‘No,’ Pavo growled, ‘take my hand!’ He stretched every sinew in his arm, his fingertips shaking as they hovered only inches from Father’s. The dunes all around them shimmered in the white heat of the placid but never-ending desert. The figure in front of him was barely recognisable as the powerful legionary Pavo had looked up to as a child. This man was haggard, his hair wiry and patchy, skin lined and features tired. But most horrifically, his eyes were gone and only empty, cauterised sockets remained. But he was still Father and now, stood only paces from him on the lip of this dune, he just wanted so much to embrace him once more.
‘Please, take my hand!’ Pavo cried out, but his own voice sounded distant and weak. That was when it always started. First, the sun darkened, then the dunes turned a sickly grey, and then the roaring began. Like a pride of lions at first, then like the cry of a thousand titans, the desert wind engulfed them and the still dunes were coaxed into a ferocious wall of stinging sand. Pavo struggled to resist the urge to blink as the boiling grains stung his eyeballs, but it was no use; the outline of Father grew faint in the storm. Only as he was about to fade completely, he lifted his hand towards Pavo’s. But it was too late.
‘No!’ Pavo sat bolt upright in his bunk, his skin bathed in sweat and his bedding soaked through despite the winter chill in the barrack block. He saw his breath clouding in the air before him in the faint sliver of moonlight that shone through the crack in the shutters above. All around, the exhausted men of his contubernium lay in deep slumber: Centurion Quadratus, Optio Avitus, Sura and the four recruits, Noster, Nero, Sextus and Rufus. He sighed, annoyed that the nightmare had come to him for the second time that night. Then he realised that his hand was trembling, clutching the bronze phalera. He slipped the leather strap from his neck and examined it in the moonlight. His mind drifted back to that day in Constantinople’s slave market, all those years ago, when it had first come into his possession.
Then, his thoughts crept to the years of servitude and abuse that had followed. The echoes of slaves screaming in the basement of Senator Tarquitius’ villa poisoned his mood and quickly brought the chill through the skin to his bones.
He shook his head and wiped the thoughts from his mind. Then he reached to the bedpost and untied the strip of scarlet silk Felicia had given him. He held it under his nose; it still carried the scent of her perfume. It cleared his mind of troubles, conjuring up fleeting images of her in an inviting pose that finally dissipated into blissful sleep. But only moments after he started snoring, a wail of buccinae filled the fort, the Roman horns sounding for morning wake up and roll-call.
Pavo’s eyes shot open, the whites bloodshot. He groaned and sat up.
‘Bloody Mithras, keep the noise down,’ Avitus groaned from the bunk opposite. Then he looked down to Quadratus on the bunk below. ‘Mind you, it’s less of a din than your farting,’ he cackled. Then, when Quadratus poked his head from his bunk and shot him a serious glare, he added, grudgingly, ‘ . . . sir.’
‘Hold on,’ Sura croaked from the bunk above Pavo. Sitting up, shivering, still clasping his blanket around him, he nudged open the shutter next to his bunk. ‘It’s not even dawn – what’s going on?’
Pavo looked up to his friend, frowning, then the pair’s faces fell into a weary realisation.
‘Lupicinus!’ they groaned in harmony.
The sky was still jet-black and the torches around the inner fortress walls guttered and crackled. Pavo felt as if he was in some lucid nightmare; frozen, belly rumbling, tired beyond belief. Still in better shape than some of the recruits, he mused dryly, hearing their teeth chatter and them stamping their boots to stay warm. Behind the legionaries, the handful of auxiliaries were lined up, and a sorry sight they were: one in three had a helmet and even less possessed a shield. To the rear, the turma of equites and less-than-impressed foederati had mustered also. Then, Lupicinus’ two centuries of comitatenses legionaries filed into place in armour that contrasted starkly with their limitanei counterparts. Pavo stifled a snort; so the disturbingly small total of the ‘reinforced’ XI Claudia – less than five hundred men – had been mustered in the dead of night by the regal arsehole that was Comes Lupicinus. Now, the blend of incredulity and rage on the faces of the front line veterans demanded an explanation.
‘By Mithras, I’ve got work to do,’ Lupicinus snorted, striding across the face of the front rank in his pristine dress-armour, his back rigid, ‘but I’ll make a legion out of you yet!’
His riders, mounted only paces away, glowered down their noses at the assembled legionaries, smirks touching their lips at their leader’s wit. In their midst stood a filthy, bedraggled and panting Gothic villager. His hair was hanging loose and was matted with sweat and grime, his bare chest glistened with sweat and his lozenge-patterned trousers were torn and filthy.
‘Now, the sharper minds amongst you may have realised that dawn is not yet upon us.’ He paused, sweeping his gaze across the ranks as if to add weight to his words. ‘But I have roused you for a good reason. While you were sleeping, another incident erupted in Fritigern’s lands – in Istrita, a small village near the Carpates and the border with Athanaric’s territory.’
A collective groan from the ranks was stifled by Lupicinus’ glare.
‘A fifty will be sent to the scene . . . ’
‘Permission to speak, sir!’ Quadratus barked before the comes could finish.
Lupicinus glared at the centurion. ‘Oh, this better be good, Centurion.’
‘Including your two centuries, there are less than five hundred men left within these four walls. The remainder of the legion is scattered like chaff over the wrong side of the Danubius. Nobody knows what has become of those vexillationes, sir.’
The skin on Pavo’s neck rippled as he heard the big centurion’s words, almost reflecting his own thoughts. Thinking like a leader – it gave him a brief glow of warmth.
‘Now,’ Quadratus continued, ‘should something happen here, should the Goths launch a full-scale attack on the bridge then the few hundred here could just about hold them off long enough to give us some thinking time. But if we continue to send out vexillationes . . . ’
‘That’s quite enough, Centurion,’ Lupicinus barked over the Gaul.
‘But, sir, before Tribunus Gallus left on his mission, he left advisory orders that the vexillationes were to be reined in, to be brought under control – even at the risk of angering Fritigern. Surely you see sense in . . . ’
‘I see sense in a centurion showing obedience to his superior!’ Lupicinus snapped, grappling his cane and raising it to strike, hovering just inches from Quadratus’ face.
In his peripheral vision, Pavo saw Quadratus’ lips trembling, not in fear, but in barely checked rage. This could get ugly, he feared.
But, mercifully, Lupicinus lowered his cane and reset his features to his usual haughty look, peering at Quadratus down his nose. ‘Perhaps this kind of cowardly outlook is only to be expected from you . . . limitanei!’ He spat the last word like a bad grape.
‘So perhaps I should excuse Centurion Quadratus from this vexillatio?’ Lupicinus mused, then a smug grin spread over his features. ‘Maybe a pseudo command is in order. Yes, I seem to remember one of the more junior infantrymen who considered himself a hero.’
Pavo’s weary mind suddenly focused and his guts turned over as he saw Lupicinus’ gaze sweep along the front rank. Sure enough, it came to rest on him.
‘Legionary Pavo,’ he said gleefully. ‘You will lead the fifty.’ The comes flicked his finger to the four nearest contubernia of comitatenses and another two from the native Claudia recruits. ‘I’ll leave it to you to choose your second-in-command. I want you formed up with full marching equipment and rations for two weeks by the time the sun touches the horizon.’ With that, Lupicinus turned to the rest of the legion and barked orders to begin double sentry duty.
Pavo’s blood felt like icewater in his veins. He looked to the pink tinge on the horizon, then he turned to the forty eight formed up before him. The recruits looked petrified and the veterans of Lupicinus’ centuries scowled at him in distaste. The breath seemed shallow in his lungs and his tongue bloated like bread. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again, glancing to the comes. Lupicinus smirked at his hesitation. Pavo closed his eyes and thought of Gallus; what would the iron tribunus say to rally his men on a frozen morning, when a treacherous march into foreign lands waited on them?
‘Come on, come on! Do I have to get someone to hold your hand again?’ Lupicinus abruptly interrupted his train of thought.
Rattled, Pavo turned to the men and bawled, his voice shaking. ‘What are you staring at? You heard the comes: get kitted up and get back here. We move out before first light!’ His words died in the air and his heart sank as he saw the recruits’ faces whiten even more in fear and the scowling veterans’ eyes narrow further in distaste.
‘Bloody boy telling men what to do,’ one of the veterans muttered to the legionary next to him. It was Crito, the towering, sunken-eyed legionary from Lupicinus’ comitatenses who had looked on gleefully when Pavo had been ridiculed at the bridge the previous day. Crito sneered at Pavo, the pockmarks on his cheeks emphasised in the torchlight, before he turned and quick marched for the sleeping quarters.
Pavo was left standing alone, and he felt colder than ever. Then he realised he needed to choose his second-in-command and looked up, seeking out Sura. His friend was already walking over to join him.
‘I’ll be watching your back as usual then?’ Sura offered.
‘Aye, and I’ll be glad of it.’ Pavo forced a grin, despite the fear swirling in his gut.
As Sura followed the fifty into the barrack blocks, Pavo turned to Lupicinus and his riders. ‘What’s my briefing, sir?’ he addressed the comes, casting a soldier-like stare over Lupicinus’ shoulder and towards the horizon.
‘The briefing comes in two parts,’ Lupicinus replied, nodding to the filthy Goth straggler. ‘The first part is as you might expect. Istrita, this man’s village, is in the midst of some kind of standoff between the rebel Goths and those loyal to Fritigern. He says much blood has been spilled already, and there is much more to come.’ Lupicinus slapped a hand on his shoulder, a condescending smile on his face. ‘Then again, I know you’ll get by; after all, you’re one of the heroes of the Bosporus mission.’
Pavo couldn’t hold back a frown as he flicked his gaze to the comes. ‘Sir, I don’t know why you insist on . . . ’
But Lupicinus interrupted. ‘And then there’s the second part of the brief – far more important than slaying a few rebel Goths. You’ll have another two passengers coming along for the ride.’ Lupicinus opened his arms out to the door of the principia. There, in the doorway of the officers’ quarters at the centre of the fort, stood a pair of silhouetted figures, one squat and portly, the other tall and athletic. ‘Come, ambassadors, meet your guide.’
The two figures walked forward and Pavo’s eyes locked onto the nearest of them: short, corpulent and waddling like an overfed goose dressed in purple robes. Then the torchlight revealed a bald pate ringed with wispy grey-blonde tufts, then buttery, pitted skin and a triple row of chins. The man’s beady eyes rested on Pavo like a predator.
No! Pavo’s stomach fell away.
‘Ah,’ Senator Tarquitius grinned like a shark. ‘So the fates conspire to see us reunited, Pavo?’
Pavo’s heart thundered; he hadn’t seen his ex-slavemaster since the tumultuous end to the Bosporus mission. Dread gripped him to think what duplicity and scheming had brought the man here to a border fort in the dead of night. He frowned at Lupicinus. ‘What is he doing here?’
‘The senator is to lead the long-awaited ambassadorial party into Gutthiuda.’
‘So it’s happening? You’re going to speak with Athanaric?’ Pavo’s mind raced. Despite his cynicism, this peace parley – if handled correctly – could be the key to establishing a truce with Athanaric until the Persian campaign was over and the manpower returned from the east. Yet it was to be headed up by the most odious creature he had ever known.
‘Indeed, we are,’ Tarquitius replied, smugly.
Then the tall, lean man beside Tarquitius stepped forward into the torchlight. ‘We will do all we can to broker a lasting peace.’
All eyes turned to him.
Pavo saw that his expression was earnest, unlike that of Tarquitius. His features were sharp, his cheekbones like blades, and his green eyes alert, delicate lines beside them betraying his age. His brown locks were shot with flecks of grey, dangling on his brow in the old Roman style. He wore an eastern-style, long-sleeved tunic with a high collar, blue woollen trousers tucked into brown leather riding boots and he carried a stuffed hemp satchel.
‘Ambassador Salvian,’ Tarquitius announced, ‘my protégé.’
Poor bastard, Pavo thought.
‘Senator, Ambassador, Pavo here will head up your escort,’ Lupicinus said, then turned to Pavo, his nose wrinkling. ‘Pavo, you will escort the ambassadorial party as far as the crossroads by Wodinscomba. That’s, what, some ten days march from here?’
Pavo envisioned the map of Gutthiuda, and the terrain between the fort and the rugged hollow that marked the border between Fritigern and Athanaric’s lands. ‘Eight days on a quick march, sir,’ he replied evenly, sensing Tarquitius’ gaze crawling over his skin.
‘Very well. But a quick march is less important than ensuring the ambassadorial party goes unharmed at all costs, understood?’
‘What happens once we reach the crossroads, sir?’ Pavo asked.
‘There, the senator and the ambassador will rendezvous with,’ he paused, as if he had detected a bad smell, ‘Tribunus Gallus and his party. I have sent a rider ahead at full gallop to contact Gallus and his men and divert them to Wodinscomba. When you rendezvous, the tribunus will then escort the ambassadorial party to Dardarus.’
Pavo’s heart warmed at the thought; Gallus was to be the man to lead the ambassadorial party into Dardarus, Athanaric’s citadel. His only regret was that he could not march with them. ‘And my fifty, sir, should we then wait at Wodinscomba for the tribunus and the ambassadors to return?’
Lupicinus sighed. ‘Were my orders not clear enough for you, soldier? Make haste to Wodinscomba. Then, as soon as you have rendezvoused, you get your fifty to Istrita . . . and leave the thinking for the real officers and nobles.’
Pavo gulped back the urge to snort at this latest arrogant blast. Instead, he saluted, gazed to the horizon, channelled the anger into his lungs, and bellowed with all his might; ‘Yes, sir!’ Lupicinus and Tarquitius flinched at his blast before correcting their stances. Ambassador Salvian barely disguised a smirk at this.
Pavo instantly liked the man.
The gates of the fortress clunked shut and the fifty set off for the pontoon bridge. They moved at a quick march, two abreast with Salvian riding on a white gelding by their left flank and the copious burden of Tarquitius just behind on an unfortunate black stallion. They passed through a pool of thick, freezing fog that clung to a dip in the hinterland and then crested the clear, frosted ground by the training field, sparkling in the breaking dawn.
Up front, Pavo’s breath clouded before him, his lips and nostrils stinging from the cold. Before leaving the fort, they had paused only to throw down some hastily cooked millet porridge and to wash it down with icy water. While the rest had gulped down their meal, Pavo had barely managed to eat half of his ration, his gut churning with anxiety. His thoughts danced with taunting self-doubt and the image of the fifty and Tarquitius scowling at him – or worse, laughing at him – from behind.
He glanced to Sura, by his side; Sura had stuck by him resolutely in his time with the legion. For a moment, a glow of optimism grew in his belly when he thought of Tribunus Gallus and Primus Pilus Felix marching side by side like this.
Then he shot a look over his shoulder, not for too long as he didn’t want to arouse mistrust in his men. From his snatched glance, he could see that the comitatenses at the front of the fifty marched well, in formation and at a good pace; Lupicinus’ legionaries were obviously well-drilled soldiers. But then there was the handful to the rear – the Claudia recruits; they were ragged, some falling back or marching wide of the column – only to be expected given that they only had a few weeks of legionary life under their belts. He remembered his own fledgling days when a quick march felt like outright torture. It was not so much the pace, but the relentless endurance required to keep it up for ten hours or more every day, especially when laden with the full marching kit: earth shifting basket, hand axe, pickaxe and sickle together with several water skins, a soured wineskin, wraps of hardtack biscuits, millet grain and salted mutton, all pulling at the shoulders. And then there was the mail-shirt, digging into the skin, whilst boots scraped on ankles and helmets chafed on scalps, not to mention the crux of the legionary kit: the spatha sword, hasta spear and the weighty legionary shield.
Despite this, he felt sure they needed a stern word to bring them into formation, but then doubts crept into his thoughts again; would they see it as overly heavy-handed? They were only a quarter mile from the fort after all. No, he affirmed, marching in formation was crucial for the swiftness of the mission. And potentially, he reasoned, for their survival. He would do it for his own good and theirs.
‘Keep it tighter,’ he roared, then took a breath and turned to finish his sentence; tighter at the back! But before he could finish, a voice cut him off from just behind.
‘If you think you can march better than us, then drop back here and carry one of these,’ Crito grumbled. The rest of the older men muttered in agreement at this.
Pavo fell silent as he glanced at the veterans. They were laden not only with their kit and ration packs, but also – in lieu of pack mules – with the goatskin and timber tent packs doubling their burden. Despite this they were marching in perfect time and formation and Crito was probably the finest example. Pavo’s lips trembled as he tried to think of a line that would clarify his order, something that wouldn’t sound cloying to the veterans. But too much time passed and the moment was gone.
They came to the bridgehead. There, four legionaries manned the castrum and another two milled around the giant ballista, all stamping their feet and blowing into their hands for heat. Pavo slowed and saluted, just as the vexillatio had done yesterday. ‘Vexillatio, coming through,’ he called to the sentries.
They straightened and saluted. Then, on seeing that no centurion or true officer marched at their head, they slumped. ‘Another vexillatio? Is there anyone left in the fort?’ one groaned, his words tinged with anxiety.
Pavo marched past in silence, but he heard the men of his column exchanging gripes about the situation. In the flurry of muttering and whispers, he was sure he could hear his name being mentioned in acid tones. His skin burned. He glanced up to see Tarquitius’ eyes fixed upon him, revelling in his ex-slave’s discomfort. Then he looked to his side to see Salvian the ambassador watching him with that earnest expression. Probably shocked by the mumbling boy who’s been tasked with protecting him, he mused, turning to study the ground in front of him again. Then, a nudge from Sura pulled him from his own self-loathing.
‘Rider approaching!’ his friend cried. Then, after a double-take at Pavo’s foul expression, he added; ‘Sir!’
Pavo peered to the west. There, bathed in orange from the rising sun, the town of Durostorum shimmered. From the town a cloaked, hooded rider approached, dirt spraying in its wake. He squinted as the figure neared, then a warm realisation grew in his heart.
Felicia.
Her riding style was unmistakable – it was just as he had taught her and just as he himself had learned in this last year. ‘At ease,’ he called as he heard sword hilts being gripped behind him.
‘Ave,’ she called, reining the grey mare to a stop by the head of the column. Then she lifted down the black hemp hood to reveal milk-white and delicate features, blue eyes and tumbling amber locks.
‘Felicia,’ Pavo said, stepping forward, hoping to obscure his ridiculous grin from the fifty. She looked not only beautiful, but fresh too. All that was missing was a smile. ‘I’ve been to the inn three times in the last week and every time you’ve been elsewhere. Now I find you out here, galloping at dawn near the fort?’
‘You sound like my father,’ she replied dismissively.
Pavo sighed. ‘When will I see you again, properly?’
‘When you return from Gutthiuda, presumably,’ she replied matter-of-factly. Then she slid from her mount and stood close to him, taking his hands. But she was looking over his shoulder, scanning the fifty with a wrinkle on her nose. ‘So . . . the rest of your contubernium – they are not with you?’
He frowned. Why should she care about them? Then he pulled her a little closer. But she continued to avoid his gaze. ‘Felicia, what is this about?’ he asked, even though he was sure he knew the answer. Ever since he had met her, she had flitted between two personalities: one, a vivacious young lady; the other, a driven, distant woman, far older than her other self. At first he had been confused by her changes in mood. Then he had noticed that these changes came about whenever there was mention of her older brother, Curtius, who used to serve in the ranks of the Claudia. Curtius had died in service and his death was shrouded in mystery and rumour. Pavo could have well understood her sorrow, but not the determination and steel that seemed to overcome her when the subject was raised.
She looked to him. ‘Pavo,’ she smiled, but it was a cheerless smile, ‘when we talk again, I hope all of this will be over.’ With that, she pressed her lips to his.
Pavo felt her tears blot against his cheek, but when he opened his eyes, she had already pulled away to her mare. Then she hoisted herself into the saddle, heeled the mount and cried; ‘Ya!’ With that, she was a hooded rider again shrinking as she galloped back to Durostorum. Pavo’s eyes hung on her wake, his thoughts spinning.
‘Er . . . Pavo?’ Sura whispered beside him.
Pavo blinked, then spun to the fifty. The veterans wore filthy scowls on their faces. Tarquitius examined his fingernails and over-officiously cleared his throat.
‘Bollocking us for formation while he stops to chat with a bit of pussy,’ one veteran grumbled, nudging Crito with his elbow. But the sunken-eyed legionary simply glared at Pavo, then offered a trademark sneer when Pavo tried to hold eye contact.
At this, Pavo’s neck burned. He gulped to find composure and stabbed out his tongue to moisten his lips. The grumbling of the veterans grew, some relaxing out of marching posture and formation, shaking their heads. Sura’s brow was knitted in concern and Pavo was sure at that moment that the best thing would be to hand command over to his friend. But then, Salvian the ambassador looked at him, his expression sincere, and then he gave Pavo the faintest of nods, a hint of a smile touching one edge of his mouth.
It was nothing and everything, a drop of encouragement into his pool of despair. He squared his shoulders, pushed his chest out, steeled his expression and sucked in a lungful of air.
‘Did I give you permission to fall out? Get back into formation!’ he roared.
The men hesitated for a moment, and Pavo’s heart seemed to freeze. But, at last, they tightened up into marching formation, though still grumbling. He spun round to face front and, knowing they could no longer see his face, exhaled in utter relief.
Then they set off, boots drumming on the timbers of the pontoon bridge. He noticed that Salvian had ridden level with him and he offered the ambassador a brisk nod of thanks.
Fifty two men, he mused, glancing to Sura and Salvian, and only two would piss in my mouth if my teeth were on fire.