‘This isn’t good,’ Sura muttered, standing nearby.

  ‘Never one for understatement, were you?’ Pavo said quietly.

  ‘Not the wagons, I mean. Them.’

  Pavo realised Sura was not looking at the fire ruins, but at the northern edge of the camp, where the Huns and the Alani were picketed.

  ‘Something’s not right there,’ said Sura. ‘They’re agitated.’

  Pavo squinted into the late afternoon light to see for himself: indeed, the horsemen seemed unsettled. The Alani wore steely looks and a few were bickering amongst themselves. The Huns were more vocal, a few shoving matches breaking out. One part-drew his sword and snarled – the angry sound carrying and plenty of Roman heads glancing nervously to their foreign allies. ‘Has anyone spoken to them?’

  ‘How many in this camp speak the Alani or Hun tongues?’ answered Sura.

  ‘Fluently? Only one: Stilicho,’ Pavo said. The pair turned this way and that: no sign of the Protectores Commander.

  More guttural shouts came from the Huns and the Alani. Pavo sensed danger. Imminent danger. They were closest to the disturbance. No time to find another to deal with it. Taking a deep breath, he strode over to the scene, Sura beside him.

  The Huns swung to face them, faces twisting angrily. Pavo’s mind raced back through the very few Hun words he knew. One, he knew particularly well. ‘Asuudal?’ he said – the steppe riders’ word for “trouble”.

  The man’s face slackened, surprised at hearing a word of his own tongue coming from Roman lips. ‘Khoid… khoid!’ the man snapped back.

  Pavo felt his heart pounding. What had they walked into? ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Kheree!’ the man rasped, linking his thumbs and waving his fingers like wings.

  Pavo racked his brains for the meaning of the word.

  ‘Kheree!’ the man snarled again.

  Feet pounded over. Stilicho arrived by Pavo and Sura’s sides. His face was twisted, one ear cocked to the Hun’s exclamations. ‘North… birds,’ he muttered.

  All three looked to the near north. Above the dense forest there, bursts of black birds shot up from the trees – here and there in small explosions, each bringing a noise like a round of applause.

  ‘Something in the woods has disturbed them,’ Sura uttered. ‘Something coming this way…’

  Pavo watched as more birds scattered. ‘Why would anyone approach from the north… unless…’

  ‘To arrive upon us unseen,’ Sura said.

  All three went for their swords. Pavo sucked in a breath, ready to shout the alarm.

  And then a lone rider cantered from the treeline. A single, unarmoured man. The Huns and Alani now fell silent, confused.

  ‘A Goth,’ Stilicho said quietly. ‘A rider of the Haims.’

  Many others in the camp saw this now too. A buzz of murmurs and whispers grew, becoming excited. ‘They’re here. The armies of the Haims are here!’

  But there were no more. Just this one rider.

  All stared at the horseman as he swayed in through the north gate, saluting, and made his way to the smoke-streaked Emperor Theodosius.

  ‘Reiks Alaric, Garamond and Sigibert send their greetings, Majesty,’ the man said, deigning to bow slightly from horseback. ‘And their apologies. Matters in their respective settlements mean they cannot join you on this campaign.’

  The hot breeze whistled as Theodosius stared at the rider, agog.

  ‘Who do they think they are?’ Theodosius ranted, pacing to and fro inside the pavilion. His robes were still streaked with soot from the fire. ‘Is the word “oath” just a sound to them?’

  Reiks Faustius sat on a stool in the corner, head in his hands. ‘Domine, there must be a mistake.’

  ‘A mistake? Yes there is: my trust in your kin is the mistake! They have been given imperial lands to farm, and I have asked nothing from them in return – no taxes, no wheat, nothing – nothing but their spears. When I call upon the Haims, they muster. That was the peace deal, was it not? Well, I called upon them… and they did not come!’

  Faustius’ head lolled even lower, at a loss.

  Theodosius slumped onto the throne. ‘Eighteen thousand men, absent. Our advantage in numbers is gone.’ He slapped the arms of the chair. ‘Gone!’ He rolled his eyes heavenwards and shook both fists. ‘And the burnt wheat? Was this Your message, Greatness? To deny me soldiers and burn my food on the same day?’

  It took a few moments for Pavo to realise that the emperor thought he was speaking directly to God.

  General Promotus was for once silent. Arbogastes stood by the tent’s centre pole, gazing into space. Commander Stilicho looked numb, lost. Tribunus Eriulf seemed vexed, confused. Bishop Gregory seemed pompous and defiant for some reason.

  ‘Well?’ Theodosius snapped, eyes boring into each of them. ‘What now? They say Maximus has fully fortified his Pannonian annexations. They say a wall of spears awaits us ahead.’

  Pavo, standing watch at the tent flap with Frugilo, felt the tension in the air thicken like a stench.

  ‘We cannot proceed, Domine,’ Eriulf ventured, stroking his jaw. ‘Not now. Surely, we must call off the campaign and return to Thracia?’

  Bishop Gregory beheld the Thervingi commander as if he were a child. ‘Turn back? Did you not see the multitudes who sang and hailed us as we passed through the major cities? Did you not witness the great departure ceremony that day when we set off from Constantinople? We told them we were going west, to crush the tyrant. How can we return home now? What would we tell them? That we lost our nerve without the Goths? We have lost the advantage of numbers, yes. But that is not cause to admit defeat. Think of the shame! The people would be in uproar, were we to return home with our blades barely used, having not even set eyes upon the Dark Eagle.’

  ‘Quite, and we are but days away from occupied Pannonia, where he is bedded in,’ Promotus piped up.

  ‘And there is some small consolation in all that has happened today,’ General Arbogastes added calmly. ‘The quantity of wheat destroyed was less than that we had brought with us to distribute as rations amongst the three absent Haims. In effect their failure to join us has solved the grain problem. And, to a lesser extent, the water issue.’

  ‘We can practically smell the Dark Eagle from here,’ Promotus continued, hubris rising. ‘If we were to retreat now it would be as good as a victory for him.’

  Stilicho rocked back where he sat with a deep sigh. ‘It is not about Maximus anymore,’ he reasoned. ‘It is about what might be going on at our backs.’

  Pavo’s ears pricked up.

  ‘If there has been an uprising in the Haims, we have no choice but to turn back to Thracia,’ Stilicho went on. ‘We can’t have rebels roaming that land – the heart of the Eastern Empire and the capital itself lie at risk.’

  Pavo’s chest tightened. Since leaving Izodora and Marcus in Constantinople, he had missed them sharply… but he had never feared they might be in danger there.

  ‘The Haims are not in rebellion,’ Faustius snapped. ‘That messenger spoke of trouble in the settlements, at no point did he mention sedition. The six tribes are committed to the peace. Turn back to Thracia if you will… but do not tar my entire Gothic kin with false accusations of treachery. They remain loyal. I swear to you.’

  Pavo clung to this. Let it be so.

  Theodosius pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. ‘Tell me. Tell me honestly. If we proceed westwards, can we win?’

  The question was put to all in the tent, but nobody dared be the first to volunteer an answer. Until Arbogastes did. ‘Good generalship outweighs numbers, always.’

  Now others rumbled in agreement: Promotus, Gregory, Stilicho, Faustius and a number of others.

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘It can still be done, Majesty.’

  ‘God sends you this trial as a test of strength. Show Him your mettle.’

  Theodosius nodded away to himself for a time. But the nod turned into a sideways shaking, and he began wringing his hands, as if his doubts were fighting back.

  ‘Domine, it is not the place of a Protector to speak,’ Pavo said, his voice sounding feeble, so parched was his throat. ‘But if I may?’

  Theodosius looked blanky at him. Then cocked his head a little to one side. ‘Speak.’

  ‘It is worth remembering that the force camped here is only one of the twin horns which will snare Maximus. The second, under Valentinian’s command,’ he said, adding no more detail to keep the secret between them, ‘remains hale and on course. Were we to withdraw, it would greatly endanger the Western Caesar, leaving him in occupied territory without our support. Thus, we have no choice but to proceed.’

  ‘Yes… yes.’ Theodosius began nodding again, pacing to and fro. He took out his Chi-Rho necklace and kissed it. ‘We must place our trust in God,’ he then met Pavo’s eyes, ‘and our strategy.’

  White-walled Siscia reared like a frozen tidal wave, looming over the ford of the River Savus. Sited on a small island in the confluence of the Savus and two tributaries, the imperial city was a famous gatehouse of sorts – a barrier in the captured Pannonian countryside, guarding the approaches to northern Italia.

  Thousands upon thousands of bare-backed men buzzed at every spot on the narrow strip of ground between the island’s banks and the foot of the city’s moat-encircled walls. Hammers chimed and saws rasped over the constant white churn of the rapids. Logs were towed by mules and ferried downriver on rafts. Foremen shouted and masons guided their apprentices.

  Maximus sat on a veranda jutting from the upper floors of Siscia’s imperial mint – a fine vantage point from which to survey the works. The mint had been sequestered and turned over to his blacksmiths, who had used the apparatus within to turn out stacks of new armaments.

  The core of his army – the six crack legions and the two great cavalry schools of the Dalmaturum and the Sarmaturum – was here, glistering in fresh iron shells. He had stationed his brother, Marcellinus, along with the six veteran legions of Hispania and the newly-raised Frankish legions, on the Via Flavia – on the other side of the Julian Alpes, several days’ march south of this place. There, they would block that coastal road and obliterate the secondary approach of Valentinian.

  He thought of Peregrinus, the one who had shuttled the vital information all the way from Constantinople, and given him the chance to destroy both his young Western rival and the Eastern Emperor in one campaign. And the fool actually believed that he would be rewarded for his efforts with the Eastern throne? He chuckled at the idea. No, the East would be Victor’s. Father and son would rule the empire’s two halves.

  Everything was falling into place perfectly.

  He sipped on his cup of herbal brew and sighed in contentment, then turned his attentions to the meek fellow standing before him.

  ‘So what were you planning to do?’ he said.

  Proximus the legionary fidgeted and scratched, frequently glancing over his shoulder at the tall, silent figure of Dragathius, looming a few paces behind him. ‘I swear, Domine – I meant only to send the gift back to Gaul, to my family in the village.’

  ‘The gift?’ Maximus laughed, eyeing the dusty head-sized lump of scrap silver on the trestle table before him. Proximus had apparently found it in the cellar of the mint. ‘It was neither yours to gift nor theirs to receive.’

  ‘It was nobody’s. Nobody even knew it was there.’

  Maximus nodded, sipping his tea again. ‘You stole it because you thought you could get away with it. What kind of man does that make you? Would your fellow legionaries want you beside them when the easterners arrive here and try to cross the river?’

  ‘Domine, I took the silver only because this year’s pay has been deferred,’ the legionary started, then realised the hole he was digging for himself, ‘an understandable measure – given your need to channel those funds into the raising of new units, to… to protect us from the greedy armies of Theodosius.’

  Maximus laughed and clapped his hands. ‘Enough, enough. I am happy for you to have the silver. More, I want you to take leave of your duty.’

  The man’s face bent in confusion. ‘D-Domine? You mean I can go home to my family?’

  Maximus smiled and sipped his brew.

  ‘Domine?’ Proximus croaked.

  ‘Take off your armour,’ a voice burred at Proximus’ shoulder.

  The legionary jolted, then glanced back to see the giant Dragathius, standing right behind him now. Sensing menace in the air, he looked to Maximus once more. ‘Can’t we forget about all this, Domine? I would gladly donate the silver to you and to the war effort. Equally, I would rather stay and fight for you, my lord.’

  ‘I said take off your armour,’ Dragathius rumbled. ‘It was not a request.’

  Proximus let slip a gentle whimper. Trembling like a fawn, he clumsily unbuckled his scale vest. Dragathius – without waiting for a request to help – wrenched the jacket up and off of the man. ‘Boots and tunic too.’

  ‘I… I will need to wear something if I am to fight for you, Domine,’ he laughed hysterically, then bit his shaking lip.

  Maximus drained his tea then set the cup aside. ‘The war effort does not need you, Legionary. Indeed, this fortress-city probably needs less than half of the forces I have here. The site was chosen for its impenetrability.’ He smoothed at his hair, brushing it forwards with his palms into a perfect row of short dark curls on his forehead. ‘You see, the place has a long history. For nearly one hundred years, these walls have stood unmolested. In that time, they have repelled several enemies of the empire.’ He reached up and tugged on a rope, then let it slide through his hands. A short plank bridge began to lower and stretch out from the mint’s veranda, the far end tapping down gently on the walkway of the adjacent curtain wall. He stepped out onto the thin plank, the feathers of his black cloak standing on end in the high breeze, and beckoned.

  Dragathius nudged Proximus between the shoulder blades, compelling him to follow. He did so, shaking and almost losing his balance as he edged across the death drop.

  Maximus stepped off the plank and over to the parapet, the pale stonework spotted with dark lichen, the works and the tumbling ford visible through the crenel gap. The trembling Proximus joined him.

  ‘An early bishop once preached here,’ Maximus shouted to be heard over the roar of the river, far below. ‘He was a heretic, his teachings wild and far from the Orthodox truth. He brought no end of woe to Emperor Diocletian.’ He patted the crenel gap. ‘They say he was brought to this very spot. They tied a millstone around his neck, and tossed him into the rapids.’

  Proximus gulped again, hard. ‘One can only imagine an end like that, Domine.’

  ‘No, you can do better,’ Maximus smiled, then stepped back.

  The legionary turned to see where he was going, only for Dragathius to step into view again, carrying the gnarled lump of silver. ‘Hold this,’ the towering cavalry commander said, dropping it. Proximus caught it, lest the considerable weight land on his feet. Why was there a length of rope tied around it? With a blank expression, Dragathius then dropped the other, looped end of the rope over the legionary’s head and yanked it tight around his neck.

  ‘What… what-’

  Dragathius kneed Proximus in the stomach. He and the silver mass in his hands pitched through the crenel with a broken scream that seemed to last for an age. Finally, a heavy splash sounded and the legionary – anchored by the silver – sank straight to the riverbed. The rattle and hum of work down there slowed for a moment, before it resumed once more.

  Maximus was about to step back from the parapet, when he spotted a team of horsemen, splashing across the ford. They had to slow in the deepest part, the water pounding and foaming around the horses’ chests. They were wearing the colours of the small scout cohort he had despatched to watch the roads for Theodosius’ approach. Once across the ford, they trotted onto the river island then rattled onto the drawbridge spanning the city moat.

  ‘And so it begins,’ Dragathius smiled.

  ‘Yes, yes it does.’ Maximus felt a thrill of power as he flitted down the steps of the nearest turret to meet the riders as they entered through Siscia’s Eagle Gate.

  ‘Domine,’ the lead scout bowed.

  As the man drew off his helm, Maximus spotted his leather garb. This was no mere scout report. ‘What have you for me… Arcanus?’

  The Arcani agent bowed again to Maximus. ‘We have located the advance of the Eastern army – they are but twelve days’ march away, maybe thirteen. A man was with their advance scouts, and he rode clear of the others, came right by the watch turret in which we were housed. My men were about to shoot upon him when he signalled to us – he knew we were there. A hooded man, radiating menace.’

  Maximus’ eyes widened. ‘Peregrinus…’

  The Arcanus produced a scroll. ‘He claimed he had vital information for you. It is encoded, but he insisted you would be able to read it.’

  Maximus took the scroll, glancing at the wax seal. A blank splodge of blue wax. No lion’s fang marking? Instantly he began to suspect the contents and the sender. But the coded letter opened with an explanation – of how the seal had been lost. It went on to describe how he had been working hard to strip away the Eastern army’s every advantage.

  ‘The Haims,’ Maximus said with a smile in his voice. ‘Theodosius has but one of the mighty Gothic Haims with him.’

  Dragathius stared at his emperor, perplexed for a moment. ‘And still he marches?’ the giant then threw his head back with a roar of laughter. ‘My cavalry schools will tear them apart!’

  Maximus’ smile seemed to grow and grow… until he read on to the final part.

  Theodosius means to deceive you…

  His face gradually fell as he read more, then his lips began to quiver and tighten around his teeth. ‘Dragathius,’ he rumbled.

  The giant general’s laughter tapered away as he sensed the change in mood.

  ‘How fast can your horsemen ride?’

  Chapter 23

 

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