A stiff breeze carried a cool grey mizzle of rain across the deserted Thracian plain. Then a wagon appeared from the south. Laden with flax, it rocked across the soft grass, the wheels cutting into the wet soil, releasing an earthy scent. The man and girl on the driver’s berth were sodden, their hair plastered to their faces. The man drove his mounts with one eye closed to the rain and the other searching the grey up ahead for the outline of Adrianople.
‘Can you see it, Father?’ little Tacita asked.
Pontius spat the rainwater from his lips as the wagon bucked and leapt over another dip in the earth. ‘Not yet,’ he said edgily, peering into the grey, ‘not yet.’
He had been nervous about this shortcut from the start. The going was treacherous and he had lost his bearings more than once, but so long as they reached the market in Adrianople safely, his decision to avoid the main roads would prove a prudent one.
Almost as soon as he had comforted himself with this thought, the sound of hooves thudding on wet earth echoed from the surrounding grey. The breath caught in his throat as, from the mist, grey shapes emerged. Riders. Nine of them. Terror crawled across his skin as he beheld the nearest; braided golden locks knotted atop the head, blue stigmas spiralling across the face, nose wrinkled and teeth bared. A Gothic warrior. Steam billowed from the mount’s nose and churning mud flew up in its wake. The rider held aloft a longsword and let loose a roar that sent Pontius and Tacita scrambling back from the driver’s berth. Pontius wrapped an arm around his daughter to shield her, gawping as the longsword swept down for him.
But a cracking of bone rang out and the snarling rider froze, something juddering in his exposed flank. A legionary plumbata. Blood leapt from the Goth’s lips as he dropped his sword and clutched at the lead-weighted dart embedded in his ribs. His eyes rolled in his head and he toppled from the saddle, then the riderless mount hared off past the wagon. Pontius shuddered, darting glances all around. Likewise, the other eight Gothic riders coming for the wagon slowed, uncertain. Then, from the grey behind the wagon, another rumble of hooves rang out, and a lone rider galloped into view. He wore no armour but a spatha hung from his sword belt - a Roman! He was a young man; lean, dark, and shaven-headed, with an aquiline nose. His glower was black under his thick brow as he lifted another of the lead darts from his saddle. Moments later, a second rider burst into view; young too, but broader-shouldered with blonde locks and pale skin, also wearing just a tunic, sword belt and boots. The pair held the Gothic riders at bay with their glowers for a few heartbeats. But the Goths realised they still had the weight of numbers and trotted forward menacingly. At this, the two Roman riders loosed another dart each, striking down two more foes, before drawing their spathas.
‘Equites!’ the dark Roman rider cried out, waving his spatha to a point behind the Goths.
The six remaining Goths frowned and slowed, then looked over their shoulders. From the mizzle, a turma of thirty Roman riders emerged, clad in mail, soaked red cloaks and crowned with iron helms, spathas drawn. With a cry, the equites and the two unarmoured Roman riders rushed for the Goths. In moments it was over, one Gothic head flying from its shoulders to bounce across the sodden plain, another run through and the rest fleeing in panic.
Pontius lifted his shaking arm from his daughter, in disbelief that both were unharmed. The dark rider and his blonde comrade sidled up to the wagon, both slick with rain, chests heaving and faces stained with blood-spray.
‘Be on your way to the city, and be swift,’ the dark one said.
Pontius nodded hurriedly. ‘Aye, aye we will,’ he agreed, taking the reins with one shaking hand and turning Tacita’s gaze from the headless Gothic corpse with the other. ‘But who are you? You are not legionaries?’ he said, eyeing their dress.
‘Aye, we are legionaries. But for today we are scouts. I am Optio Numerius Vitellius Pavo of Legio XI Claudia, second cohort, first century. This my Tesserarius, Sura,’ he gestured to his blond comrade. ‘We’ve been tracking those Gothic riders for two days. Luck would have it we met with the equites on patrol just this morning; else we might not have been able to save you.’
‘Well I will make an offering to Mithras tonight,’ Pontius grinned. ‘May he be with you in all your efforts, Legionary.’
With that, he lashed the reins of his horses and the wagon moved off once again.
Pavo and Sura parted from the equites then travelled south-east for the rest of the day. When darkness fell, they camped under the shelter of a spruce thicket on a soft carpet of pine needles then rose at dawn to yet another damp day. After sharing a light breakfast of boiled eggs, bread and honey, they drank and watered their mounts at a nearby stream, readying to set off for Constantinople.
Pavo splashed the cool water over his stubbled scalp then looked over his shoulder and off to the north-west from where they had come. Through the grey cloud, he could just make out the Haemus Mountains, the peaks looming like the fangs of a predator. Moesia and Thracia, once Roman heartlands, were now riven by the Gothic War and occupied by Fritigern’s hordes. The Roman limes had been hastily withdrawn to the south of the mountains in an attempt to curb the Gothic movements. But the impoverished limitanei legions manning those new timber forts and patrolling those treacherous lands had been battered back further still in these last weeks. Indeed, he thought, touching his fingers to the dark stain on his ribs and the stinging Gothic longsword cut underneath, enemy scouts were being sighted further south with every passing week, roving ever closer to the major cities, Adrianople and Constantinople itself.
‘Take a good, long look,’ Sura said, resting an elbow on Pavo’s shoulder and gazing back with him. ‘For it will be some time before we set eyes upon these lands again.’
Pavo thought of the mission that had been hanging over the XI Claudia for these last weeks. A mission that would take them thousands of miles to the east, to the Persian frontier. He shrugged. ‘When I first joined the legion, everything about this land seemed wretched. Now it feels like I’m leaving my home behind in its hour of need.’
Sura chuckled dryly at this, patting at the legionary phalera medallion hanging on a strap around Pavo’s neck. ‘All you’ve talked of these last two weeks is about going to the Persian frontier. About him.’
Pavo shared an earnest gaze with his friend. Sura was one of the few who knew the truth behind the phalera. About Father. ‘Aye, I may fret about this place when we are gone, but nothing will stop me going east.’
Sura grinned. ‘Stubborn whoreson since the day I met you.’
They set off once more across the plains, grateful when at last they reached the paved Via Egnatia, the great highway winding west-east across Thracia. By mid-morning, the clouds and mizzle had dispersed and a languid sunshine bathed the land. Before noon, they were within sight of Constantinople.
The imperial capital dominated the horizon, a mass of marble and limestone perched on the edge of the land, framed by the glittering waters of the Golden Horn in the north, the Bosphorus Strait in the east and the Propontis in the south. The broad walls were gemmed with glinting intercisa helms, scale vests and sharpened spear tips of the sentries. The banners atop the towers hung limp in the windless and clement air. Pavo took a deep breath to appreciate the sight, the pleasant heat, the chattering cicada song and the nutty scent of barley. For just a moment, the war with the Goths that raged in the north, and what lay ahead in the east seemed comfortably distant. Then Sura spoiled the moment of serenity.
‘That cheeky bastard’s on watch again,’ he grumbled as they approached, squinting up at the battlements above the arched Saturninus Gate.
Pavo followed his gaze to the sneering sentries up there, then called out; ‘Optio Numerius Vitellius Pavo of the XI Claudia, returning from scouting duty.’
The lead sentry, a short, plump man, glowered down the length of his nose as if he was a giant. ‘Ah, the limitanei dregs – taking up space in our city barracks now that your border forts have been shattered?’ The words betrayed not a hint of humour.
‘Perhaps you would like to discuss this with the tribunus of my legion?’ Pavo fixed him with a gimlet stare until the man looked away to his comrades. He heard their mutterings carried on a gentle breeze.
‘He’s with Tribunus Gallus?’ one voice hissed. ‘Open the bloody gates, quickly!’
The thick, iron-studded timber gates groaned open and the pair heeled their mounts on under the shade of the fortified gateway. At once, the sedate chatter of the open countryside was gone. In its place came the frenzied babble of the city streets. The influx of refugees from the Gothic war had swollen this ward to breaking point. The broad, marble-lined Imperial Way was packed with a sea of ruddy faces, gleaming bald pates, waving arms, swishing horse manes and tails and juddering wagons. Aromas of wood smoke, sweat and dung battled in the air as the pair picked their way through these masses. They passed under the shade of a squat marble cistern, then had to wait their turn to trot around a pile of grain sacks being unloaded beside the horreum to fill its silos.
A trader forced his way in front of Sura as he waited. ‘For you, ochre to stain your skin!’ the man yelped, holding up a clay pot.
‘Nah, you can’t improve upon perfection.’ Sura shrugged and rode on past the trader, rounding the grain sacks.
‘You can’t polish horseshit either,’ Pavo mused in his friend’s wake, cocking an eyebrow. ‘Though you certainly can talk it.’
Sura scowled over his shoulder at Pavo as the trader melted back into the throng, roaring with laughter.
The Imperial Way led them downhill, and the grandeur of the city was unveiled before them. Sweeping hills encrusted with marble and brick, tall and ornate palaces, red-tiled Christian domes and columns bearing statues of emperors past pointing skywards. The opulence intensified as the peninsula tapered to its tip, where the Imperial Palace sat perched high on the first hill, overlooking the Hippodrome. Workers crawled over this finery like ants, still busy harvesting gold from the finest monuments to fund the legions in the Gothic struggle.
They cut across the Forum of the Ox and made their way to the north of the city. After passing under the shadow of the Great Aqueduct of Valens, they approached the city’s northern sea walls where a salt-tang from the Golden Horn spiced the air. Pavo looked up to the small, squat barrack compound at the end of the street, near the Neorion Harbour gate. Instantly, he and Sura halted as a barking voice from within the compound cut across the hubbub of the streets. A voice that refused to be ignored.
Gallus.
‘Could scare the shit out of a bear from fifty stadia,’ Sura muttered, sitting upright, shoulders squared.
Pavo straightened likewise, instantly sympathising with the poor legionaries in there and on the sharp end of the tirade. The Tribunus of the XI Claudia Legion was relentless. A man who ate as rarely as he slept, and seldom showed anything other than pure steel to his ranks. But a man with boundless courage.
They came to the main gate of the barrack compound. This had been the home for Gallus and his small vexillatio of the XI Claudia for these last few weeks. Two centuries, detached from the rest of the legion and stationed here to prepare for the mission to the east. The sentry on the barrack walls wheeled a hand in the air to someone unseen, below.
The gates creaked open and the training yard inside the compound was unveiled. One century of eighty men marched in tight formation around the square, ruby shields only inches apart, their mail vests polished and their tunics underneath bleached white with purple hems. The iron fins on their intercisa helmets bobbed like a school of sharks. Their spear tips pierced the air and their spathas swung from their scabbards in time to the march. And, as a recent measure, each man carried a composite bow strapped to his back. The aquilifer marched near the front, carrying the legion standard; a staff topped with a silver eagle, and a ruby bull banner hanging from the crossbar just underneath. This was Centurion Quadratus’ century, but today Primus Pilus Felix – Gallus’ right-hand man – led them. This short and swarthy, fork-bearded Greek showed no sign of fatigue as the drill went on. And it had been ongoing for some time, Pavo reckoned, going by the sweat lashing from some of his younger comrades’ faces. Some of them shot furtive and pleading glances to the rear compound wall. Pavo looked to the figure standing up there and knew their pleas would go unheard.
Gallus was perched there like a bird of prey, watching in silence, his ruby cloak wrapped around his tall, lean frame. The plume of his intercisa danced in the sea breeze. The rim and cheek guards of his helm hugged his gaunt, starved-wolf expression. Rumours had spread that Gallus was ill at ease with this mission and with the enforced separation from the remainder of his legion – the few other tattered centuries of the XI Claudia still stationed out in the makeshift Thracian Limes. Indeed, Gallus’ mood often seemed aligned to that of a bear with a hangover who had just trodden upon a rusty nail. The tribunus’ ice-blue eyes scrutinised every movement of the marching men, just waiting to bark them into line should they dare stray an inch from their positions.
As he and Sura dismounted, Pavo noticed Gallus’ glare flick across to them. They tensed instinctively.
Then a heavy pair of hands slapped onto their shoulders from behind. ‘Finished pussying about on horseback, have you?’ a gruff voice spoke.
Pavo’s heart lurched and Sura yelped beside him. He spun to see Centurion Zosimus, his immediate superior and leader of the other century of the vexillatio. The oak-limbed and granite-faced giant wore a mischievous grin under his shattered nose, and his stubbled anvil jaw and shaven scalp were bathed in sweat.
‘Yes, sir!’ the pair replied.
‘At ease,’ the big Thracian said, picking some strand of meat from his teeth. Then he frowned, his gaze shifting to the bloodstain on Pavo’s tunic. ‘What happened out there?’
‘It’s nothing, the bleeding has stopped,’ Pavo replied. ‘A Gothic scouting party had broken through the temporary limes and they were riding south-east of Adrianople.’
‘South-east of the city?’ Zosimus’ eyes widened and his skin paled.
Pavo bit his tongue in censure, remembering that Zosimus’ wife and young daughter were still in Adrianople. ‘They were just looking for easy pillage sir. Only nine of them – little more than brigands. They were harassing a group of farming wagons but we headed them off. Adrianople itself is still untroubled – we met with a turma of equites from the V Macedonica out there, and their decurion assured me that the city is now well bolstered and garrisoned should the Goths turn on its walls.’
‘Aye, well, get your wound seen to in any case,’ Zosimus flicked a finger to the flat-roofed building in the corner of the compound, ‘Gallus has insisted that all such things are checked and cleaned up before we set sail tomorrow. I’m bunking near you and I don’t want bloody maggots crawling about when I’m trying to sleep.’ The big Thracian scratched at his jaw, then clicked his fingers as they made to turn away. ‘Oh, and get straight back out here when you’ve been seen to – Gallus wants to inspect our century this afternoon. We might only be limitanei – as the smart-arses in this city are quick enough to remind us – but he doesn’t want us stumbling out to the east like some rabble of militia.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Pavo nodded stiffly.
The pair led their mounts to the stable and tethered them there, feeding each a clump of hay by the water trough. From there, they strolled over to the valetudinarium. Inside this medical building was a single, large room with a broad bench running along one wall, strewn with pots, scalpels, forceps and bloodstained linen bandages. Five of the six beds were empty. The sixth bed in the far corner bore the sweat-streaked, hulking figure of Centurion Quadratus, dressed only in a loincloth. A woman stood over him, back turned, tending to his injured ankle. The big Gaul roared in agony as the amber-haired nurse twisted his foot round in its full range of motion.
‘Oh stifle your yelping – I thought you were supposed to be a fearless centurion?’ the woman chided him casually.
‘In the name of Mithras – give me more wine!’ Quadratus roared, grappling at the ends of his blonde moustache to distract himself from the pain. His eyes fell upon Pavo. ‘I know you said she was dangerous in bed, but this is bloody torture!’
At once, the woman stopped what she was doing, stood upright, then spun to face Pavo. Her amber locks swished round in her wake and her usually milky skin was flushed with anger. She rested her hands on her hips and at that moment her sapphire gaze seemed even more fearsome than Gallus’.
‘Felicia, I only said that when they had plied me with wine . . . ’ he started
‘And anyway,’ Sura butted in in an attempt to help, ‘it’s a compliment, sort of . . . ’
This only seemed to ignite Felicia’s fury further. Without shifting her gaze from the pair, she reached down and wrenched at Quadratus’ ankle once more, eliciting another hoarse cry from the centurion.
Pavo and Sura flinched as if feeling the pain first-hand.
Felicia then strode purposefully over to Pavo. But her anger faded when she saw the blood on his tunic. ‘What on earth have you done to yourself out there?’ She hiked the garment up to examine his ribs. ‘Scouting, you said – how many scouts end up nearly gutted on a Gothic longsword.’
Sura made eyes at Pavo then motioned to the doorway. ‘Felicia, I’m fine. I’ll leave you two to talk.’
With Sura gone and Quadratus harrumphing in the far corner, they were alone.
‘You seem tense,’ Pavo offered, slipping his hands around her waist.
She batted his advances away and insisted on prodding at his wound. ‘I spent the morning tearing an arrow head from a boy’s lung,’ she said tersely, lifting his tunic to his shoulders then soaking a pad of linen with acetum and dabbing it across the wound to clear it of blood and dirt. ‘I don’t have time to relax. Now take that filthy tunic off,’ she grumbled, helping him remove the garment so he stood in only boots and loincloth.
Pavo searched for the right words as she hurriedly wrapped a length of bandage around his lean torso. Felicia had been through so much in these last few years. She had lost everyone. Everyone except Pavo. Now he was to leave her behind.
‘If we don’t speak honestly now, Felicia, then . . . ’ his words trailed off and he changed his tack, looping his arms around her once more. When she tried to resist and brush him off again, he gripped her tightly, until he felt her heart beat against his breast. ‘Tonight is our last night together. By noon tomorrow, I will be at sea, headed east. And I will be gone for some time.’
I might never return, like Father, a voice added from the dark recesses of his mind.
At last, Felicia’s façade crumbled. ‘Don’t you know that my every thought rests on that?’ she said, her voice cracking. A sob escaped as she buried her head in Pavo’s chest. ‘I’ve heard what the Persian frontier is like. I . . . ’ her voice cracked.
Pavo held a palm to her face and stroked away a tear with his thumb.
Felicia met his gaze. ‘Do you even know why you have been summoned there?’
Pavo could offer nothing. All anyone of the XI Claudia vexillatio knew was that they had to make their way east, to the city of Antioch. There, Emperor Valens would disclose to them the details of this sortie that had so far remained shrouded in mystery. ‘Felicia, I don’t know, even Gallus doesn’t know, but . . . ’ he said, barely realising that he was toying with the outline of the phalera as he spoke.
‘But you have to go, regardless?’ she finished. ‘Even if there was no mission, you would have to go east, wouldn’t you?’ She traced a finger over the medallion too now.
Legio II Parthica the inscription read. Father’s legion. Since the day the old crone had pressed the piece into Pavo’s hand, it had given him strength. Strength to survive after news came to him of Father’s slaying in the sacking of the eastern city of Bezabde. Strength to carry on through the years of slavery that followed. Strength to seize his chance of freedom and serve in the legions. Then, just weeks ago, that had all changed with word brought from the Persian frontier. It seemed that some of the Parthica had survived the fall of Bezabde, being taken captive and sent to toil in the treacherous Persian salt mines.
Even without horse, coin or water, I would travel east alone to find out what happened to you. If Mithras wills it, I will find you or your bones out there, Father, the voice in his mind answered with alarming clarity. He looked down as a tear of his own splashed onto Felicia’s fingers, then nodded in silence.
They each looked up, seeing each other through their sorrowful blur, then Pavo pressed his lips to Felicia’s, tasting her salty tears. Their embrace was lasting and they clung to one another, her warmth like a salve to his tired body. It took a gruff grunt from the corner of the room to end their moment, somewhat abruptly.
‘When you two come up for air, can I get some wine over here?’ Quadratus moaned. ‘I need something to numb the bloody pain.’
At this, Felicia’s face split with a wide and toothy grin and she wiped the tears from her eyes. The sight warmed Pavo’s heart. Felicia squeezed his hand then slipped away to tend to Quadratus. Pavo gazed after her, until Gallus’ barking from the walls snapped him from his trance. He looked to the doorway and out into the training yard. The iron tribunus was now descending the stairs to berate his men further. Pavo stepped outside, readying to help Zosimus in gathering the century. He heard the lapping of waves from over the sea walls and saw the masts of the two triremes that would carry them towards the rising sun. A shiver danced across his skin and he answered the dark whispers in his mind.
To the east, then.