Crunch-crunch-crunch.
The Army of the East marched ever northwards. It was a slow, steady march that had lasted two weeks, no faster than the thick train of ox and mule-drawn wagons shielded in the centre of the procession allowed. More, it was a cautious advance: every night a steep and sturdy earth embankment and timber wall was erected with a double watch; every morning they rose at dawn, eating a light breakfast of hard tack biscuit and wheat porridge before setting off again.
Each passing day seemed hotter and dryer than the last, and most days their water skins were hanging flat by mid-afternoon. By the seventh day of August, Pavo lifted his head, sweat dripping from his face and pattering onto his tunic. He was sure there was not a drop of moisture left in him bar the bead of perspiration dangling from his nose. The heat haze licked and rippled all around them. ‘Empty, golden, burning infinity,’ he mused, spitting the dust from his lips. Apart from the blue outline of the hills to the north, the land was largely featureless. The lush pasture of lower Thracia was but a memory, with green meadows and brown earth now replaced by golden dust and shrubs. Just scant, wispy clouds offered passing moments of semi-shade.
They had enjoyed a stop by the stoutly-walled supply station of Nike the previous night, and this had offered them the respite of fresh, cool water and bread baked in the ovens there. The interior of the fort was heaped with grain sacks – a precious commodity, enough to fuel the army and the Roman-held cities of Thracia for a month at least.
Now, any mouths not too dry to talk spoke of one thing: their next destination.
Adrianople.
Every pair of eyes scoured the countryside, looking northwest, knowing the great city was but a handful of miles away, but also flicking to the north, knowing that Kabyle lay beyond the hills and that the Goths lurked there.
By mid-afternoon, they came to a broad, baked plain carpeted in golden grass. It was interrupted only by the glittering blue intersection of the lower River Tonsus, running north to south, and the River Hebrus, west to east. Nestled on the northern banks of the confluence was an imperious city, ringed with a silvery curtain wall of immense limestone blocks, studded with high towers. Within, marble facades and lofty insulae jutted high enough to watch the column’s approach.
A paean of horns sounded from the majestic city walls, and the column’s trumpeters replied in kind, like the meeting of two colossal creatures across the plain.
Adrianople, Pavo mouthed in admiration. By his side, he noticed Zosimus behold the city with a warm smile. And then there was Sura, wearing that odd look of trepidation. Quadratus wore a troubled look also, but Pavo saw him clutching a hand to his belly and realised this was probably down to a digestive issue. Then there was Dexion: his brother wore the most placid of looks. So serene – like a man unburdened with the ponderings of a soldier in the days before battle: no fear, no doubt... nothing?
‘Now the heat might be playing tricks with my eyes,’ Trupo said, scattering his thoughts. The young legionary was eyeing the grounds around Adrianople – bare apart from a scabby vicus near the gates, ‘but I can’t see any signs of Emperor Gratian and the Western Army.’
‘He’ll get here,’ Dexion replied before Pavo could, ‘when the time is right.’ He then signalled to the aquilifer, who hoisted the Claudia eagle standard high, ushering a croaky chorus of cheering.
Pavo swept his gaze around the sweltering plains and hills to the north. On this soil, the war ends. The ambiguity of his own thought brought a cold grip of doubt to his guts. He thought of the foul dream. The burning farmhouse, the dying white eagle, the brave wolf and the shadow-man. He looked off to the side of the column to rid himself of the images, only for his eyes to fall on something: a lone figure standing in the brush. The crone stared back at him. His gaze met with her milky, sightless eyes.
The war has yet to reach its blackest phase, she mouthed, just as she had in the dream.
A stark chill assailed him as the heat haze rippled and she was gone.
By late afternoon, the immense Roman camp outside Adrianople’s northern wall was almost complete, with soldiers working in the deep orange light to finish the ditch as the blistering sun slipped towards the horizon and a dark band gradually spread over the eastern sky.
Pavo stooped to heave another load of desert-dry earth from his digging basket over his shoulder, throwing it up onto the scarp. His fingernails were packed with dirt, his mouth and throat were coated in dust and his shoulders ached.
‘That’s it, lads,’ Dexion shouted along the ditch, ‘another hundred paces of digging and we’re done. Stew, wine and sleep tonight!’
A rumble of approval sounded from the Claudia legionaries and the many others working on the ditch nearby. Pavo knew it would take his brother some time to truly win the hearts of Zosimus and Quadratus… and probably Sura too, but the newer recruits had showed him instant respect and seemed buoyed to have a single man at the helm of their unit.
‘Stew, wine and sleep?’ Zosimus cooed. ‘Not for me. I’ll be spending the night with my lovely Lupia and little Rufina.’
Pavo chuckled: rarely had he seen such a contented look on the big man’s face.
‘What about you lot?’ Zosimus added quickly, realising all eyes were upon him and adopting his usual scowl. ‘You’ll be going into the city tonight as well I imagine,’ he jabbed a thumb towards Sura, ‘with this one? He’ll no doubt show you the forum they named after him. And the tavern where he drank a team of gladiators under the table, eh… eh?’
For once, Sura did not bite back. Pavo watched as his friend kept on digging, pretending not to have heard. He and Zosimus shared a quizzical look. Must be tired? Pavo mouthed, sure there was more to it.
‘Maybe save it for tomorrow then, eh? And I might join you,’ the big Thracian suggested before wandering off towards the latrines.
They dug on until the last section of the rectangular ditch was excavated. A cornua wailed and the many legionaries at work in the ditch climbed out to stand outwith the camp perimeter. Another blast of the horn brought a shuddering crack of timber from the direction of the setting sun. Pavo looked on as men there hacked with axes at a sturdy timber dam blocking a narrow sluice that connected the River Tonsus to the camp ditch which ran all the way round the perimeter to join with the banks of the Hebrus. The timbers bucked and gave way, unleashing a foaming wall of water that swept around the ditch, filling it, converting it into a moat and ensuring that no Gothic army could steal or force their way into the camp. The smell of damp soil was a rare thing after so many days of marching through arid, dusty countryside. The tall timber towers and palisade walls atop the inner scarp mound added the secondary layer of defence, with timber walkways allowing access across the moat and into the camp interior via a northern gate and an eastern gate.
Pavo noticed that Quadratus, resting his weight on a pick-axe, seemed withdrawn just like Sura. The big Gaul had been like this since Perinthus, ever since Dexion had returned.
‘Tomorrow,’ he said to the Gaul, ‘we’ll visit the taverns in the city, aye? Just as Zosimus suggested. We’ll drink to Gallus’ memory. The veterans who knew him should have their chance to wish his spirit well.’
‘Eh?’ the big Gaul said, turning to Pavo, his face caked in dirt. ‘Gallus? Aye, he deserves that at least.’
‘I can’t believe he’s gone either,’ Pavo added quietly.
‘Hmm,’ Quadratus replied as if politely keeping his qualms to himself. Pavo noticed the big man’s eyes were every so often turning towards Dexion. It was an appraising look, the one a man might use to judge a dark glade that might house either ripe fruit or bandits.
‘He’s somewhat skipped over us in the ranks and in the cohorts, eh?’ Pavo reasoned, taking a guess at the big Gaul’s troubles.
Quadratus turned to him again, looking a little grumpy at the further interruption to his thoughts. ‘Hmm? Well, I suppose. But he was Primus Pilus – Gallus’ appointment. I’ve no quibble with his rank.’
‘Then what’s wrong? I’ve known you since my first days in the legion. Happy as a boar in shit when you’re marching or drinking. You’re not the type to be sullen like this.’
Quadratus adopted a weak smile like a mask, stood up straight, cradling his bundle of pick-axe, hammer and earth basket, cricked his neck and laughed guardedly. ‘Ach, you’re right. A good sleep tonight then ale, meat and a couple of whores in the city tomorrow’ll sort me out. Though I imagine turd-for-brains there will have them all after him,’ Quadratus nodded towards Sura.
Again, Sura did not take the bait.
Pavo chuckled and was about to speak to his friend, but was interrupted by a thunder of hooves. He looked round and saw a lone explorator emerging from the darkening northern horizon and riding in at haste: a young man with a glinting, silver tooth, a splash of freckles across his face and a crossbow strapped to his back. He yelped out a password to the sentries on the camp’s gate towers, then clattered across the timber bridge and inside the camp to hare towards the emperor’s nearly constructed principia area.
‘One of Agilo’s lot?’ Zosimus asked Dexion.
‘It seems so,’ Dexion said, swinging to his veterans.
‘Word of Gratian’s army?’ Rectus suggested.
‘No, wrong direction. Something’s going on with the Goths,’ Cornix replied.
‘What in Hades is happening out there?’ Sura sighed.
As the horns sounded to bring the legionaries inside the camp for the night, Pavo and Sura remained for a moment, gazing to the north. Dark, silent and empty.
Valens, seated, twisted a cherry stalk between thumb and forefinger, his lips pursed and his eyes narrowed in judgement. A hot, dry breeze swirled in every so often, laced with dust from the camp works outside, rippling the riding cloak of the tall, freckle-faced explorator standing before him.
‘The Gothic horde has left Kabyle, Domine,’ Hosidius repeated. ‘They move towards us only as fast as the fat cattle and lumbering wagons they bring, but by tomorrow they will reach the southern stretches of the Tonsus valley and spill into the plains, north of this city.’
‘They would not dare approach my camp here,’ Valens muttered, thinking of the stout defensive moat, ditch and palisades, all overlooked by Adrianople’s towering, grey walls and artillery mounted platforms. He imagined the lie of central Thracia like a great board. His army was but one piece near the southerly end. He saw the lumbering horde like a stain, sweeping southwards. Where are you headed, Fritigern? he mused.
‘I would bargain that he seeks to skirt northeast around Adrianople and seize Nike,’ Hosidius said as if reading Valens’ thoughts.
And I cannot stop him, Valens realised immediately. To march from Adrianople in an effort to intercept the horde would be to strip himself of the defences offered by Adrianople and to pitch himself against a host of greater number. Unless…
‘Tell me again what you saw, rider,’ he asked calmly. The young explorator had explained twice already, but Valens still couldn’t quite accept the news.
The young man’s eyes grew distant, as if picturing the scene. ‘The horde travels south, but without the Greuthingi riders. The Alliance has shattered, it seems, just as we hoped it might. Fritigern marches with just spearmen and archers, totalling no more than thirty thousand. Agilo and I rode at great speed as soon as we were sure of this. Too great, unfortunately, for Agilo,’ he said, his face lengthening, ‘for my mentor’s horse stumbled as we rode along the edge of a ravine. He and the beast stood no chance.’ He took a moment to compose himself. ‘But he would be proud to know that I hastened on to bring this news to you: the horde marches without its cavalry.’
There it was again, Valens thought, that flash of hope: without the support of the Greuthingi riders, Fritigern’s horde was no longer an invincible beast. He rested his chin on steepled fingers, trying to remain calm. He saw the young rider look at him expectantly, anticipating some order to prepare to march out and meet the Goths. He smiled at the youthful exuberance, then waved a hand in dismissal. ‘That will be all.’
‘Domine,’ the young one said through tight lips, then left.
Valens turned to his attendant. ‘Bring in the wolves,’ he said with a wry grin.
Many hours passed as the debate in the planning tent raged one way and the other, well into the night. Soon it would be dawn, Valens realised. His tunic was still damp with sweat from the day despite the cool night air, and his eyes felt dry and itchy from a lack of sleep. A decision had to be reached and soon. He beat a fist against the map table to quell the bickering voices.
‘Each of you, say your piece in turn. Then, I will make my decision,’ he said, meeting the equally bloodshot eyes of his consistorium.
‘The horde is already at the southern stretches of the Tonsus valley,’ Bastianus said first, casting a spray of spittle across the map of Thracia, hastily hitching himself then reaching over to tap the area just north of Adrianople. ‘They no doubt turn towards Nike as we speak,’ the gnarled, bald and puce-faced general added, one finger tracing an arc a short way east of Adrianople towards the fortified supply station.
‘Then it is simple: ignore Nike, let it fall,’ Victor, the whip-thin Magister Equitum interrupted in a measured, even tone. Valens sensed the circular argument coming round once again. He eyed Victor: the officer had the poise and calm of an all-knowing parent, but Valens knew only too well that the man had been wrong before – sometimes to the cost of many thousands of legionary lives.
‘Cah!’ Bastianus uttered throwing both hands up in the air in exasperation, his lone eye almost popping from his head. ‘Simple? It would be damned well disastrous! The horde moves without its cavalry. We can face them, match them spear for spear.’
‘But if we wait,’ Victor countered, ‘then Emperor Gratian and his western army will arrive. Do this and we will have two spears for every one of Fritigern’s. Surely a rational general would favour those odds?’
‘As the letter I brought to you stated, Domine, your nephew will be here soon,’ Richomeres spoke up in support.
Valens looked up like a hawk sighting prey, pinning Victor and Richomeres. ‘Soon?’ he said bitterly. ‘You expect me to base a decision on so fine an estimate as… soon?’ He glowered at his gathered men: ‘Gratian first advised that he would arrive in early July. I heard nothing for weeks until I received a scrap of paper boasting of his victories over barbarians in the west, with a mere footnote informing that he would not reach Thracia until the end of July. The new moon of August came and still my army waited, alone,’ he stabbed a finger at Richomeres, ‘and then you brought word to me. You counselled that Gratian would be here – at this very city – in the first days of August. Yet it is the eighth day of that moon and not one of my scouts has even sighted them. Not one!’ he hammered a fist into the table, sending a cup spinning. In Valens’ mind, the barbed lines from Gratian’s letter replayed over and over.
Await my arrival. I will bring with me guile and wisdom. Track the Goths, but do not be so rash and foolish as to engage them without me.
Richomeres blanched and seemed lost for words. Victor took a moment to clear his throat before replying. ‘Given the last correspondence from your nephew, I would estimate that he and his legions are now at or are approaching the Succi Pass. It might take him a week or more to arrive here but waiting is the correct thing to do. Gratian’s army is the key.’
Valens could not refute the logic, but resented the implication. His nephew would no doubt be sure to take the title Gothicus Maximus were he to arrive and be the saviour. He worked hard to stow those selfish, nagging thoughts.
Saturninus was next to speak, and his reasoning answered Valens’ question. ‘When… if Gratian’s army and ours unite, our numbers might be fearsome, but so too would be the hunger in our bellies were we to sacrifice Nike and its supplies. We have provender enough here to feed the thirty thousand gathered for another fortnight, but sixty thousand? At half-rations, we would have a week within which to operate and to bring the horde to heel via treaty or on the edge of the sword.’ The quietly-spoken Magister Equitum gazed down on the map and eyed the distance between Adrianople and Nike, some fifteen miles east, back along the Via Militaris. ‘Perhaps we should not have based ourselves here and instead set up a moated camp around Nike,’ he mused. ‘Is it too late to consider moving the army back there? If we do so at haste we can secure it before Fritigern and the horde can fall upon it.’
‘Folly!’ Traianus scoffed, swiping a hand through the air, his hooked nose flaring in disgust. ‘To react so drastically smacks of panic, and tell me, what more appetising a target could we present to the horde than the flanks of our entire army, hurrying back along the military road on a whim? Were they to catch us on the march and fall upon us from whatever countryside they traverse, or even at Nike if we were too slow in constructing a well-fortified camp there, it would be a disaster.’
Valens saw all too clearly in his mind’s eye the scenario playing out just as Traianus had described. His judgement was swinging in agreement.
‘Respectfully, Domine,’ Traianus said, lowering his voice, ‘once before I tried to sway you, albeit on non-secular matters: when your persecution of the Nicene churches began to stoke unrest amongst the people. You ignored me then, and the disquiet of the Nicenes has plagued you ever since. I urge you to heed me on this military matter.’
Valens felt his top lip tremble in ire. That some still referred only to his removal of troublesome Nicene senators – and failed to mention his expulsion of a particularly devious Arian Bishop by the name of Evagrius – as persecutions was a vile slur. He looked Traianus in the eye and hissed: ‘And you have never been wrong in military matters? What of the dire stalemate at Ad Salices? You were in command of the armies there, were you not? Do not lecture me about poor decisions.’
Traianus’ nose wrinkled and he recoiled, clearly catching some fiery response behind his lips.
Valens dropped and shook his head again. Traianus was flawed. They all were. Yet none of them bore the burden of making the final decision, the one upon which the fate of thirty thousand soldiers and many hundreds of thousands more souls all across Thracia, rested. A faint sound crept from the recesses of his mind.
Hiss.
Water, coming for him. It grew from a hiss to a growl… then a thundering roar. He saw the foaming, silvery tide, surging towards him. His eyes grew wide and cold beads of sweat broke across his face.
‘We should wait, Domine,’ Victor reiterated, snapping him from the grim trance. ‘Let Gratian join us and then we can be safe in the knowledge of victory. Let us not march under the dog-day heat – and it is particularly fierce this year.’
‘Ha!’ Bastianus scoffed. ‘A Sarmatian urging caution? Which god is playing this cruel trick upon my ears?’ He pounded a fist into the map table. ‘Seize the initiative, Domine. You have adequate forces to take this war into your own hands. March forth and confront Fritigern!’
‘We might never have a better chance, Domine. Fritigern’s horde without the Greuthingi riders are like a scorpion without its sting,’ Saturninus agreed. ‘Whether we move back to Nike or march to engage Fritigern, action of some sort would be best.’
Victor leaned a little closer to Valens. ‘Opt for safety, Domine. Stay here.’
‘Stay and let Fritigern pluck Nike and its grain stores from our grasp and seize control of the route between us and Constantinople? Stay and invite starvation? Never – march!’ Bastianus pleaded.
The cacophony of yelling struck up again, deafening this time.
Valens gazed through the forest of flailing, gesticulating arms and roaring mouths. The crashing silvery tide strived to freeze him as it had done so many times before, but he fought it and fixed his eyes on the map: poring over the short stretch of land between Fritigern’s current position, somewhere in the valley that would lead him onto the plains around Adrianople, and the Gothic Iudex’s likely target of Nike.
Stay or march? He thought, surveying the map for features upon the terrain. Ignominy or glory?
He realised that there was no real choice. To remain here would be to cement the opinion of the hostile public: that he was weak and indecisive. To wait upon Gratian, his young nephew, would be to admit as much. And if Gratian’s absence continued, it might even break this campaign and condemn the army and the cities to famine. He had faced the Goths before in his reign, outmanoeuvred them, driven them back when they invaded and commanded the obedience of their leaders. ‘And so it will be again,’ he muttered.
The yelling continued.
‘And so it will be… again!’ he cried over the others.
Instantly, the tent fell silent. He met the eyes of each man, then spoke in a low, steady voice: ‘It is dawn. Spend the coming day resting and having your men prepare themselves. Come dawn tomorrow, the Eastern Army will march from this city and face Fritigern.
After they left, Valens slumped in his chair. Palming at his eyes and rubbing his temples. He enjoyed a moment of peace in the blackness behind his closed eyes until that rushing wall of water came for him in the darkness and jolted him upright. Outside he could hear the blare of buccinae for morning roll call along with cries of the news spreading.
‘Tomorrow, we go to war!’ the cry went, in many different accents.
He looked across his spacious tent to the wooden stand holding his white steel armour, the polished helm with the magnificent purple plume and his jewel-hilted sword and white, Chi-Rho shield. His war-shell would be worn tomorrow. He wondered then what Fritigern was doing at this very moment. Rallying his forces? Whetting his sword? Eager… or perhaps regretful?
He was so tired and absorbed in his thoughts, that he almost did not notice the three figures slipping into his tent. Two white-robed candidati and another figure in the middle.
‘Domine,’ one candidatus said gently.
Valens turned to them with a start. ‘I am finished with talks,’ he scowled and swept a hand through the air. ‘I need to find a few hours of sleep before I lose my mind and-’ his words halted in his throat as he saw the man the candidati escorted: a gaunt, pale man with a shaved head. A Goth, but not a warrior… a priest. The fellow wore a brown, ankle-length robe that bore a crude but striking embroidered Chi-Rho on the breast.
‘He came in at first light, Domine. He brings word from Fritigern and asks to speak with you urgently.’
Valens gestured silently to the chair opposite him, pouring two cups of water and pushing one before the man when he sat. ‘I have sought parley with Fritigern for months. Why only now does he respond?’
The priest cocked his head to one side and smiled faintly.
‘Something amuses you?’ Valens snapped.
‘Iudex Fritigern said much the same before he despatched me. He has lost several riders attempting to contact you.’ His voice was weak and creaky like an old wagon wheel
Valens’ brow furrowed. Suspicion swirled in his belly like an eel. ‘That is unfortunate. But now is not the time to ruminate over what has been. My legions clamour for war – you must have heard them on your way in. So waste not a heartbeat more. Speak.’
The priest nodded dutifully. ‘Iudex Fritigern understands that his armies and yours seem set to meet. He wonders if, perhaps, our shared faith might yet steer us from a clash of swords?’
Valens’ eyes darted over the priest’s, then he whispered: ‘As God will testify, priest, that is what I have sought with every despatch to your leader. But it is too late, my armies prepare to march into the field tomorrow.’
The priest leant a little closer, whispering also. ‘Iudex Fritigern also finds himself carried south when he would ideally prefer to have remained in Kabyle.’
‘He is headed for Nike, is he not? He is in need of grain?’
The priest gave a guarded nod as a response.
‘And that is why my army must march, for I cannot allow him to have it,’ Valens said flatly. ‘It belongs to the thirty thousand men in this camp and the souls of the few imperial towns and cities who have resisted your plundering and raids. There is no other source that can be drawn upon nearby.’
‘Likewise, Fritigern finds himself saddled upon a colossal, boisterous creature – a creature with ninety thousand hungry mouths. You must understand that he has no choice but to seize Nike. And the people, they clamour for a victory against the armies of the empire that they have long been told marches to vanquish them.’
‘Then it is too late,’ Valens said flatly.
The priest tilted his head to one side in reluctant agreement. ‘Too late to draw up some treaty in private like this, perhaps. But not too late altogether.’
Valens leaned in a little closer. ‘How so?’
‘Fritigern pleads with you this: bring your armies before his – the horde is brave enough when talking of fighting the empire’s legions, but many have yet to behold those iron ranks across a battlefield. He beseeches you to bring your army into the field and parade your regiments before his forces – to strike fear into them. Only then, he believes, might his people see sense in parley. He will talk with you once our armies come face to face like this. An agreement can be reached and a public declaration can be made – one that the horde will abide by.’
Valens’ mouth turned up at one edge. ‘Will they indeed? Tell me then – what terms might Fritigern propose were this to happen?’
The priest seemed unruffled by Valens’ scepticism. ‘My Iudex wants only a portion of Thracia upon which he can settle his people… and your recognition of him as sole and undisputed leader of the Gothic tribes. Give him this, and he could become your ally – the horde your army.’ He tapped a finger on the table. ‘An Arian army… bar those who still cling to Wodin and the old gods.’
Valens’ thoughts writhed like a bag of worms. The notion was at once a truly enticing elixir… and a cup of bubbling poison. So many voices. So much doubt. Then the doubt held sway: just how much stock could he place in the word of a lowly priest?
‘As allies, the grain at Nike could be shared until more was brought in from afar,’ the priest pressed him. ‘It was supposed to be this way when first we crossed the Danubius and still it can be so.’
Valens nodded very slowly. ‘Ride back to your Iudex, Priest, and may God speed your return.’
The priest stood. ‘And what is your answer, Imperator?’
Valens stood with him. ‘You can assure him of this much at least: the legions will march tomorrow and I will bring them before your horde. What happens after that rests upon the will of God.’