Legionary, page 6
‘Wait a moment. You’re telling me that he is a…’
‘Aye, a Protector – a member of the emperor’s household guard.’
Pavo’s head swam as he regarded Frugilo afresh. He had encountered the Protectores Domestici only rarely. Some called the twelve-strong unit “the Emperor’s Shields”, but that was something of a euphemism – for the Protectores were far more than mere bodyguards. Yes, they stood watch around Theodosius, but they also roved far and wide, acting as the emperor’s eyes and ears too. They each wore a single piece of the emperor’s white battle armour.
‘Stilicho is Commander of the Protectores these days. He too is bemused by Frugilo’s manner and means.’
Pavo’s eyes switched back to Saturninus. ‘Stilicho?’ He thought again of the Persian sojourn on which he had met Izodora. Stilicho had led that expedition, and in him Pavo had found a stout ally – and a rare, good soul. ‘Gods, I have not spoken to or seen him in several years.’
‘He asks about you often, in between his endless journeys to Ctesiphon to parley with the Persians,’ Saturninus said. ‘He wanted to visit here too, but thought that it would be wrong to disturb your peace after all you had been through.’ He dipped his head a little like a boy who had done wrong. ‘I only wish I had half of his courage.’
‘You? You are braver than some of the biggest, snarling brutes I have ever faced.’
‘At the same time, it was I who gave you your missio causaria, I who dismissed you from the legions due to your wounds. I who waved away your protests, who convinced you to accept that your days of serving the army were past. What kind of man could do all that… then come here and faithfully argue the opposite?’
Pavo withdrew a fraction. ‘Yet here you are.’
Saturninus looked away, clearly embarrassed. ‘When I sent Frugilo, the situation was murky. I felt that there was some room for you to reject his advances and for life to carry on for you as it is. At least then the emperor couldn’t blame me for not trying.’
‘The emperor?’
Saturninus looked up again. ‘He has asked for you in person, Pavo.’
Pavo felt a heat rising through him. The seclusion of this farm felt suddenly vulnerable, now that the most powerful pair of eyes in the East was upon it.
‘You see, the situation in the north has now turned truly dark,’ Saturninus continued. ‘The far banks of the River Danubius are lined with Goths.’
Pavo’s thoughts wound back to the day Frugilo had first come here. ‘This… this “lost tribe”?’
Saturninus shook his head slowly, his eyes narrowing. ‘Not a tribe, Pavo… a horde. Over forty thousand warriors have arrived at the far banks. An explorator sped into Constantinople two days ago. The man had ridden, breakneck, all the way from the river fortress at Sexaginta Prista to bring the news to the capital. He described it as the coming of Fritigern all over again. This horde marches under the command of Odotheus…’
‘Odotheus?’ Pavo’s eyes shifted, his mind working, thoughts tumbling back through the past. He had heard the name, once before. A name? No, it was a legend, surely? A shadowy warlord who roamed the northern extremes of the old Gothic lands and who went by the moniker… ‘the Silver Stag?’
Saturninus nodded. ‘There has yet been no parley, and it is not clear whether they mean to cross or not. Yet why else would they have come to the river in such multitudes?’
Pavo inhaled tersely, leaning back. ‘There are – thank Mithras – no bridges left on the river… but do these Goths have ships?’
‘Fortunately not yet, though they are in the process of building rafts and barges. However, it seems that one impatient small group – a rogue warband – might have found a way across already. A good few miles upriver from the main body of Odotheus’ lot, the imperial river watch spotted some disturbance – crows scattering, dust rising. They scrambled the garrison to the scene, and found a pair of half-rotted old navis lusoria transport cogs freshly dragged up onto the near banks. There were no signs of the passengers, but the ground was pocked with fresh hoof and boot prints, leading due south, into Thracia.’
Pavo gazed to the north, suddenly feeling cold. ‘They’re loose, somewhere in this country?’
Saturninus pinched the bridge of his slender nose. ‘I’m afraid so. The river garrison could not track them down, and had to return to their posts – by the emperor’s command. Theodosius is right now marching north, leading his best legions to the river to blockade any attempt at crossing by the rest of the horde.’
Pavo stared through Saturninus, a sickness rising within him. ‘If these Goths spill across the river …’ He shook his head sharply. ‘No. You talk of conflict that has not happened as if it is a certainty.’
Saturninus sighed deeply. ‘The emperor’s army is in the field. The conflict has already begun.’
Something tolled in Pavo’s mind then, something Frugilo had said on that previous visit. ‘The Claudia. They were scouting across on the far side of the river. What, what happened to-’ he halted, spotting the wrinkle of pain on Saturninus’ face.
‘I did not wish to bring this news to you, but they did not return to the checkpoint at the Sexaginta Prista river wharf. It seems that they,’ he paused, his worry notch deepening, ‘were lost to the Goths.’
Pavo heard a distant ringing in his ears. ‘They can’t. They can’t be gone?’ he heard himself say as if speaking from a distance.
He saw Saturninus lips move in apology, heard none of it. When his hearing returned, Saturninus was explaining what had happened. ‘They were over there when the Silver Stag descended to the far banks. They were in his way. They wouldn’t have stood a chance.’
Pavo felt numb, lost.
‘Our lives are very different, Pavo,’ he said, his eyes wet, ‘but we both know the pain of loss all too well. Let their loss not be in vain. We must do all we can to repel this horde. If they cross the river, it will turn our delicate peace with the Goths already settled on imperial soil upon its head. For many of them would likely join the Silver Stag. They would rise up and spread across Thracia like wildfire…’
Pavo rolled his eyes again towards the north, where the six Gothic Haims settlements were, then to Marcus, still gaily skipping around with the goat. The perceived serenity of the farm seemed to be crumbling away like dry hard tack.
‘The emperor bids you to his side, Pavo.’
Pavo felt his stomach churning. He batted one fist firmly on the fence post. ‘No.’
‘Pavo, the emperor cannot be denied.’
He batted the fence again. ‘I fought and served before. I gave everything. It all turned to shit. I lost almost everyone that meant anything to me.’ In that instant he saw the faces of the fallen, and – with a savage twist of pain – he now saw the last of the Claudia lads amongst them. His oldest friend, Sura… gone.
He squeezed his eyes shut tight to block out the immense waves of sorrow, to once again find the old military callus, known as “the soldiers’ skin”, and draw it around him. He gestured to Marcus and Izodora ‘All I have left is them. My father was a legionary, and I grew up an orphan. I will not bring the same heartache on my boy.’
Saturninus took a time before responding – a marker of his intelligence. ‘Pavo… you fear for your boy as any father should. You try to shield him from war. Yet if this horde attacks, and if the settled Goths rise in revolt, no shield will save him. The only hope for him, for Izodora, for all the families of this land, is that we act now to stop this threat from becoming a catastrophe.’
Pavo stared at the statesman for an age, his mind a mess, his skin cold and his limbs shaking.
The impasse was broken only when Izodora stamped over from the barns and to the spot beside Pavo. She thrust two full skins of wine and a loaf at Saturninus. ‘For your journey home,’ she hissed.
Seven days later, at sunset, Pavo stood on the hill where the wagon had been, the hot evening wind combing through his hair. He gazed into the burnt amber sky, its light doubled in the surface of the Tonsus, and thought over it all again. Saturninus and Frugilo were long gone, but the former’s words still rang fresh in his ears.
If this horde attacks, and if the Goths rise in revolt, no shield will save them…
He regarded the northern horizons carefully, seeing only stillness and calm. Every sweep quietened Saturninus’ warning, and eased his worries little by little. He sighed and plucked a sprig of thyme, chewing on it the way the grim-faced Frugilo had been. It was strangely calming. One of the goats, grazing nearby, nuzzled at his hand. He chuckled despite himself, petting the beast’s head.
The Gothic trouble at the river was simply that – trouble at the river, not here. The great waterway was some six days fast march north of here, and the waters were fierce. This Silver Stag and his Goths – be they mighty warriors or even expert swimmers – could not simply cross those dark, powerful currents. More, the emperor would reach the Roman banks to block the way across before they could finish building their boats.
And then it all hit him again. Sura.
His head flopped down, and a deep, hollow sigh toppled from his lips, turning into a sob. ‘May Mithras walk with you in the afterlife, Brother.’
Somewhere deep within, he saw the face of that boy legionary from his nightmare again. Yet this time the lad’s death rattle was different, the bloodied teeth parting to hiss: It should have been you…
His left eye twitched, and his hand quivered. It was true. Had it not been for the wounds that had led to his military discharge, it would have been he leading the Claudia on that fateful final mission.
Sounds of splashing and laughter rose behind him – Izodora and Marcus bathing in the shallows of the Tonsus at the farm’s edge. He turned to watch them, mother and boy even more beautiful in the gentle deep-amber glow of the setting sun, the water droplets glinting like jewels.
‘I will live with my guilt, and I will be a father and a husband, as I promised you both,’ he whispered as he watched them. He eyed his arms and legs – coated with dust from the day. A soak in the river seemed quite appealing. He strolled down from the hill, past the clucking and lowing animals, and into the farmhouse. He opened the trunk by the bed and lifted out a fresh towel, slinging it over his shoulder, then picked up a jug of berry juice and walked back outside. He cupped his hands to his mouth, calling over to the bathing pair: ‘Watch out, here comes the river monster!’
They didn’t hear for some reason. Both seemed to be fixated on something else: the hill on the farm’s northern edge, where he had been standing a short while ago.
Something passed across Pavo’s soul at that moment. A cold hand of warning. He stared at the hill, and the dusk sky above it. Specks of dirt and debris were spitting into the air from behind that rise, along with a billowing cloud of dust. He felt it then, in the soil. The shiver of pounding hooves. A whinny. A gruff shout. A snap of leathers. A clank of steel. All his old military instincts rose from their graves within him like screaming wraiths, curdling his blood.
The charging horsemen exploded into view, cresting the hill. Goths. Some thirty riders in dark red leathers, cheeks striped with tribal paint, long golden hair gathered in topknots and billowing tails. The rogue warband Saturninus had spoken of, Pavo knew instantly. The ones who had broken from Odotheus’ horde and crossed the river in the rotted old ships.
They circled up there for just a heartbeat – long enough to drink in the sight of the farm estate in the way a fat man might ogle an untouched feast table. Their leader grinned like a shark, his long beard swishing with the weight of the tribal talismans knotted in it. There was a stigma on the man’s neck – a red blaze of colour… a winding body and tail. He swept his longsword around his head in circles, bringing the blade round to point… at Izodora and Marcus. With a high-pitched war howl, he and his cavalry streamed down from the hill and towards the river shallows in a blaze of colour and noise.
All senses left Pavo. The towel dropped to the dirt, the jug of berry juice too – exploding in a shower of red. Deaf, numb, he felt himself moving in a way he had not moved in years, wind rushing in his ears, feet pounding, arms pumping. His heart almost burst with the effort as he tried to reach them first, but even in his prime he could not have done so before the galloping Gothic raiders did. And he was but one man, unarmed. His legs gave way and he crashed to the dirt, a stone’s throw shy of the river. Unable to reach them. They were doomed. These were his darkest fears, unleashed.
Lying there, one hand outstretched towards them, his throat tore within as he bellowed like a dying animal. He saw steel flashing as the lead Goth drew back his sword, ready to slash down at mother and child, saw Izodora’s mouth wide in a scream as she grabbed and shielded Marcus. The leader’s sword swished down.
And then a forearm-long plumbata dart whizzed through the air and punched right through the man’s cheek. As the iron tip burst from the back of the Goth’s skull, his eyes grew wide as plates and he suddenly fell slack in the saddle like a puppet whose strings had been cut. A dead weight, he flopped off his horse and splashed into the river shallows.
The other Goths drew up in surprise at this, pulling on their reins, heads switching this way and that, hearing something. The rumble of more hooves from behind the hill, Pavo realised. A thrum of arrows sounded from that direction, and a dozen shafts leapt up over the rise and rained down on the Gothic riders, knocking four from their mounts and injuring another three.
Pavo, in a nightmarish daze, stared at the crest of the hill. A silver eagle rose there, soaring above a crossbar, from which hung a frayed, mud-spattered red banner of a raging bull. Centurion Betto, on horseback, wore the most animal look on his usually gentle face as he charged into full view, standard in hand. Spreading out alongside him like wings came two dozen more mounted Claudians, shining in ringmail and fin-crested helms. Sura forged to the front of this skein, tossing away the bow he had been working and tearing his spatha from his scabbard.
His red cloak – previously Pavo’s – flailed in his wake and he screamed like a vengeful dragon. ‘Claudia… attack!’
They swept down the hill like hawks and sped into the shallows, slamming into the halted Goths in a blur of steel and blood. Animal cries split the air and Goths spun and fell. Horses reared and threw their riders. Pavo could put no sense or shape to it until – in just a few heartbeats – it was over.
Now his senses began to return to him: the thunder of his heart, the violent shaking in his limbs, the raw sickness in his belly. The Claudian riders sagged in their saddles, panting, steam rising from their mounts’ flanks and from the corpses of the torn open Goths. He stared wildly through this like a man looking into the dense penetralia of a forest. Finally, he saw them: Izodora and Marcus, in the shallows, kneeling in that protective embrace, weeping, ringed by Sura, Pulcher, Libo and Izodora’s brother, Darik. They had saved the pair when he could not. They had been the shield that he was supposed to be. And then the golden, sweet truth – the only thing that mattered – hit him in full.
They were alive.
The farm was transformed that night into a small soldier camp. Sura and his advance party of two dozen mounted legionaries were soon joined by the few hundred other Claudians who had been quick-marching some way behind. They were duty-bound to return north to the River Danubius tomorrow, but for that evening, they made camp around the edges of the farm.
Under the star-speckled sky, they set aside their armour and weapons, then gathered to eat around a fire prepared by Izodora. Pavo gave them all spicy sausages from the storehouse. They glugged gratefully on farm wine as they waited for the meat to cook, the sizzle and aroma mouth-watering.
Izodora sat in silence on a log bench, her eyes closed, her arms locked around Marcus. Pavo, still giddy with shock and utter relief, wrapped a second woollen blanket around the pair, kissing both on the head.
‘Papa,’ Marcus croaked, exhausted by all the horrible things he had seen. Izodora remained silent. It was a state Pavo knew well – after combat, the coming to terms with the things one had seen. Izodora had no doubt been in the middle of bloodier battles than the sunset skirmish, but none had ever involved her precious boy.
‘I love you,’ he whispered to her. ‘You are my sun, my moon.’
Darik walked over and sat at Izodora’s other side, wrapping an arm around his sister and saying something soft and poetic sounding in their native language. Even after a frantic sortie in the wild north, he still looked like a sculpture – tall and handsome with his long, raven-black hair clubbed at the back of his neck.
He and Pavo shared a look over the top of Izodora’s head. Pavo could see the same giddy relief in the other’s eyes. Reaching over, he planted a hand over Darik’s and squeezed firmly. ‘Only the Gods can express how good it is to see you, old friend. I owe those same Gods everything for spiriting you to our rescue. But how… how can it be that you are here? I was told you had all fallen, north of the river?’
‘That matters not. We came, and they are safe now,’ said the desert warrior. ‘Go, speak with the men. They each miss you terribly.
Pavo hesitated. To let go of Izodora and Marcus after what had just happened? He had never felt as useless as in those moments when he had been scrabbling in the dust, unable to reach them or protect them from the raiders.
Darik began singing a soft desert song – a private lullaby for Izodora and Marcus – and rocking them gently from side to side. The sound radiated a sense of love, safety and peace, calming Pavo too. The danger was over.
So, for the first time since the attack, Pavo left his wife and child’s side, rising from the log bench to stroll around the fire, its warmth soothing his shock-cold skin. The Claudians – to a man – lifted their cups of wine to him in reverence as he passed.
‘Good to see you, sir,’ said one.
When Pavo turned to see who it was, time seemed to stand still. When he had been bleeding out after his fight with Gratian, Verax had stayed by his side the whole time, staunching the blood loss, dressing the wounds every few hours. The young medicus had granted him a second life, at the same time sparing baby Marcus the hardship of growing up without a father and Izodora from becoming a widow.
