Legionary, page 37
Maximus’ Gentiles riders raised lances and shields. Pavo braced his body, gripped his lance and trained it on the foremost man, charging for him head on, snarling.
With an almighty clatter, the two armies smashed together. Pavo’s lance grazed that of his opponent and the contact sent him swinging wildly to one side of the saddle. He grabbed the leather horn at the saddle front at the last moment to keep himself from falling.
All around him a calamitous din of clashing weapons and screaming horses exploded as the Eastern cavalry ploughed deep into Maximus’ ranks and vice versa. He used his shield to barge and unhorse three enemy riders before lancing a fourth through the neck. The man’s blood burst back over him in a stinking cloud. His horse slowed to a canter, then a stagger, the impact of the charge spent. The Eastern cavalry were now halted and entangled amidst Maximus’ army. Pavo sensed deathly danger all around him. No Frugilo, just a lone Scutarii rider on one flank for protection.
What followed was a chaos of milling arms and blinding sunlight, a miasma of bloodspray and the most terrible sounds. A spear whooshed past Pavo’s face, and he ducked a sword swipe then blocked an axe thrown towards the Scutarii man. He swung the porpax shield round to deflect blow after blow – the thing becoming a shredded mess around every part of its edges. Then, with a whump, the Scutarii rider beside him suffered a vicious hack across the small of the back in a gap between his armour: the man swayed for a moment, before his upper body bent forwards and – with the sound of ripping meat, his torso partially separated from his waist, and flopped to hang from the side of his horse like a discarded garment.
A fresh flurry of swords hacked down at Pavo from all sides. No allies nearby. No chance to bear his sword in response. In a single flash he saw Commander Stilicho beset like this too, and the emperor also. His heart began to pound uncontrollably.
It all changed with a deafening roar. The Eastern legions reached the fray, and fell upon the Western army. Their impact sent the whole tangle of battle staggering. Pavo fought off the man in front of him, elbowed the one behind in the face. Freed from the jaws of death, he then hurled his spear at Stilicho’s main attacker. The lance caught the enemy rider in the ribs, and sank deep through a small gap in his scale armour. The man jolted, his breath blowing out in a bloody spume, then he sagged in his saddle and dropped to the ground. Stilicho shot Pavo a thankful look, then drove at the other attackers, Eriulf and huge bands of the Thervingi palace legionaries now clustering around him in support.
Groups of the Westerners began to break away in panic. Others mounted fierce counter-charges, even though the balance was tipping against them. Most were shooting looks to the billowing plumes of dust just a mile away and closing – the legions of Marcellinus, coming at full-pelt with the intent of tipping the scales again.
As Pavo batted away another attacker, he saw something through the chaos. There, saddled on a powerful black stallion near the edges of the fight, was Magnus Maximus. The Dark Eagle’s head switched to and fro in panic – towards his approaching brother and the reinforcements, then at the obvious and growing advantage of the Eastern army right here and now. When a spear hissed past him, he turned and galloped away from the battle, speeding to the north with a band of his Moors encircling him.
Pavo squinted into the distance, seeing where Maximus was headed. A marble manor, standing alone on the flat plains. From the top rose a marble turret. A shudder of recognition pulsed through him.
You created this, Pavo…
‘Pavo!’ A Protector called across the fray. ‘With me!’ the man roared as he galloped past, following Maximus’ trail.
Another four Protectores pelted on in pursuit of the Dark Eagle.
As Pavo spurred his steed into a gallop in their wake towards the manor, he felt the Gods watching on.
You created this, Pavo… the crone whispered in his heart. And now you must destroy it.
And then he sensed another, riding by his side.
Frugilo.
‘It’s all been building towards this moment, eh?’ the Protector growled with an odd look on his face, then spurred his horse on. ‘Ya!’
They rode at great speed but – horses near exhaustion – could not catch the Dark Eagle before he and his band reached the manor. The structure cast a long shadow across the summer plain, like a tongue extended to swallow them up.
As they neared, Pavo noticed something in the fine gardens: a woman lying in a pool of her own blood, her neck freshly slashed open. The owner or the owner’s wife, he realised. Nearby he saw a smaller bloodied heap. A child. He twisted from the sight, horrified, then turned his glare on the manor with renewed hatred. Yet the Dark Eagle was nowhere to be seen. Maximus’ Moorish bodyguards had blocked the building’s main entrance in a small shield line, and bowmen had taken up positions at the upper floor windows.
Slowing his horse to a trot, he dragged his spatha from his scabbard and slid from the saddle. As soon as his stronger left foot hit the ground, an arrow whistled through the air at him. He dipped and threw up his shield to deflect the shaft. Instead, the shield juddered and a bulky iron tip burst through, halting just before his eye. Not an arrow, a dart! A hand’s-width closer to the shield’s centre and it would have pierced shield and the iron porpax sleeve and smashed his arm.
He snatched a glance again at the “bowmen” in the windows and saw them now for what they really were: each levelled some odd-looking chunky weapon at shoulder height – a horizontal bow with a long stalk resting on one shoulder. He had seen these things only once before. Hand-held dart-throwing devices known as arcuballistae. The one who had shot at him was winking behind his weapon, ready to loose again.
One Protector saw this danger and launched a javelin expertly, taking the arcuballistarius marksman in the chest before he could shoot. With a gurgle, the man pitched from the upper floor window and crunched onto the stone edge of a fountain. Three more such darts whined from the windows. One pierced the chest of a Protector, who dropped with a weak sigh. Another sped towards Frugilo, who leapt behind a hedgerow for cover.
‘At them!’ cried another Protector, leading three white-armoured men in a charge for the main door. Pavo joined the rush, putting his shoulder behind his porpax and speeding at the Moorish blockade. When their shields battered against the enemy shields, his whole body jarred. The Moorish blockade buckled. They staggered and flailed backwards inside the villa’s bright atrium, Pavo and the Protectores spilling inside too, carried by their momentum. The other Protectores threw themselves into combat, taking on a Moor each, punching, kicking, slashing and rolling across the pretty floors of Parian marble. The largest of the Moors – a good head higher than and broader than Pavo, approached him, an axe in each hand, a row of gold teeth sparkling in an evil grin.
Pavo gulped as the man stalked towards him, axes whirling. He struck out with his spatha, only for the blade to clang back from the milling axe blades in a spray of sparks. He felt his heel hit a wall, and realised he was trapped. He threw up the porpax just as the axes came down, raining blow after blow. What was left of the mighty shield – the device that had allowed him to serve as a fighting man again and that had saved him several times too – came apart, the panels of leather and iron-strapped wood disintegrating like wet kindling, leaving him with just the iron sleeve. The axes came down for this, and Pavo knew it would not bear the strike.
Like a speeding shadow, Frugilo hurtled inside and threw himself at the giant’s side. One axe went flying, both men went bowling into the atrium pool and, in a fit of gasping, splashing and roaring, began to struggle for control of the second axe. The giant Moor – unsurprisingly – was winning. He pinned Frugilo on his back and hoisted the axe, ready to bring it down on Frugilo’s head.
The Moor halted then, for the briefest of moments. ‘You?’ he panted, eyes darting over Frugilo’s face. ‘You!’
Pavo heard this, and his heart turned over: how could one of the Dark Eagle’s guards know Frugilo? The answer was plain, and made his heart turn over again. Frugilo was Peregrinus. He knew what he had to do.
He lurched over to the poolside and lashed out with his spatha… lopping the Moor’s arm off at the elbow. The giant cried out in shock. Frugilo used the moment to throw the enemy off them roll on top of him and drive his sword through the man’s chest.
Pavo’s and Frugilo’s eyes met.
‘Who are you?’ Pavo demanded, knowing he had to hear the truth from Frugilo’s lips. ‘That Moor knew you, how?’
Frugilo smirked with one edge of his mouth. ‘Perceptive, aren’t you?’
Pavo bristled, raising his sword as if expecting Frugilo to attack. But he did not – instead he turned to face the sound of pounding feet: four more Moors, onrushing.
In a blur of movement, the other two surviving Protectores rushed over to Frugilo’s side, readying to face the Moors. When Pavo tried to stand with them, the nearest Protector shoved him away. ‘You go, find Maximus.’
Pavo hesitated just long enough to see the two parties clash. The tussle sent one Moor flailing, knocking over a smouldering sconce. The embers scattered across the floor and lit a long green drape which roared as it became a flaming ribbon. Frugilo booted another Moor back against the drape. The foe caught light and thrashed, the flames catching on everything he touched.
Frugilo then twisted to see Pavo, still there, locked in two minds. ‘Are you deaf? Go!’ the corpse-faced man snarled.
Shaken to his senses, Pavo looked all across the lower floor and grounds. The place was deserted apart from the few fighting men and the bodies of murdered slaves. His eyes rolled to the wide marble staircase. Cold hands crawled up his back. The dart shooters at the upper windows had all been killed, but there was still someone up there… he could feel it.
Padding sideways up the steps, he flexed the fingers on the handle of his spatha, his eyes combing the landing at the top frantically over and over again. The empty space there beckoned.
Halfway up, he halted, his ears pricking up: footsteps, rushing from somewhere up there, towards that top step.
Suddenly, a wide-eyed, screaming old man flew into view, lolloping wildly. Spotting the man’s silk robes, Pavo instantly realised this was just the owner of the manor – and behind the man was Maximus, driving him like that, one hand on the man’s scruff and the other holding his belt. At the top of the stairs, he let the owner go. The fellow plunged down the stairs, arms outstretched as if to grab Pavo. Pavo tried to catch the man but failed, and the poor fellow tumbled down and snapped his neck on the bottom step.
Maximus laughed and backed away into the upper floor, vanishing from view again.
Smoke began spiralling up from the blaze at ground level, first grey, then dark and noxious, almost herding Pavo into the higher floor. He began coughing, and wrapped the hem of his white cloak around his nose and mouth.
Sunlight still prevailed in the wide upper corridor, shining in through a grand stained-glass window at the far end and dazzling on the polished floor. But… no Maximus. As he crept edgily along the corridor, his senses sharpened and he realised how many side rooms there were.
‘Ha!’ a voice rasped, right behind him from one of those chambers he had already passed.
He swivelled to see Maximus coming at him, sword swinging, teeth clenched in a battle rictus, his black feather cloak rippling. Pavo leant back and the Western Emperor’s sword sailed through the air he had a heartbeat ago occupied. He stepped away, brandishing his spatha in fear of a follow-up strike. He noticed as well the deadly arcuballista strapped across the Dark Eagle’s back.
‘You should not have come back to these parts, Pavo,’ Maximus snarled, stalking around him. ‘You have walked into your own tomb.’
Horns blared then, and reflected light flashed at the corner of Pavo’s eye. Through the coloured glass of the arched window, he saw Marcellinus and his legions now slamming into the great battle outside. What had been an Eastern avalanche now rocked back in the opposite direction. The manor shook as wave after wave of screaming and clashing steel sailed out from the epicentre. Pavo saw the Claudian banner amidst it all. His brothers, in the jaws of death.
‘I’d give it an hour,’ said Maximus lazily. ‘Once the first of your brave regiments begins to buckle, the rest will quickly collapse too. Any who hold out for longer will be promptly cut down by Dragathius,’ he said, flicking a finger towards the growing blur of movement emerging from the western horizon.
Pavo levelled his spatha. ‘I believed in you. You were supposed to be the saviour… the one who could see greatness in Valentinian. The one who would free him, free the West.’
Maximus’ nostrils flared over a thin-lipped smile. ‘That I persuaded you is testament to my strength. You were too busy hating Gratian to spot my motivations. Have you learned from that mistake? Right now, you come to slay me... but is your master, Theodosius, any better?’
Pavo’s eyes darted briefly. Memories of Theodosius’ ways – the ice and the fire within, the God-fearing madness – flitted across his thoughts. He shook his head to clear his mind.
Maximus shimmied as if to strike, then laughed, settling back into that circling pattern. ‘For the West to be strong, there can only be one emperor. I am that man. You know I am. Thus, Valentinian had to die. It is the way of the purple.’ He smoothed at the imperial robe under his feather cloak. ‘And purple hides blood well.’
‘You sound just like Gratian,’ said Pavo. ‘Gloating about murder… and of a young man who is many times over the person you are. You were always set on expanding your territory, weren’t you?’
‘Perhaps. But your beloved Valentinian and Theodosius cannot whine about that. For it was they who were set to strike me first. I know all about the joint invasion they were hatching.’
‘What?’ Pavo pulled a face. ‘Valentinian was never interested in conquest. And Theodosius has a mountain of troubles to deal with in the East. He had no desire to march his armies here. There were never any plans to invade your realm. Had you stayed in Gaul and ruled wisely, you would have been master of that land until age stole your final breath.’
Maximus smirked. ‘Do not play the fool, Pavo. It does not suit you. Valentinian and Theodosius have long been plotting to attack me.’
Pavo scowled, thoroughly bemused. ‘Lies! You have not a shred of proof!’
‘Oh, but I do,’ Maximus said. ‘Peregrinus told me everything of their plot: it would begin with the false embassy of Domninus the Syrian, he claimed. And who arrived not long after… but Domninus? He also revealed to me the spies Valentinian had secreted in my court, Quintinus and Nannenius. They were the foreriders of the invasion. Waiting like cobras to strike. Thus… I struck first.’
‘Who is he?’ Pavo said. ‘Who is Peregrinus?’
Maximus’ nose wrinkled. ‘I… I have never been in his presence. He is a shadow. A spirit. And anyway, I would certainly not reveal him to you.’
Pavo cocked his head a little to one side. ‘It was… it was you who bid him to stir battle in the north with the Goths of Odotheus, wasn’t it?’
Maximus’ steely smirk was answer enough.
Pavo’s eyes narrowed. ‘What… exactly did you promise him in return?’
‘A golden chair in a fine hall in Constantinople,’ Maximus smiled.
Pavo slowed a little in their circling impasse. ‘You promised him – this… shadow – the Eastern throne?’ he whispered, the words tasting like poison as they slipped from his lips. The tesserae of the mystery were now taking shape in his mind, forming a very real and disturbing image. ‘But he failed to trigger a Gothic revolt, and so the throne was not vacated.’ A stark shiver raced up his spine. ‘So he then stoked your smouldering designs on Valentinian’s territory, told you false tales of his and Theodosius’ plot against you, all so you would raise the standard of war first. To bring about a great conflict that would clear the throne.’
‘You say this as if it was all a trick,’ Maximus snapped. ‘I was not deceived. War was always an inevitability. Victory has long been my destiny. Peregrinus simply found a different way to bring me here, to the brink of that destiny.’
Pavo’s mind spun. Something didn’t make sense. ‘Why did he track me into Siscia that night?’
Maximus cocked his head a little to one side.
‘Why let me get all the way to the winch room before trying to eliminate me with a catapult strike? Why not just betray me at the gates on the way in? Why go to the bother of hanging from the underside of a wagon and sneaking in behind us at all? From his place in our camp he could simply have signalled your gate watch to alert them that I was under the lead wagon.’
Maximus’s face wrinkled as if a bad smell had passed between them. ‘What are you talking about?’
Pavo frowned. ‘That night when we infiltrated Siscia, Peregrinus followed us in from our camp.’
Maximus’ face was blank – almost boyishly so.
Pavo recoiled. ‘You didn’t know, did you?’ He saw the moment all over again: the winch room door, locked fast – the moment when the Eastern campaign was about to die. The catapult had hurled that rock that had nearly killed him. Nearly. But it hadn’t. Instead, it had smashed open the…
A shiver like he had never felt before raced up his back.
‘He wasn’t aiming at us… he was aiming at the locked winch door. He wanted us to take the city… wanted the campaign to turn against you.’
‘What are you bleating about?’ Maximus snapped.
‘It was Peregrinus who betrayed Siscia’s gate.’ He looked Maximus up and down, almost pityingly. ‘You have been manipulated by your own agent. Like a puppet.’
Maximus looked momentarily confused – as if he had seen his own pyre. It lasted only an instant: he bristled, nostrils flaring, teeth bared. ‘What nonsense is this?’
But Pavo was lost in the moment of revelation now, and carried on: ‘The Eastern Empire was deceived time after time, and then finally the Western Empire was. All by the same man: Peregrinus the Stranger.’
