it was time for him to join the Protectores.
He cast a final look over the Claudians. ‘March well, stay alert. May Mithras guide us to a swift and bloodless victory.’
The legionaries silently raised their spears high – a fond tribute to their old commander. ‘Mithras be with you too, old friend,’ said Sura.
Turning away, Pavo strode towards the head of the forming column – a jungle of plumes and shining, jewelled helmets. He spotted the distinctive white of the Protectores, near the emperor. All eleven others were present. Frugilo included, wearing his flowing black cloak, polished ringmail, white baldric… and that filthy old felt cap.
‘Ah, here at last,’ he grumbled as Pavo slotted into place, the twelfth and final “Emperor’s Shield”. ‘I wondered if you had decided to go for the mother of all shits.’ He threw a look at Pavo’s leather bag, spotting an edge of the porpax shield peeking from within: the Mithraic star now golden and the background deep red. His face wrinkled. ‘What’ve you done to that thing?’
‘Repainted it,’ Pavo said.
‘Claudian colours,’ Frugilo realised.
‘Aye. Any time I’ve gone to war, it’s been under those colours. Doesn’t seem like the best time to change that.’
‘Red or purple… doesn’t matter,’ Frugilo muttered, staring off into the distance. ‘No colour of paint will stop a well-aimed axe.’
Pavo glared at him. What kind of words were those, on the brink of marching to war?
Time passed as, gradually, the column of over twelve thousand men took shape, leaving a well-rutted, golden crescent of earth around Constantinople’s land walls where the camp had been.
Pavo glanced up at the midday sun, which glared back down at him through the haze of dust. He could feel it piercing through the jasmine paste and heating the metal and leather of his armour. The sweat was now rolling down his back in constant rivulets.
