A lone bireme cut through the foaming waters of the Pontus Euxinus, heading north. Pavo, standing at the landward side, gripped the ship’s edge, holding himself steady against the buck and sway of the choppy waters. Seasickness always seemed to be worse in the mornings. He tried fixing his gaze on points on the coast, which helped a little. However, when they passed one blackened ruin of what had been a Roman fort, then the abandoned and well-pillaged coastal town, he decided to turn his attentions elsewhere. The north of Thracia was a land of shades, it seemed, scarred with the markings of war and infested with Gothic invaders. And it was right into the depths of this realm they were headed. Part of him yearned to see Durostorum again, wanting to believe that it would be as it had once been: a Roman town with the XI Claudia fort adjacent; a peaceful border settlement; Felicia’s home. The cold, scarred soldier’s skin enveloped him then: his memories of Durostorum were fond, but memories and no more. The town was overrun with Goths, the fort too… and Felicia was dead. Bitterness lanced through him as he wondered again which cur within the Gothic hordes had cut her down. ‘The truth is I’ll never know,’ he whispered. ‘I can never avenge her,’ he added, sliding down to sit, back resting against the galley’s edge.
But to the old fort they would go, and it would be the last – and hopefully decisive – act of their mission, for it was early July. Bastianus had used the month given to him by Valens and it was almost time to return to Melanthias… to return in time for Emperor Gratian’s arrival from the West. In time for Dexion and Gallus’ arrival, he mouthed, lifted from his gloom by the thought. The scroll from Narco had been ruined whilst wading up the River Hebrus, but the message upon it would never fade until it came to pass.
…Dexion has reached Treverorum. He will return in time to ensure the emperor’s victory…
He smiled, then looked aft towards the circle of soldiers sitting on deck playing dice, eating and bantering. Just this one vessel and its ten fighting men – he, Bastianus, Agilo the explorator, Zosimus, Quadratus, Sura, Trupo, Cornix, Libo and Rectus – were the chosen ones. The few who would wander into the jaws of the Goths’ secondary base camp.
This small group had ridden at haste from the ruins of the Greuthingi camp on the Hebrus, coming to a small hidden rural jetty south of Gothic-occupied Deultum three days ago. Bastianus had withheld the fact that they would be travelling to Durostorum by boat, and Pavo – expecting to travel the rest of the way on horseback, perhaps along the Via Pontica – had beheld the waiting ship like a cat might eye a bath. Three days – so far – of eating, throwing up over the side, enduring the roaring laughter of Zosimus, Quadratus and Sura, eating again, throwing up again, being mocked mercilessly again, then not bothering to eat much at all after that. He groaned, ran his fingers though his freshly-cropped hair and tried to appreciate the fresh sea air. He heard Bastianus and Agilo chatting, and turned to see that they had strolled to the prow to gaze ahead.
‘It’ll be like cracking a walnut,’ Agilo mused, his red foxskin cap in his hands.
‘There is a town and a fort,’ Bastianus replied, ‘they’ll be bedded into both, I imagine.’
Pavo rose and approached the pair. ‘Durostorum’s walls are perfunctory, no more. The fort is the real stronghold.’ Bastianus and Agilo turned to him, intrigued.
‘We can talk all day about our plans, Agilo, but this man and the Claudia lads know what they’re talking about,’ Bastianus grinned. ‘You have plans of the fort layout?’
Pavo shook his head, then tapped his temple. ‘Only up here. But that should be enough. I can tell you of its approaches, its walls, towers, barracks, stores… and cells. I can assure you that it will not fall to an assault,’ he flicked his head back towards the eight soldiers on board, ‘certainly not to a small force like this.’
‘We’re not going to break the walls, Centurion,’ Bastianus said, ‘we’re going to slip inside them.’
Agilo pulled a quizzical look. ‘And then? Surely if Fritigern is using the place as a stronghold, he will have a stout garrison there?’
‘He will, no doubt,’ Bastianus agreed. ‘But we won’t be taking them all on. No, we do just enough to show Fritigern that we can penetrate even his main camps. Every man has a breaking point. We have to find his,’ he punched a fist into his palm, ‘to force him to reunite his damned horde.’
Moonlight bathed the Danubius’ hinterland, but only keen eyes would have spotted the lone bireme moving slowly upriver under power of oars, hugging the southern banking. The gentle lapping of oars ceased as the ship moored behind a slight twist in the river, shielding it from the sight of any onlookers to the south. Ten soldiers in dark garb slipped from the ship’s side and splashed through the eelgrass and shallows, before scuttling from the waterside and up a grassy hump where they settled onto their bellies to behold the sight before them: the plain of Durostorum.
A strip of poorly tended wheat crop stood between them and the grey, lichen-coated northern walls of the XI Claudia fort – the old place resembling a slumbering, stony titan. The town of Durostorum itself lay just west of the fort. The town sported ghostly orange bubbles of light on its walls. Pavo noticed though that the fort had been spared a keener watch than the town – while the torchlight on the town walls was still, the sentries on the fort battlements were marching back and forth vigilantly scanning the land outwith.
‘Seems you were right, Centurion,’ Bastianus said, lying prone on his belly. ‘The fort’s the place they guard most keenly. That’s where the grain is.’
Pavo nodded, his eyes combing this grey-walled bulwark and the town. So many memories flooded back to him. He cast a quick glance along the line of men, meeting the glassy eyes of Zosimus, Quadratus and Sura, the only men remaining from the days when this had been the Claudia’s home. None of them said a word. No words were needed.
‘I’ve counted the sentries’ routine,’ Agilo whispered, ‘We have a gap of maybe forty heartbeats when the northern wall is unwatched.’
Pavo watched as, indeed, the two Gothic sentries pacing that wall walked towards each other, met in the middle, shared a moment of muted chat, then walked back towards their respective corner towers, leaving the midsection unwatched for that short spell before they turned to face one another again. Each was clad in a baked red leather vest and iron helm and carried a spear.
‘Then it’s on your call, explorator,’ Bastianus said.
Agilo nodded then watched the sentries, his lips moving as he counted silently, one hand raised, a finger extended and ready to be dropped.
Bastianus looked to each of the officers along the line. ‘Ready?’
‘Yes, sir,’ they hissed in reply.
‘Right,’ Bastianus said, ‘one last thing, we need to disguise our faces again.’
Sura was first to react, unclipping a haircloth sack from his belt and smearing his face in pungent horse dung. It was clearly fresh, with wisps of steam still rising from it. All near him recoiled. ‘I got this from Agilo’s horse,’ he said, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder towards the hidden bireme as he worked the last of the dung in around his nose and eyes then through his blonde hair. ‘There… done!’ he whispered with a smug look on his filthy face.
‘What in the name of the gods is wrong with you?’ Bastianus gasped, gawping at Sura, then scooping up a handful of earth to blacken his own features. ‘Horse shit when you’re sneaking up on horses. Otherwise, earth.’
Libo and Rectus struggled to stifle laughter as they wiped dirt on their faces. Trupo and Cornix too. ‘Smelliest whoreson in Adrianople?’ Quadratus quipped, flicking his head towards Sura.
‘You’re one to talk,’ Sura said sourly, steam still rising from his face.
‘Go!’ Agilo hissed, ending the squabble and chopping his raised finger down.
At once, the ten were up and flooding across the stretch of ground between the hillock and the fort’s northern wall, ploughing through the wheat stalks. They kept low, hugged the darkest shadows, moving like spirits, making not a sound apart from the crackling of breaking crop stalks.
Thirty seven, thirty eight, Pavo counted as he scuttled, his eyes flicking between the shadowy blind spot at the foot of the northern wall, still some twenty strides ahead, and the parapet high above. The two Goths striding up there were almost at the corner towers and about to turn back to face one another, and they would surely see anything moving down here. Thirty nine, forty, forty one, he mouthed, panic welling in his breast as he saw the leftmost Goth turn on his heel, his gaze coming round and out across the countryside.
‘Down!’ Agilo hissed. At once, the twelve dropped to the ground amongst the wheat stalks. Pavo lay on his belly, propped up on his elbows, clinging on to the breath in his lungs, sure the Goth was about to spot them, imagining the still-quivering wheat stalks acting like waving hands, desperate to attract attention. His heart pounded in his chest and he even wondered if the sentry might hear it. The Goth stopped for a moment, and Pavo was sure the man’s eyes were upon him. Fear threatened to throttle him then, until Bastianus’ pledge to the small group came back to him.
We will be swift as deer, silent like hawks, unseen like shadows in the night.
The Goth saw nothing, and carried on, marching towards the centre section of the wall. They lay there for so long Pavo felt his arms tingle and grow numb. At last, the pair met and turned away again, and Agilo’s sibilant order sounded. ‘Go!’
They rose, scuttled on out of the stalks and into the blind spot, backs pressed to the fort’s northern wall. Here, the muffled sound of chatter, skirling pipes and gruff laughter sounded from within. Many voices… a strong garrison indeed. Pavo saw Bastianus’ silent signal to Quadratus, who unhooked a loop of rope from his shoulder, took the iron grappling hook tied at one end – painted black – then spun and tossed the barb up. A faint chink of iron grinding on stone sounded, and all of them froze. From up above, they heard nothing. Then – the muted banter of the two Goths as they drew together. It lasted a few heartbeats and faded again.
Now Bastianus gestured frantically to Pavo and Sura. ‘Climb!’
Pavo steeled his nerves and took hold of the rope, looped it around his waist then planted one boot against the stonework of the wall. He let his arms take his weight and hoisted himself up, gingerly seeking out the next foothold. Moments later, he was halfway up, and Sura was just below him.
‘How in Hades did we end up with this part of the plan?’ he hissed, glancing down at the dung-smeared features of his friend.
‘I might have… er… ’ Sura started, ‘told him that I was… a decent climber back in my Adrianople days.’
‘A decent climber?’ Pavo whispered suspiciously. Sura rarely – if ever – stooped to describing himself as merely ‘decent’ at anything.
‘Well,’ Sura added sheepishly, ‘I actually said I was known as the Mountain Man of Thracia, that I taught people how to climb. That I had taught you.’
Pavo shot him a fierce glower, then realised he was almost at the parapet. He heard the Goths meet and then part again, just feet above him. Now Sura scaled up to his side. ‘Ready?’
‘Ready.’
The pair hoisted themselves up and over, onto the battlements into a crouch. The myriad of voices, laughter and clacking cups from within the fort grew sharp and all-too-close, but they couldn’t afford to pay the many Goths down there a scrap of attention, for they only had a few moments of invisibility while the two sentries were strolling away from this midpoint of the walkway. With a silent hand gesture, Pavo went for the one on the left and Sura for the one on the right.
Pavo crept until he was but paces behind the man, then launched himself, wrapping a hand around the Goth’s mouth and his other arm around the man’s neck, compressing it with all his strength. The man struggled mutely, dropping his spear – Pavo stuck out a leg to help dampen any noise as it clattered onto the battlement. The Goth was strong like a bull, and Pavo feared he didn’t have the strength to hold him, but like a stiff wind dropping, the sentry suddenly fell limp, passing out. He turned to see the other sentry in a heap, Sura rubbing his forearm where he had smashed down on the back of the man’s neck. They looked at one another, nodded, and each dragged the sentry they had felled into the corner towers nearest. Pavo sat his sentry against a wall then plucked the helm from the man’s head and untied the leather cuirass, donning both and taking up the spear. A moment later, he emerged back onto the walkway, strolling towards the midpoint as if nothing had happened, Sura strolling towards him likewise, also donned in salvaged Gothic garb.
As he walked, he shot furtive looks around the fort’s interior, taking in every detail of the place. The layout was as it always had been, but the signs of neglect were hard to miss: all round the inside of the fort walls stood the barrack blocks. The whitewashed walls were flaking and stained and the timber shutters were rotting. Many Gothic warriors were clustered in the porches, eating, drinking, laughing and playing games as the legionaries had once done. By the fort’s southern gate, the Goths had erected a makeshift, lean-to timber stable, where a clutch of thirty or so powerful warhorses munched on fodder. Further in, the sand-floored training ground was thick with weeds, and a large group of Goths stood there around a spit of meat, cooking over a small fire to the rasping tune of the pipes. The fabrica – a tall, square building – glowed with the light of fires within. It was from this workshop the Greuthingi raiders they had ambushed at the River Hebrus had obtained their Roman helms. Beside it was the horreum: this towering grain silo was listing, neglected and its timbers were split, revealing the faint yellow of the Goths’ ample grain supplies within. More Goths milled around near the praetorium – once the home of Gallus and the Claudia leaders before him. The roof of this stocky, simple villa was sagging and badly in need of repair. In the heart of the fort, the red-roofed principia building glowed with the light of an open fire in the courtyard just inside its entrance, and every few moments roaring laughter spilled from there. This place had once been the fort stronghold, the chambers to the rear of the inner courtyard housing the legionary pay chests, the eagle standard and smaller unit banners and the weapon stores. The six alert and brawny Gothic spearmen posted around the entrance to the principia suggested it housed something equally valuable to the Goths. Pavo’s thoughts spun as he recalled Bastianus’ brief:
Put a snake in his bed. Steal his bread and his coins.
He scanned the other three parapets to be sure none of the sentries there had any suspicions, then leant over the wall and whistled. In reply, two more black-painted grappling hooks leapt up and dug into the edge of the battlements. Cornix and Trupo climbed up first, whipping bows off of their backs as soon as they were on their feet. Bastianus and Zosimus came next, then Quadratus and the others. They swiftly moved into the stairwell of the northeastern tower, and Pavo pointed out the grain silo and the well-guarded principia.
‘Perfect!’ Bastianus said, his face gleeful. ‘Now, you two keep patrolling,’ he waved Pavo out of the stairwell onto the battlements where Sura still walked, ‘and be ready for my signal. You’ll know it when it comes,’ he added with a manic smile.
Pavo did as he was instructed, he and Sura continuing to walk the battlements. From the corner of his eye, he noticed the group stealing along the eastern walltop, silently felling the sentries there and Zosimus and Quadratus taking their place. A moment later and the rest of the group carried on and did the same on the southern walkway. There, a small spark of orange glowed briefly, then with a dull twang, two fiery streaks sped silently up into the air, arcing down and thudding into the timber grain silo near that wall. Not one Goth noticed, but a moment later, the desiccated and splintered timbers erupted in an angry conflagration and panic broke out.
‘That’ll be the signal then,’ Pavo whispered as the silo lit up the night sky like a god’s torch.
Shouting and jagged curses filled the air as hundreds of Goths poured from the barrack blocks, flooding towards the blaze in confusion, some snatching up water buckets and fighting the flames. But the blaze had taken hold firmly, and their efforts failed to stem its growth. Now more and more warriors flooded to the scene, two carrying water troughs from the makeshift timber stable. Pavo noticed how those guarding the principia looked on, eager to help but refusing to shift from their posts – until one man in a fine mail coat rushed from within, followed by a clutch of servants. He barked at two of the sentries who went with him as he strode towards the blaze. Just four men remained guarding the principia. Pavo froze in his patrol. It was time. He made for the stairs in the northeastern tower, beckoning Sura with him.
‘Hold on,’ Quadratus grunted from the end of the adjacent walkway.
Pavo swung to the big man, who tossed something to him – a pole of some sort, wrapped in cloth – then slunk back into the stairwell. Pavo realised what it was, grinned, strapped it to his back then hurried off down the stairs to the fort floor.
Despite the chaos of shouting and dancing flame and shadows, the four Goths guarding the principia entrance remained steadfast, feet rooted by the arched entrance.
‘How in Hades do we get past them?’ Sura spat, crouching with Pavo just a few strides away behind a hay bale lying on its side.
Pavo scanned the nearest side wall of the principia: the windows were narrow and barred, and the stonework was smooth and surely hard to climb. When a waft of smoke from the blazing grain silo drifted past them, he cocked an eyebrow, looking from it to the stack of more hay bales – three high – near the sentries. He noticed the torch guttering on the wall of the nearest barrack block, and stole over to pluck it from its sconce. He held the flame a hand’s-width from the bale they were hiding behind, then looked at Sura. ‘Ready?’
‘And they say I’m the insane one,’ Sura hissed.
Pavo touched the flame to the hay bale. It went up with a whoosh. He and Sura booted at it, sending it bouncing across the front of the principia. They ducked behind a parked wagon to watch as the four guards gawped, eyes following the flaming mass as it crashed into the heaped bales, instantly lighting them too with another fierce whoosh, and toppling them.
‘Wodin’s balls!’ one cried. Two of them leapt out of the way of one falling bale, another staggered back, his cloak catching light, and the last danced back, fighting with the third bale, jabbing it with his spear to bring it to a halt, blinking and retching from the smoke.
‘Now!’ Pavo hissed, seeing the four were distracted. He and Sura stole inside the principia, tucking into the shadows of the porticoed courtyard within before the guards returned to their positions, still coughing and spitting, snarling at one another: ‘Where did that come from?’ one spat.
From inside, Pavo edged his head out of the shadows to see the four men had once again adopted their sentinel-like stances at the entrance, backs turned and unaware of the breach. He looked around the courtyard, seeing the cooking fire in the centre – scraps of half-eaten meat and hastily discarded wine skins still lay around it where the men in charge of this fort had moments ago been enjoying a feast. The pair motioned in unison towards the doorway at the rear of the courtyard – the principia’s inner sanctum. They padded into the grey, gloomy tribunal hall. Pavo glanced to the pulpit on his right – where once Gallus and a long time ago, Nerva, had addressed the men of the legion. Ahead of them on the far side of the hall, three doorways beckoned. The room on the left side was the weapon store, while the one on the right served as an officium, for the legion’s clerks to work. But the central door led to the chamber they both knew and knew well – the sacellum, the regimental shrine. A single torch glowed in there, guttering and casting a deep red light. The pair stepped inside. Gone were the eagle standards. Gone were the rich ruby-red drapes that had once hung here. The altar at the back wall lay shattered – the ultimate insult from the Gothic conquerors. But there before the altar sat a small chest, etched with Gothic markings.
Pavo and Sura crouched before it and prized the lid open. Their faces were uplit with an amber light: beautifully worked golden torcs, silver diadems, gem-encrusted goblets and more – not plundered Roman items but age-old Gothic treasures by the look of it. ‘Mithras!’ Pavo whispered. ‘Bastianus wants us to unsettle the Goths? Let’s see how they feel about losing their gold.’
‘I’m with you. But how do we get it out of here?’ Sura cooed, his eyes shooting from the treasure then over his shoulder: the doors, the courtyard and the guards at the arched entrance.
Pavo considered the weighty chest. There was no way they could heave this out of the principia let alone the fort without the Goths spotting them and their departing treasure. He noticed a neat pile of small haircloth sacks in the corner, and an embryo of an idea began to form.
But before it could take shape, barking, angry voices sounded outside: the Gothic leader by the sounds of it. Faraway one moment then much closer the next - at the principia entrance. Coming this way and fast. Sura shot Pavo a look of terror. They were trapped. Stone walls, ceiling and floor. No way out bar the direction of the swiftly approaching voices.
Pavo’s eyes swept around the chamber again and again, backing towards the rear wall, his hand instinctively going for his sword – the only option, surely. When his heel clipped the edge of a flagstone that sat slightly proud of the floor he almost lost his footing and was about to curse the slab. Then he realised why it was that way. He clasped a hand to the cloth-wrapped pole Quadratus had given him. His eyes narrowed and flicked to the nearing voices.
‘Pavo?’ Sura whispered, spatha half-drawn, ready to go down with a fight.
‘Sheathe your sword,’ Pavo said.
When the flames were finally dowsed, Reiks Ortwin strode to and fro before the smoking, ruined silo, his nostrils flaring at the choking stench and in acute rage. He stopped to scoop up a handful of the burnt grain, weighing it then tossing it down with a snarl. Those negligent fools with their roasting spits at the edge of the old Roman training area had caused this, he was sure. A few of his men were already busy sifting through the mess, picking up meagre handfuls of unscorched grain and filling sacks with it.
‘Leave it – it is ruined. What is not burnt is now soaked,’ he snarled.
He swung away from the scene and strode back towards the principia, his head swimming with nagging voices. Fritigern had stressed to him the importance of the Durostorum camp: it, along with the main one at Kabyle, was a pillar supporting their hold over Thracia. That was why he had been entrusted with the grain that was supposed to see almost half of the entire Gothic horde through the summer and the following winter. Yet it was gone. All gone.
He barged past the four spearmen guarding the principia entrance and set eyes upon his half-eaten meal by the fire in the courtyard within. His belly still rumbled yet never had he felt less hungry. Wine, he thought, wine will soothe the pain. As he stooped to pick up his discarded wineskin, he smiled, imagining how he could pin the blame on those careless fools cooking near the wagons. Perhaps a grand execution would help divert the scorn from him? Yes, he mused, uncorking the skin and gulping heavily from it, I can have them roasted alive, perhaps. Mid-drink, something caught his eye – something within the chambers to the rear of the principia. He frowned, turning to the dull red glow coming from the Roman shrine room. He had taken great delight in striking a hammer upon the altar in there when they had first occupied the fort. It had felt wondrous, and it had raised a raucous cheer from his men. Never had he felt more powerful than when standing before that broken monument. But what was this thing in there that had caught his eye: something tall and motionless, something that didn’t look right – not at all. He edged towards the room, welcoming the instant presence of two flanking guards who had also spotted the oddity. They stalked towards the shrine room until they saw exactly what it was: in the spot before the broken altar where his treasure trunk was supposed to be, a legionary standard stood proud, wedged into the cracks between the flagstones. A silver eagle, wings spread, glinted from the top of the staff and a ruby-red bull banner hung from the standard’s crossbar, the raging animal triumphant.
No, he mouthed, staring at the banner, willing it not to be. The gold Fritigern had entrusted to him was gone. This, he could not pin on lax sentries. This, and no doubt the fired grain had been the work of legionaries.
‘Guards!’ he thundered.
Pavo and Sura were crouched in utter darkness when they heard the thunderous cry and then the clatter of boots running to and fro before eventually fading.
‘They’ve bought it,’ Sura whispered.
‘Maybe,’ Pavo replied. Gingerly, he rose from his crouch, feeling his shoulders push against the cold flagstone above them. With a grunt, he rose a little more, and the slab on the sacellum floor rose just a fraction. A sliver of dull red light split the darkness and they peered out from their hiding place in the sunken half-chamber where once the legionary pay chests had been kept. The principia was deserted. He could see all the way from here, through the tribunal hall and the courtyard to the arched entrance. ‘The guards have left their posts too,’ he whispered.
With great care, he and Sura stood up, lifting the slab on their shoulders, then carefully placing it down. The Claudia standard lay on the floor nearby, the wooden shaft broken after the raging Gothic Reiks had snapped it across his knee while they hid, just a few feet under him. Pavo carefully worked the silver eagle from the top of one half of the pole and detached and rolled up the ruby pennant.
Next, they hove the treasure trunk from the pit too – but this time it was far lighter, for they also lifted out a bunch of six haircloth sacks filled with the Gothic spoils. They strapped three treasure sacks each to their backs: the burden was considerable, but years of marching in full legionary garb with kit and tent poles saw them right. Sweeping their cloaks over the sacks to hide them, they each put on their Gothic helms once again, shared a look of trepidation, then strode for the courtyard and the arched entrance. Beyond, Goths were rushing here and there.
‘We’ve got to look purposeful,’ Sura muttered. ‘No dithering, no nervous glances,’ he said with a slight wheeze under the burden of the treasure sacks.
‘We just head straight for the stables,’ Pavo agreed.
They paced out of the principia and the scene around the fort floor was even more chaotic than when the fires had been blazing. The reiks in charge of the place was clutching at his fair locks, wrenching at them, swinging this way and that. ‘Legionaries have infiltrated the fort. They’ve made off with the ancestral treasures!’ he yelped, all composure having deserted him. All around him, his bodyguards jostled, trying to get a straight order from their leader. Up on the walls, sentries had flooded around the walkway, peering out into the night in search of fleeing Roman thieves. For an instant, Pavo felt a pang of dread for his comrades, but a glance around the battlements confirmed that Bastianus and the others had escaped.
‘Find them!’ Reiks Ortwin cried, shaking with panic, flapping a hand to the fort’s southern gate. ‘Get riders out there!’
‘Be quick,’ Pavo hissed, hurrying towards the stables. The hand in charge there barely gave them a second glance, merely offering them the reins of the first two mounts. The pair climbed onto the saddles, the gates opened, and they rode into the plain of Durostorum. As they wheeled round to the left, towards the wheat field and the moored trireme, the sound of many more clopping hooves sounded behind them.
‘You!’
Pavo and Sura shared a breathless glance, before twisting to look back. Six Gothic scout riders stared back at them. Pavo was sure his heart was about to leap from his mouth.
‘Search northeast,’ one of the riders snapped, flicking a finger towards the wheat field, ‘we’ll ride south.’
Pavo nodded in assent before the six rode away.
He and Sura heeled their stolen mounts into a gallop through the wild crop field. As they pulled away from the Gothic-occupied fort, he felt elation rise in his breast. They sped on towards the bireme’s hidden mooring and spotted Bastianus and the others, lying flat and hidden on the hillock, urging them on, mouthing cries of delight, eyes and teeth sparkling in the moonlight. This ragged band had done it: cast a spear firmly between Fritigern’s feet. The fate of Thracia was tilting once more back into Roman hands. The Gothic War could be won. He thought of Gratian’s army marching from the west. Maybe, just maybe, Gallus and Dexion were marching with them, ready to spearhead the push for victory.
‘Ya!’ Pavo cried.
Fritigern gazed down upon the cowering Reiks Ortwin from his raised seat in the open ground of the Kabyle acropolis. The man lacked many of the qualities of the other reiks’ of his Council, but he had foolishly assumed that putting him in charge of the Durostorum camp – many miles from the nearest Roman force – would give him little means with which to make a mess of things. But that was exactly what the trembling cur had done. And now the gathered circle of his Council would pick over the corpse of the Durostorum disaster, sharpen the bones and stick them into their Iudex’s flesh.
‘The legions seem to have found a new way of fighting,’ Alatheus said, deciding he had held his silence long enough, striding from the circle and turning slowly to meet the eyes of each man at the gathering. ‘They have run our warbands out of southern Thracia and now,’ he gestured towards the kneeling Ortwin, head bowed, ‘they have outmanoeuvred us, fallen upon our rear and torn the hamstrings of our northern base.’
Fritigern wrung his hands together. Many spoke of the tall grain silos in the Durostorum fort as a surplus. Only those gathered before him knew the truth – without that grain his people would suffer famine this winter. Perhaps, if it was rationed carefully, it might-
‘We cannot, must not delay,’ Saphrax bellowed, cutting across Fritigern’s thoughts. He strode out into the circle like Alatheus, chopping his hand into his palm with each word. ‘To delay would be to starve. We do not even have the gold to buy replacement grain now.’ At this, Ortwin visibly slumped even further.
‘And my riders’ patience has grown thin,’ Alatheus pressed, his eyes boring into Fritigern. ‘Any more delays…’
Here it comes, thought Fritigern, that immutable threat.
‘…and I cannot guarantee that the cavalry will remain within the Alliance. Already, groups gather at the stables and talk of what fortune they might find were they to ride alone. Perhaps to the west, perhaps across the sea.’
Fritigern eyed the pair, imagining the unending pleasure he would have in staving in each of their skulls with a blunt object. But for once, he found no words to fend off their argument. There was no option left, the grip on Thracia was slipping. And the messages he had sent to Valens? They had been ignored, it seemed. The Emperor of the East preferred war to parley.
His warbands were already converging on Kabyle – camping all across the central Thracian plain like returning prodigal sons. His only tack now was to once again assume direct control of these groups, to harness the beast, to steer the enormous roaming band of spears, bows and swords. He imagined the united horde and saw in his head a gnashing dog, on a leash one moment and then attacking him the next.
Then what? He thought. War with Valens?
He sought reason desperately. Was there hope still that the two great leaders might talk on some sun-scorched battlefield, that swords might remain sheathed? It was the most slender of hopes, and one that could only be tested by bringing both armies nose to nose. He stood, seeing the retorts and counter-arguments waiting on the lips of Alatheus and Saphrax, but this time, they would not be needed.
‘Send messengers to all the Thervingi warbands on the plain and those still roaming further afield. Take word to the Greuthingi riders out there too. The horde is to gather here. Have them form a great camp on the grounds southwest of the city.’
Alatheus and Saphrax’s faces lit up in glee. A thunderous roar filled the acropolis.
‘Have them train and hone their weapons,’ Fritigern cried, struggling to be heard over the chorus of excitement. ‘But once gathered here at Kabyle, no man shall advance towards the Romans until I give the order. Do you understand? Do you understand?’ he cried. Only those closest to him heard.
Never in his entire reign as Iudex of the Gothic Alliance had he felt such a lack of control.
Valens eyed the letter again, the lamplight in the tent dancing in his eyes.
The warbands of central Thracia have been vanquished, herded like cattle to the north. More, we have both ascertained the location of and infiltrated Fritigern’s secondary stronghold: his stout watch at Durostorum could not deter my forces as we found a way inside those walls. The place was a crucial possession: holding grain and tribal treasures. Now, the grain supply has been ruined and we have recovered more plundered Roman coin than we can even carry – were it not for the trireme we would have had to bury it across the countryside. This, Domine, is a moment to savour. My success outshines even the glorious campaigns I enjoyed in the west. Feats such as this can inspire the legions at Melanthias and…
His cheek twitched at the wording and he slumped in his chair, choosing not to read the rest.
‘Something is wrong, Domine?’ Traianus said.
Valens checked himself and donned a mask of equanimity as best he could. He had been the one to summon Bastianus, despite protestations from Traianus and others, after all.
‘Bastianus’ successes are surely joyous news?’ Victor said.
Valens wondered if the Sarmatian-born officer had deliberately inflected the term Bastianus’ successes. A subtle rebuke for calling the westerner to Thracia?
‘Domine?’ Saturninus added. ‘Shall we advise the legions that we are at last ready to march? Everything is poised as we might hope: Fritigern’s horde has congregated, our legions here are eager and, crucially, Emperor Gratian will be here within days now, surely? With his numbers to supplement ours we will be strong enough to face the horde and end this war.’
Valens felt the air in the tent thicken, the invisible iron burden pressing on his shoulders. The Gothic horde was clustered at Kabyle. The legions were indeed eager and restless here at Melanthias. Every day they spoke of Bastianus’ reported victories and of Gratian’s approach with a vast army of reinforcements. The latter issue drew his gaze, askance, at the other letter that had come in this morning, folded on the small table by his side.
Curse you, nephew, he mouthed. Curse you, boy!
‘Domine?’ Saturninus repeated, gesturing to this second letter. ‘It is as you say, is it not: Emperor Gratian is but days away?’
Valens’ throat drained of moisture. He was never a good liar, and that lie had been momentous. ‘Hmm, yes… yes,’ he said, disguising his discomfort by taking a long gulp of unwatered wine. ‘His original estimate of the first day of July was a little ambitious. He is late already!’ he said with an uneasy and uncharacteristic chuckle. ‘But he will be here… very soon.’
The men of the consistorium seemed not to notice his discomfort.
‘Then we should arrange to rendezvous with him – somewhere closer to Fritigern and his horde. Give the word and I can have the army ready to move out within days,’ Traianus pressed.
‘The men are eager to leave this place behind, Domine,’ Victor added.
‘Everything is in place: the Goths are ripe to be tackled,’ Saturninus agreed.
Valens nodded faintly, looked to the two letters once more, then lamented the absence of another. Three messengers he had despatched to Fritigern. Three times he had received no form of reply. Did the Gothic Iudex truly favour a bloody clash instead of talks? It seemed that now he could only answer that question by coming face to face with the legendary leader.
Valens met the gaze of his men, knowing his next words might just be the greatest risk he had ever taken. He heard a faint hissing in his ears. It grew and grew to become a rush of water, conjuring memories of the violent tidal surge. He saw images of the towering, lashing, silvery wall of water, felt his skin grow cold. Before the memory could paralyse him as it had done so often before, he beat a fist against the arm of the chair, dispelling it, then beheld his Council.
‘Mobilise the legions. It seems fate wills us to march. The Ides of July are but days away. By then, we will leave this place and march into the heart of Thracia.’
‘What route shall we take, Domine?’ Traianus asked.
Valens looked up. An odd silence fell, as if the gods old and new were listening. A bead of sweat darted down his forehead.
‘Northwest. To Adrianople.’