‘More men — a welcome surprise indeed,’ Gallus nodded. Nerva’s face was bathed in sweat, jowls trembling, but his eyes were like torches, alert and darting. The tribunus was excited, but he had to be reined back to reality.
‘Well we’ve got a
loan
of them at least until the mission is over,’ Nerva added. ‘Less than half of us will be true XI Claudia boys it seems!’
Gallus’ eyes narrowed. ‘And how does the foederati wing strike you, sir?’
‘Horsa and his boys?’ Nerva grinned. ‘Typical bloody Goths,’ he whispered, ‘but by Mithras we need them.’
‘Horsa’s a good man, sir. It’s just…the rest of them. They started some ruckus last night up at the inn.’
‘It’s in their nature, Gallus. In any case I’m sure our lads had some part in it,’ he nodded to Quadratus on the front row; the big blonde Gaul sporting a bandaged hand and a black eye. ‘I pity the bugger on the end of that fist,’ the tribunus winced. ‘Anyway, all units are formed up now?’
Gallus scanned the ranks quickly. All present and correct, save for one legionary still bustling into place in the first century.
Pavo
, he grimaced. ‘It appears so, sir.’
Nerva nodded. ‘Give the order to move out.’
Gallus turned and nodded to the aquilifer who held the legion’s eagle standard. The man lifted the standard and the ruby-red banner bearing the bull effigy fluttered in the breeze. Gallus gazed across his men, who held their chins up higher at this.
Felix sidled up next to his commander.
‘For the empire!’ Gallus roared, punching his clenched fist into the air and turning to the first century, who exploded into an ear-bursting cheer.
The cheering rippled to the centuries surrounding the first. Even the initially bemused Captain Horsa took to beating his spear against his shield and whipping his men into a frenzy of cheering.
Then the buccinas sounded three times.
Gallus’ blood raced. ‘XI Claudia, move out!’
Chapter 34
The docks of Durostorum heaved with the local populace, vying to wave off their loved-ones — and their main source of income. Gulls screeched, swooping down on the market stalls, and then flying clear with scraps of meat and bread. It was nearly midday before the Moesian Fleet was finally ready to embark on its voyage.
On board the
Aquila
, Pavo dropped his kit, hopped across the deck, dodging between surly legionaries and scampering dock workers and grasped the port side of the vessel. Taking a deep breath through his nostrils, he tasted the faint salty tang wafting from the nearby Pontus Euxinus. Despite the side-odour of foederati horse dung, he felt great; he had made it back to the fort just in time, and not a trace of a hangover left in him. Leaning eagerly over the side, he glanced around the docks, desperate to catch sight of Felicia.
What a woman
. She was as fiery inside as she looked on the outside. He frowned as he wondered for a moment about her brother — she wasn’t just upset about his death, there was something else in the mix there too; despite her plea for stories about Curtius, he’d think twice about bringing the subject up when, or if he saw her next. Surely she would come to wave him off though? Then he realised his open-mouthed, wide-eyed expression as he scanned the docks again might not serve for the most noble and austere farewell, he forced his back straight, mimicking the stiff jaw of Gallus, standing by his side. Yet as the ship pulled free of its moorings, the sea of faces below cheered, but offered no Felicia. Pavo felt his anticipation ebbing as the docks slowly began to shrink before him.
The vessel drifted into the rush of the Danubius, joining the other forty triremes of the fleet in their voyage downriver to the sea. On this vessel, there was a mix of personnel — a spread of legionaries, auxiliaries and foederati along with the remiges on the oars and the mast, and the sole figure of the beneficiarius, clucking over every detail of the rigging. Durostorum drifted back into the horizon and the rhythmic lapping of the water and creaking of timber drowned out the cheering crowds. The ships of the fleet peppered the glistening waters under the morning sun. The expedition was underway.
Pushing back from the side, Pavo took a gulp of the cool air. His pride was intact, he assured himself. And no hangover. Now, where was Sura? So far, he had only been able to try to convey everything to his friend about the previous evening with a manic smile and roll of his eyes as they had passed each other during boarding, to which Sura had responded with a look of total confusion. No two ways about it, his friend had to hear of his misadventures.
Due to a shortage of remiges to man the oars, half of the soldiers on board the
Aquila
were posted below deck, ready to pick up the pace once they hit the open waters of the Pontus Euxinus. The other half were free to roam the ship — and avoid being assigned deck-scrubbing duty if possible.
Nerva was studying maps at the rear of the vessel, while Gallus strode around the deck as commanding officer. Pavo saw the centurion glare in distaste at a group of young legionaries, pulled from the V Macedonia for this mission, retching copiously over the side.
‘Not got your sea legs today, lads?’ He mused. ‘Ah, that’s right; you’re from a landlocked legion, aren’t you? Ah well, inhale that fresh scent of horse dung and think of home.’ He winked at Felix, stood nearby, and moved on, oblivious to the glares of the nauseous legionaries behind him.
Pavo’s lips curled wryly; the centurion was cold by nature, but at least he had something in common with Brutus — sadism. To Pavo it still felt like Brutus was still with the legion, just out of sight somewhere, and the grim truth of his death and the bloody skirmish now felt like a faded nightmare — the soldier’s skin, Brutus himself had described it, a coping mechanism where the death of a comrade would seem absurdly trivial.
Avoiding Gallus’ eyes as they swept past him, he moved on, milling past groups playing dice, laughing and joking despite the jealous curses of those on the oars. He passed a handful more who were sitting with a jade tinge to their features, gazing woefully skywards as the waves began to roll in the Danubius delta. Everyone’s vomiting, but not me, Pavo thought, not even a hangover! Then one figure caught his eye; one of the foederati from the rowdy group of the previous night. Pavo stopped where he stood; how should he play it? He had only had time to throw on his kit and scramble out into line this morning — the outcome of the brawl at
The Boarand Hollybush
last night was still a total mystery to him. His heart hammered as the foederatus glanced up at him, their eyes locked. Then, to Pavo’s relief, the Goth sensed Pavo’s fear, laughed and breezed past him, no doubt satisfied with intimidation. ‘Whoreson!’ Pavo muttered under his breath. Then a hand slapped hard onto his back. Pavo’s heart leapt.
‘Oi! What in the world have you been up to, and more to the point, where did you get to last night?’
‘Sura!’ Pavo uttered. He looked annoyingly fresh; his blond hair combed neatly back off his face and a clean-shaven jaw to boot. Sura munched on a piece of bread. Pavo took a breath, eager to tell of his adventures, but Sura gulped his bread down and cut in.
‘Well, I had a rather pleasant night — that big girl. She bought my story that I was an optio! Not long after you wreaked havoc at the bar. Didn’t get much sleep last night, me,’ Sura chirped, pulling another piece of bread from the chunk as Pavo made another failed attempt to interject, ‘I bet you can’t top that, eh? Where did you end up — out the back getting a kicking no doubt? I did have the good sense to make my way back to my bed in the fort afterwards, unlike some of us.’ He let out a rattling laugh and then cocked an eyebrow; ‘How did you make the line up this morning?’
Pavo sighed, time to tell the story. But a grey queasiness had crept into his system as Sura spoke and was now marching double time through his mind and his limbs. ‘Well,’ he started, when another hand clasped onto his shoulder. He turned to see the towering form of Captain Horsa.
‘Pavo?’ He questioned, his single eye fixed on Pavo’s face.
Pavo nodded, confused. The ship bucked over a full wave and suddenly his stomach grumbled in a nauseous protest.
‘Don’t worry,’ Horsa smiled. ‘I just wanted to let you know that the ringleaders of the scuffle at the inn last night have been severely reprimanded. They’ll not be part of this mission. Mind you, if we had jailed everyone who threw a punch, we’d have to build a new jail! I hope your woman’s father recovers, and I trust that you will accept my apology on behalf of my men.’
‘I…of course,’ spluttered Pavo, somewhat taken aback by the politeness and dignity shown by Horsa, an officer, towards him, a mere recruit.
‘If you need me to explain to your centurion…’
‘No,’ Pavo cut in. Gallus had no idea of his involvement; he was sure. ‘No, thanks.’
‘Fair enough,’ Horsa then nodded to Sura. ‘I see you know my newest recruit.’
Pavo turned ‘Eh?’ His head spun as Horsa grinned and wandered away.
Sura grinned. ‘That’s what I wanted to tell you, but you wouldn’t let me get a word in edgeways. It all happened after you scuttled off from
The Boar
on your own last night.’
Pavo felt a burning wave of frustration that Sura had not even noticed the key presence of Felicia in his hasty departure from the inn. And what was Sura on about? And his stomach felt wrong.
Sura continued. ‘Captain Horsa burst in to see what was happening, and then all Hades broke loose. Groups of foederati started piling into our lot, and the locals were only too happy to join in the ruckus.’
‘Okay,’ Pavo replied, putting a hand over his mouth, a cold sweat leaking from his skin.
‘So me and Captain Horsa waded into the fray to prise the scuffling parties apart,’ he stopped to give an officer-like nod to the Gothic captain even though the Goth’s back was turned, ‘and a few other Claudia who were actually trying to stop the chaos backed us up. So afterwards, Horsa gathered us round and suggested that he needed a Roman presence in the foederati wing of the Claudia. Zosimus and his mates turned it down — Gallus’ chosen few, you know? But I reckon I’m the man for the job.’
‘The foederati — are you mad?’ Pavo croaked. ‘Are you sure about this?’
Sura frowned in indignation. ‘Gallus seems up for the idea — reckons it will calm everyone down, help them to mix a little.’ Sura frowned, ‘The pact still stands though, eh? You watch my arse and I watch yours.’
Pavo nodded, blinking as his head reeled. ‘So, can you ride a horse like a foederatus then?’ He asked through the fingers over his mouth.
Sura blinked a few times, as if shocked at being questioned. ‘Rider for the imperial messenger service I was. Adrianople to Philippi in record time. Never seen a faster rider, they used to say.’ He looked off to sea with a frown. ‘Shame they couldn’t see past a few missing coins — don’t know what they lost the day they booted me out.’
‘Okay,’ Pavo groaned, swaying as the ship pitched over a swell. Every breath seemed to be on fire now.
Sura continued unperturbed. ‘Anyway, I think the intention is for us to provide a bridge between the Romans and the Goths in the legion, so our riding skills will develop alongside our primary diplomatic and oratory skills,’ he replied, holding his chin high and closing his eyes. ‘Well, you could at least say
well done
or something. I managed to congratulate you on your move to the first century with dignity.’ Sura cocked an eyebrow. ‘Pavo? Are you okay? You’re looking a tad green.’
Pavo moaned, pushed past his friend and grappled to side of the vessel just as a torrent of bitter orange bile exploded from his mouth, spattering the hull of the ship and splashing into the sea.
A sarcastic cheer broke out from a group of watching legionaries.
Sura sniggered.
Chapter 35
The vastness of the imperial chamber dwarfed Valens, sitting in contemplation between the golden Chi-Rho cross and the old statue of Jupiter. Reports of the Gothic raids across the Danubius had been compiled. What had been a thinly spread but complete Roman border army was now effectively a fragmented militia. The departure of the XI Claudia legion to Bosporus, together with the new I Dacia legion’s harvesting of the best troops from his Danubian legions had been the live or die toss of the dice. The remaining forces on the frontier, amounting to little over twenty thousand men scattered over the full length of the snaking river, was below the minimum operational strength for the first time in decades. Disjointed warbands they could cope with, but if the Goths pulled together and realised the state of the frontier, they would have the run of Greece and the new imperial capital. And if the Goths could do it, then what of the millions upon millions of tribesmen who pushed down on the empire behind them?
He looked out of the balcony to the sun-baked west. It was an option that often flitted across his thoughts — legions upon legions of fighting men, all supposedly under the banner of the same empire. But his nephew Gratian had been cold since ascending the Western throne in Rome, and the boy’s attitude had seriously darkened since Valens had put in place Arian reforms in the East. Added to that, the borders of the Rhine were in an equally perilous state. No, Valens grasped reality; the answer did not lie with the West.
Equally, postponing the Bosporus reconquest was not an option. His reputation had been built on ever-greater glories. Indeed, the people had taken to calling him Valens ‘the great’. While he was feared and respected, he could move the empire forward. The slightest whiff of fear or uncertainty would see the would-be usurpers snaking out from the shadows, daggers sharpened. The live or die call had been made; win, and you win greatness. Lose, he sighed, and you lose everything.
His head ached. How had he,
Valens the Great
, allowed himself to be drawn into this situation? Yes, the plan was his idea. Or was it? He groaned as he remembered the many nights spent, surrounded by the high and mighty of Constantinople. Politicians, holy men and so-called military masters, all desperate to offer their opinion on empire. ‘Think, man, think!’ He hissed under his breath.