Legionary: Empire of Shades (Legionary 6)

Part 1

The Dead of Winter, Thracia, Early 379 AD

Chapter 1

Pavo closed his eyes, shutting out everything. In the unbroken blackness, he found peace for a sweet moment. But soon enough, something rose in that mind’s-eye gloom – a tiny speck of dull orange light, a beacon. He felt himself drifting towards it, or it to him. Soon he could see that it was a campfire, with two broad figures seated next to the flames. The sight pulled on his heart like an anchor.

‘You do not have to go there,’ a voice croaked. The crone – the one who had guided him in times past – was by his side, he realised, her sightless eyes staring ahead like his, her face gaunt and harrowed with great age. ‘They are but memories now.’

He eyed the flickering firelight, his throat thickening. ‘Yet they must never be forgotten. That is why I must go to them.’

She rumbled with something akin to frail laughter. ‘Aye, and that is why I walk with you. I too am drawn like a moth to a candle, you see – to steer those few with bright hearts and flay the ones who are night-black at their core. One day I hope you will be able to let these hurtful memories pass.’

As he drew closer to the campfire, the crone faded away to let him approach alone. The two figures sitting before the gentle flames were all too clear now: Zosimus and Quadratus, the twin oaks of the XI Claudia legion. They laughed and took long draughts of soldier-wine as they tore each other’s reputation to ribbons. Zosimus recounted the time Quadratus had roused the entire garrison of a fort from sleep with one particularly rowdy series of rhythmic gastric emissions. ‘Sounded like a battering ram at the gates, I tell you,’ Zosimus roared with laughter. ‘Echoed right through the place. We had a century on the walls before we realised it was just your arse exploding!’

‘Hmm? Well I slept like a felled tree through it all,’ Quadratus shrugged, then shot back with a tale of Zosimus’ attempts to repair an onager for a sour-faced artillery officer. The officer had stood over Zosimus, criticising his every decision, only for the catapult to loose unexpectedly. A length of thick rope dangling from the throwing arm had shot out like a whip, striking the surly artilleryman’s testicles. ‘Nah, not my doing. Faulty locking pin,’ Zosimus claimed with an expert nod, then added with a glint in his eye: ‘Fair shut the whingeing swine up though, eh?’ They laughed in unison now. But as the pair’s merriment faded, the campfire fell low, the air chill. They looked to Pavo, their faces growing pale.

‘I dreamt a foul dream last night, Pavo,’ big Zosimus said.

‘Me too,’ agreed Quadratus, eyeing his hands. His skin seemed to be turning pale. ‘A dream in which the legions were destroyed at Adrianople… in which we both fell to a traitor’s blade. It’s not true, is it?’ the big Gaul pleaded. Now their faces were turning grey as dust.

‘If it is true, then my dear Rufina and little Lupia will be… alone,’ Zosimus faltered, his granite-features sagging. ‘Tell me it is not so, Pavo.’

‘I… I…’ Pavo started.

He was spared when the crunch-crunch of boots rose from the surrounding blackness. A forlorn moan of a legionary war horn sounded and a vast, almost never-ending column of twilight-grey legionaries emerged from the dark, marching lockstep towards the fire. Each of them were shades, claimed by the Gothic War. Zosimus and Quadratus rose quietly, eyes growing distant and dull, to join the grey army as it passed. Pavo watched them go, then caught sight of the leader of the march. Gallus cast back a solemn, valedictory look and Pavo could not tear his eyes away… until Gallus’ pupils shrank, his lips mouthing urgently:

Be ready, Pavo. They’re coming!

Pavo’s eyes blinked open. At once the darkness was gone, replaced by striking white all around and a bitter, gnawing chill. Reality. The high Rhodope Mountains, blanketed in snow. The storm-bruised sky cast a twisting blizzard through the air, roused by keening, icy zephyrs that searched the high valleyside nook upon which he crouched.

His every sense sharpened, head dipping like a hawk in sight of prey. He flexed his fingers on his spear, dark eyebrows pinched in concentration, hazel irises swelling, scouring the wintry mouth of the valley down below. Then he heard it. The din of approaching men. Not shades, and certainly not comrades.

‘Blood, gold, glory,’ a jagged voice roared. A song of laughter and triumph met this. And then shapes of men appeared in the squall, quickly multiplying as the approaching force spilled into the valley.

Pavo’s top lip rose with a feral grunt and he hurled the spear. It shot through the air, fishtailing and trembling in the icy squall before thumping down into the snow of the valley floor. The six-hundred strong Gothic warband who emerged from the blizzard halted before the quivering lance, their war song suddenly muted. They looked up and around, flowing blonde locks whipping, turning spear and shield to every nook of the heights looming around them. The wintry wind whistled as if taunting them, snowflakes speeding around them, clinging onto their beards, furs and cloaks. Soon, one spotted Pavo, up on the valley’s southern slope.

‘A legionary,’ a Goth gasped in the gleeful tone of a hunter.

‘Stop,’ their moustachioed leader snarled as his man stepped towards Pavo, many others twisting to face the southern heights too. ‘He is only one man. Where there is one, there are usually more. Reiks Ortwin told us to be wary: they draw your eyes with the left hand then punch with the right. Half of you, face the north.’ The man kept his eyes carefully and smugly on Pavo as his warband broke into two halves either side of him – one facing Pavo on the southern valleyside and the other facing the northern slope. ‘What’s wrong, Roman: lost your pluck now that your ambush has failed? Reiks Ortwin is steward of these parts – of all southeastern Thracia, right up to Constantinople’s stubborn walls – by Iudex Fritigern’s ruling, and you are trespassing. Come down, turn in your weapons and Ortwin might offer you a quick death when we bring you before him.’

Pavo glowered down at the fellow, saying nothing. The chances of him surrendering were as unlikely as the notorious Ortwin even considering mercy.

‘I have no time for this,’ the Gothic leader said with a shrug, calling one of his chosen archers forward. ‘Shoot him through the throat. We will take Reiks Ortwin his weapons.’

As the Gothic archer knelt and nocked his bow, Pavo calmly reached for the ruby-red shield wedged between two rocks by his side. The Gothic arrow loosed with a whoosh, before Pavo impassively raised the shield to catch the killing strike. Sombrely, he snapped the arrow shaft from the shield face, then drew and smacked his spatha three times on the iron boss.

Clang-clang-clang.

The Gothic leader’s face wrinkled in bemusement, looking to the slopes either side of them as the din echoed throughout and over the storm. The man’s face lifted in a triumphant smile when the noise faded to nothing. ‘An army of one after all, it would see-’

With a dull rumble, the snow on the valley floor – right between the two halves of the warband and right by the leader’s feet – erupted into the air. Two centuries of legionaries, led by Primus Pilus Sura, roared as they rose from low pits, throwing from their shields the light roof of covering snow which had kept them concealed, then a century each shot towards the unexpecting backs of the two Gothic halves, slicing down the smug leader in a burst of red mizzle before he even had time to scream. The two Gothic lines spun inwards on their heels to face this urgent threat, only just tossing up their own shields and spears in time to block the assault. Some of Sura’s men leapt and hurled lead-weighted plumbatae darts down into Gothic flesh at close range, before they crashed into contact. Spear hafts thwacked, shields clattered, steel screeched and screams echoed through the valley. Quickly, the Goths’ surprise faded and the two halves of the warband pushed back, encircling Sura’s men.

Pavo’s eyes grew wide, fixed on his oldest friend and the two brave centuries now ensnared there. ‘Rise, rise!’ he roared. Now the valley slopes came alive: on the northern side, two more centuries rose from behind natural redoubts of snow and brush, clad in torn mail and rags, bearing spears and scarred red and gold shields. Opis – the Claudia’s aquilifer – hoisted the legion’s tarnished silver eagle standard: a faded, grubby ruby bull banner hanging from its crossbar dancing in the blizzard. At the same time another century rose around Pavo.

Pavo held his spatha high. ‘Claudia! Ad-vance!’ he cried, the words pealing through the valley like thunder, the gale furrowing his ruby cloak like a war banner.

He loped down the slope, snow churning up in his wake, vision juddering with every stride, sword hand white on the hilt, eyes on the red spray fouling the snow around the clash below. On his left came Flaccus, an older recruit for whom today would be the first taste of combat, Flaccus had been a farmer on the Thracian plains, until the Goths had butchered his family and his animals and burnt his home. Normally timid, today Flaccus wore a snarl, tears streaming down his face as he ran.

Pavo saw the Goths’ bearded, tattooed faces grow agape as they spotted the pincers coming for them from the opposing valley slopes. Many swung from the battle with Sura’s legionaries to face the twin charges. Pavo recognised not one of them, but his mind flashed with images of their like from that bleak, baking day outside Adrianople.

His hand moved to the rear of his shield instinctively, for a plumbatae. An opening salvo of the lead-weighted darts might turn the odds in the favour of the Claudia. But his hand traced the empty clips where they should have been. His, like those of the rest, had been spent in this hard winter and the few remaining had been given to Sura’s lot. There would be little in the way of manoeuvre or tactics now, he realised, levelling his sword. This would be feral.

With a boom of shoulder-backed shields coming together, the two Roman groups hammered into the Gothic band like a wolf’s jaws snapping at an enraged bear. Pavo thrust his spatha into the ribs of one man, coming nose to nose with the foe, snarling as he ripped the sword free, blood showering him and the air around him. Guts sprayed him from one side and the blade of a broken sword hurtled through the air overhead as he drove step after step into the Gothic swell. In the midst of it all, he saw Sura and his two centuries locked in the frenzy of battle. A spear tore across Sura’s cheek. Hearing his closest comrade’s pained cries drove Pavo on, stoking the fire within.

But the Goths were bold: they surged back at the Roman pincers, stabbing, hacking. Pavo felt his own step retreating under their press, heard screams now of his own men. The flat of a Gothic longsword clanged against the cheekguard of his helm, snapping his head to one side and affording him a view of poor Flaccus: a Gothic spear rammed through the mail on the man’s chest then the holder lifted him proud of the battle like a skewered fish. Flaccus thrashed, coughing gout after gout of blood across Pavo and the others nearby. The fellow’s eyes bulged, searching the Roman faces for one that would tell him everything was well, that this was not the end. At the last, his eyes met Pavo’s.

Where is my justice, sir? he mouthed.

‘Sir, they’re harder bastards than we thought!’ another hoarse voice rasped. Centurion Libo, wild-haired and with an even wilder wooden eye, was streaked with battle-filth as he came to press against Pavo’s left shoulder, his rotten teeth clenched in a battle-rictus.

‘Hold them, damn you,’ Pavo snarled in reply to Libo and the rest of his legion. ‘Drive them back, onto Sura’s spears!’

The snowfall picked up into a stinging blizzard and the Gothic cry only grew louder with it. Pavo suddenly saw every mistake he had made: to gamble on an ambush making the difference when the Goths had more men; to commit to battle when his legionaries were poorly-equipped and had eaten meagrely for days while these Goths had grown fat on stolen sheep; to expect so much of callow recruits. A giant Goth came at him, swinging his longsword in diagonal slashes, over and over, each blow battering Pavo’s shield, shreds of timber flying off with every strike. The century line with Pavo sagged and seemed set to buckle when, from the far side, a strange lance leapt into the air, thrown by Opis: the Claudia’s eagle standard. It arced through the biting snow and plunged into the midst of the Goths. There was a momentary hiatus when the barbarians were as stunned as their Roman foes. The Gothic warrior who caught it grinned toothily.

Then: ‘For the legion,’ Opis howled from the far side. ‘Save the standard!’

For the Goths, it was like the moment when a man turns from a sheltered alley into a stiff wind. The legionaries, charged with the sight of their sacred banner disappearing into the mass of battle, found new spirit, fresh voice and strength.

‘Right, that’s mine!’ Libo snarled, hacking the hand from the giant sword-swishing Goth, then using him like a ladder of sorts, thrusting up from the stumbling warrior’s bent knee then leaping from his shoulder and over into the swell of Goths, a knot of others plunging in after him. The rest, moments ago retreating, surged back against the Gothic band. Pavo saw one take on a man twice his height: despite his hubris, the legionary was doomed. Pavo rushed forth and thrust his forehead into the Goth’s face, the fin of his helm piercing the foe’s forehead with a pop. Dark blood pumped from the mortal wound. The legionaries swarmed over the Goths now. Pavo elbowed one man then ripped through the neck of another before swinging to block and slice the next. The driving snow mixed with hot blood-mizzle and the screams competed with the shrill gale. Finally, he saw the standard, unclaimed, on the red snow before him. He thrust out a hand to seize it, only for several other hands to do likewise. Bracing, levelling his sword at the others, he suddenly saw them for who they were: Libo, now masked in blood; Opis, panting; Centurion Trupo, ruddy and shaking; the towering, rangy Centurion Cornix; and Sura, dripping with gore but unharmed apart from the cut across his cheek.

‘The battle is over, Tribunus,’ Sura panted, spitting dark blood from a cut to his lip, pushing his helm from his head and sweeping his flaxen curls back from his brow.

Pavo, grip tight on the standard, saw that it was true. The mass of Goths had dissolved under the push for the legionary ensign. Hundreds lay dead or dying underfoot, eighty or so survivors had broken away and were now streaming to the valley’s western end. The exhausted legionaries of the XI Claudia erupted in a song of victory, cheering, laughing hysterically over the gale and some sinking to their knees to weep intensely.

Pavo gazed around numbly, thinking of Flaccus again, seeing scores of legionaries… no, men, lying cold and still. Yet more passing into Hades under his watch, joining the end of the infinite grey army. And it had been this way for months now. This was winter’s cruel tale.

The Claudia men waded through the snowbound Rhodopes during the afternoon, heading back towards their mountain fort. They passed along the foot of a set of lofty cliffs, engraved sometime long, long ago – before the time of the empire – with crude, giant faces, the snow resting on the stony brows and upper lips like thick, white hair, the hollows that were supposed to be eyes staring austerely down at the shivering, battle-stained procession. Later, they crossed a high, unsheltered pass; the driving blizzard was at its fiercest here, the wind roaring and blinding, pushing back on their every step. At last they descended into the lee of another valley and entered a blessedly sheltered stand of pine. Given respite from the wintry wrath, the men started to chat and strike up songs of victory.

‘We crushed them,’ Indus the dark-skinned Rhodian, six summers Pavo’s junior, enthused in a whisper. ‘The Gothic War will turn on moments like that.’

The fiery-haired Durio, another youngster, replied with equal conviction: ‘We should’ve pursued the ones who ran, all the way back to Reiks Ortwin. He’d soon be running too.’

‘Heh,’ Indus chirped. ‘Reminds me of that song.’

‘Eh? Aye – the one the veterans sing sometimes. We can just change the names,’ Durio agreed.

A ripple of anticipatory laughter rose and then Indus and Durio began in unison.

‘Ortwin the brave, most feared of the Goths,’

‘Had the Gothic whores, right up in a froth,’

The men laughed loud now, many more joining in.

‘When he swaggered by, cast his eye around,’

‘They’d titter and swoon, and touch their mounds,’

‘But when the legions came, his guts fell away,’

‘And the Gothic whores, sighed with dismay,’

‘For he fled like a cat, ran away to the north,’

‘Sped for safety, and shat his loincloth.’

A huge collective intake of breath, then they roared in unison: ‘Shaaat hiiis loooin-cloooth!’

The song ended with an explosion of laughter.

Marching at the front, Pavo stared ahead, unmoved, face like granite. Words of rebuke formed on his tongue, but he held them captive.

‘That was but a vanguard we faced back there,’ Sura said gravely, the words of stark truth hushed so only Pavo could hear.

‘I know,’ Pavo rumbled as the winter wind soughed through the pine woods. ‘Reiks Ortwin will already have heard of this… and he certainly won’t be running away. We have days before he comes,’ he shot Sura a gimlet look, ‘at best. He’ll bring the six thousand granted to him by Fritigern. They’ll sweep through these valleys and shred our fort. There is no option but to retreat, abandon the fort, cede these lands like all the rest.’ He toyed with his next words, trying to find a way to sweeten them, but it was in vain: ‘We cannot even hope to repel Fritigern’s lackeys. What will happen in spring when the horde entire – with ten times the number of Ortwin’s warriors – mobilise from their great winter camp by Trimontium? What hope is there?’

A long silence followed, before Sura replied: ‘Things will change, you’ll see.’

Pavo glanced back over the ragtag Claudia detachment: gaunt faces, smoke and dirt-stained; some men without helms or armour – a rare commodity since the fabrica supply system had collapsed in the wake of the Adrianople defeat. Tantamount to refugees in their own lands, they were an embodiment of the Gothic crisis. ‘Thracia is in tatters, Sura. No emperor sits upon the Eastern Throne. The Senate House in Constantinople lies empty. Every general and official of note was butchered at Adrianople or chased from these lands. And as for the Eastern legions? Nobody has yet confirmed what remains of them – we are probably one of the few still in existence, hiding in these high wastes on Thracia’s southern edge like bandits. No reinforcements speed to our aid: Egypt and Syria have only enough legions to watch their own creaking borders. Meanwhile, Fritigern rules the land from his great winter camp, unopposed, underlings like Ortwin policing regions for him.’

‘We do have one general,’ Sura replied, his tone edged with desperation. ‘Theodosius has promised better times ahead.’

Pavo peered moodily into the trees. ‘The Magister Militum sits tight in the south, within the walls of Thessalonica, safely distant from these troubled parts, and makes many promises. Promises are cheap, Sura. How many times have we seen this man who claims to lead the resistance against the Goths? Not once. Only one despatch since Autumn, telling us to wait for further news.’

Just as the light was fading, they emerged from the woods into thickening snow. Ahead lay a sweeping valley lined with snow-coated broom, a craggy mountain rising from the far end. A flat-topped spur projected from the lower slopes, its edges lined with a tall wooden palisade, studded with snow-caked timber watchtowers. Shivering bubbles of orange torchlight cast the place in an eerie glow. This makeshift fort had been their shelter since the autumn.

Pavo noticed telltale hoofprints in the snow, leading up the rugged approach to the fort.

‘Ours?’ Sura mused.

Pavo shook his head, his senses sharpening. ‘No. These belong to a stallion,’ he said, eyeing the size of the prints.

Sura’s gaze hardened on the fort. Both knew the precious turma of twelve equites housed in the fort rode smaller mares. The blizzard roared, searching under their damp, freezing garments. ‘Perhaps a messenger – a rider of the Cursus Publicus? News at last?’

‘Imperial messengers rarely bear good tidings,’ Pavo muttered. ‘They travel faster than arrows, and often sting more keenly.’

They approached with care, the drop either side of the natural ramp leading up to the fort spur high enough to cripple or kill. Rectus, the legion’s thickset, lantern-jawed medicus, hailed them from the wooden gatehouse walkway, peering out into the snow flurry, his high forehead wrinkled and his receding, swept-back hair lifting and dancing in the gale. With him was Herenus, the Cretan sling-expert in charge of the legion’s funditores. The pair were flanked by two sentries, and all four cheered and slapped each other on the shoulders when they saw that it was their own approaching.

The gates swung open. With a chorus of stamping feet, chattering teeth and relieved groans, the five tattered Claudia centuries spilled inside, immediately grateful for the lee of the palisade walls. Spared from the buffeting snow-winds, Pavo gave the order for the men to fall out. They immediately dispensed with their heavy arms and armour, some taking offered dry cloaks and blankets to replace sodden garb, and many huddled round the fires crackling near the timber barrack huts, gratefully accepting broth and bread prepared by the two centuries who had remained behind to man the fort. Rectus hobbled down from the battlements with the aid of a cane to tend to the injured few who had been carried on stretchers. Herenus came looking for Flaccus, whom he had been teaching to use the sling in recent weeks. The Cretan’s eager face fell when he saw the man was absent, then he met Pavo’s eyes and offered a consoling nod – all one could do in such a moment.

Pavo gazed around the interior of the fort, across his three cohorts – on paper a full complement. But in reality, the First Cohort – the spine of the legion, theoretically composed of five double-strength centuries – consisted of just four centuries, and each of these with only or less than the normal strength of eighty men. The Second Cohort counted only two centuries and the Third Cohort was but a skeleton outfit of a single century. Together with Herenus’ slingers and the handful of scout riders, less than seven hundred men remained of the Claudia. Gathered like this, he realised it was time to announce the retreat from Ortwin’s warband. The men’s babbling chatter of their victory would soon be dashed. They seemed to sense he had something to say, turning to him. Just as he filled his lungs to address them, hurried footsteps shuffled over from somewhere off to his right.

‘Tribunus Pavo?’ an unfamiliar voice called out.

He swung to the sound and saw a thin-faced stranger approaching from the fort’s stables. Long hair hung to his shoulders with just a few strands scraped sideways over a thinning crown. The stallion-riding messenger, Pavo realised. He braced, well-versed in grim news.

‘Magister Militum Theodosius sends word from his base at the southern city of Thessalonica. A vast new military campus has been established there. He has summoned the outlying… legions,’ the fellow cast an apologetic eye over the ragged band of the Claudia, ‘to gather there.’

Murmurs of excitement split the air from the ranks.

To gather? Pavo thought dryly. A retreat in the guise of muster.

‘More,’ the rider smiled in a well-practiced fashion, ‘he will soon no longer be our general… but our emperor!’

Now the men exploded in excited chatter.

‘Theodosius is to be Emperor of the East?’ Pavo said quietly, thinking of the empty throne in Constantinople.

‘Master and saviour of these lands,’ he said with an orator’s tone that didn’t tally with the absence of conviction in his eyes.

Pavo saw the chance to maintain his men’s morale. They did not need to know that they had lost the winter struggle to Ortwin. ‘Then we move out tomorrow,’ Pavo announced, ‘south, to Thessalonica.’

The men cheered, slapping shoulders and bashing drinking skins together. The air of victory – false as it might be – would live on, carried on the wings of retreat.

‘That is not all, Tribunus,’ the messenger added quietly. The man had produced from his leather bag a small, ox-hide box. ‘Personal news for you.’

Pavo blinked. The wintry gale screamed above the fort’s walls.

‘The effects of an officer who fell in the Adrianople disaster,’ the rider clarified, proffering the box.

Pavo looked the man in the eye, not understanding.

‘The previous Tribunus of the Claudia,’ the rider confirmed. ‘Gallus, wasn’t it?’

The timbers of the small shack which acted as a praetorium of sorts groaned as the night winds intensified. Strong draughts stole in between the gaps in the planks, causing the copper brazier within to gutter and throw myriad shadow-shapes on the walls. Pavo sat on a stool, his cup of broth untouched, his elbows on his knees and his chin resting upon steepled fingertips. His eyes hung on the unopened hide box sitting on his bed.

‘Why me, sir?’ he said, quietly. The brazier crackled and spat in reply. Gallus had always been a riddle: a tormented soul, a ferocious soldier and a man who led by example and sheer aura. Every breath of Pavo’s short spell as Tribunus of the Claudia had been modelled on that which he had learned from Gallus. Few had gotten close to the man they called the ‘Iron Tribunus’. ‘Perhaps we were closer than most,’ he mused.

He carefully turned the bronze latch on the chest and it opened with a click. Inside, he found just a few items. Small, sad items that could only mean anything to their true owner. There was a wooden toy soldier. Instantly, Pavo knew this must have belonged to Marcus, Gallus’ murdered boy. The tough callus around Pavo’s heart, the kind that grew around the hearts of all legionaries – the soldier’s skin as they called it – began to soften for the first time in many months. The next item was an empty glass vial. Confused, Pavo removed the cork from it and held it to his nostrils: a last trace of a sweet floral scent escaped as a vapour. ‘And this was Olivia’s,’ he smiled, tears welling in his eyes. There was also a small bag of bronze folles, perhaps enough to feed and clothe a man for a few seasons. Finally, there was a wax tablet. Pavo opened it and tilted the surface towards the brazier light.

The writing was simple and short. On my death, these items are to be delivered to Numerius Vitellius Pavo – a comrade, a friend… and everything I hoped little Marcus might have become.

The tears flowed now. He snapped the tablet shut and closed the case. His head flopped forwards and he closed his eyes. In the darkness he saw the lost fallen: Gallus, big Zosimus and Quadratus, his beloved Felicia… and the bastard who had been behind their deaths.

Dexion, his half-brother, had been the blade. Yet Pavo thought not of Dexion, but of the hand that had guided the blade. The one who had orchestrated it all – made a pact with the Goths to ensure the destruction of the Eastern Army at Adrianople. Again, the name burned in his thoughts like a brand.

Gratian – Emperor of the West. The one man who could never be called to account for his crimes.

‘I am but a soldier. So what can I do?’ he pleaded with the ether. ‘So many dead, so many grieving. Mithras, tell me, what can I do to make things right?’

The wind keened, and then the bag of coins shifted with a gentle chink. Pavo gazed at them, then understood.

Chapter 2

The next day, the legion marched through the wintry valleys. They traversed the high pass then came to a forked track – the rightmost tine leading south towards the lowlands of Macedonia and the coastal city of Thessalonica, the left tine drawing north, towards Thracia’s flatlands. Here, Pavo drew Sura aside. Mounted on mares and swaddled in thick woollen cloaks, focale scarves and padded felt caps, they watched as the Claudia legion filed past.

‘We will follow on soon,’ Pavo called to them.

‘Claim a good spot for our tents in the Thessalonica camp,’ Sura added.

Libo, leading the legion in their stead, called back: ‘Will do, after I’ve been to the brothel. It’s been a fair few months, after all.’

‘You took out most of your frustrations on your pillow,’ Opis contested.

Laughter drowned out Libo’s angered retort, and the cohorts faded into the wintry white of the southern road. Alone, Pavo and Sura headed north. The driving blizzard seemed stronger than the previous day and even Pavo was soon doubting the wisdom of his decision.

‘The well-stocked taverns and hot baths at Thessalonica – bit too warm and comfortable for your tastes?’ Sura yelled over the screaming winds.

‘We’ll get there soon enough,’ Pavo chuckled, teeth chattering, ‘once we’ve done this.’ He weighed the small purse of folles in his rapidly-numbing hand once again. It was enough to fortify his convictions.

They rode on through fetlock-deep snow for the rest of the day, making a crude camp in a cave by a frozen tarn. They defrosted bread over a welcome fire, ate it with fatty, salted mutton and washed it down with fire-warmed water and wine. The following day they awoke to the sound of jagged shouts and foreign marching songs. Both lay on their bellies within the cave, watching as Reiks’ Ortwin and his six thousand strong army thundered past nearby, heading southwards into the mountains.

‘If we had delayed for just another day…’ Sura said.

Pavo kept his eyes on them as he pulled on his boots and cloak hurriedly. ‘But we didn’t. And while Ortwin’s lot are roving around the mountains, our way north is clear. Come on.’

They rode until late afternoon, when they saw the ghostly outline of the city that had haunted each of their dreams since the summer. Adrianople, grey and ethereal in the storm, dead centre of a vast stretch of flatland at the confluence of the Tonsus and Hebrus rivers. The snow-cloaked city’s immense limestone walls and towers bore thin cracks and dark streaks – telltale signs of the Goths’ attempt to take the walls with their crude siege equipment after the disastrous battle. Just a morning’s march north of here lay that field of bones, but despite it all, the city itself had stood strong as one of the few islands of Roman control.

They crossed the frozen River Hebrus, cantered up to the city’s colossal eastern gate and called to the blue-faced sentries high up there. ‘Men at the gates.’

‘Stand back!’ one blue-faced and wool-swaddled sentry snarled over the high parapet, startled.

Pavo and Sura looked at one another, then did as they were bid.

The small hatch gates opened and a pack of ten legionaries spilled out, switching their spears this way and that into the snowstorm, faces grim with ire and fear. ‘In,’ their stumpy-toothed leader ordered after a while, eyes still combing the white countryside behind the pair. As they moved in through the gatehouse and out of the buffeting snow, the man explained: ‘Can’t be too careful. After the disaster in the summer, a group of seven imperial soldiers turned up at the gates, pleading to be let in. Candidati, no less.’

Pavo cocked his head in surprise. He was sure most of Valens’ personal bodyguards had fallen in the battle.

‘They came inside then set upon our gate garrison. Two of them tried to hold the gates open and a pack of Goths with whom they had made a deal sprang from the riverbanks and tried to rush in.’ The stumpy-toothed soldier grinned. ‘But we got the gates closed in time… and we dealt with the treacherous candidati.’

Pavo was about to ask how, when he saw the man’s gaze drift to the broad street just beyond the shelter of the gatehouse. Lining the way were seven stakes topped with grinning, snow-coated skulls.

Rufina dragged the comb through little Lupia’s knotted hair while the girl played with a set of polished stones. She hummed a gentle tune as the fire crackled, filling their small home with warmth while the snow outside fell silently. They had both enjoyed a hearty meal of bread and whitefish, but had paid for it with the last of their coins. It had been a cruel winter that showed no signs of abating.

‘When papa comes home,’ Lupia said, lifting a stone on top of the pile to complete a sparkling pyramid, ‘I will show him this. He will be very impressed. It is surely bigger than any of the walls he builds when he is away.’

When papa comes home, Rufina smiled sadly, leaning forward to kiss her daughter’s head. Nothing had changed for the little girl, she realised. Life had always been like this for her. Her legionary father, Rufina’s husband, would be at home for a month of leave, then absent for the rest of the year. He hadn’t been back since the summer. But this time it was different. This time Rufina knew he wasn’t coming back. Nobody had confirmed Zosimus’ fate, but she knew well that so many had fallen in the battle a few hours north of the city. In the chaos that had reigned ever since, the bodies of the fallen had never been tended to and still they lay out there. With no funeral purse she could neither grieve nor afford to feed her girl for much longer.

‘When he comes back,’ Lupia mused, ‘I will take him to the river and I will catch him a fish like the one we ate tonight.’

Rufina’s heart almost split, her girl’s words conjuring the image of the day Zosimus – always most at ease in the company of men – took Lupia to the banks of the Hebrus and showed her how to rig up a simple rod. Little fishing had occurred that day, much chasing and play taking place instead. Rufina put the comb down and wrapped her arms around Lupia, drawing her close. It was the only way she could muffle the sob that escaped her lips.

‘Mother, what’s wrong?’ Lupia said.

‘Lupia, papa is… papa is…’ she choked.

Just then, a familiar sound from outside saw Lupia’s neck lengthening, eyes growing wide with hope, fixed on the door.

Crunch-crunch.

Rufina’s blood slowed. Military boots. At once, her mind’s eye conjured the image of her hulking husband, the giant with the gentlest of hearts. She imagined his broken nose bending as he smiled, his thick stubble brushing her cheek as he took her into an embrace.

A hand rapped on the door.

‘Come in,’ she said, gulping back her emotions, knowing it could not be who she wanted it to be.

The door creaked open. There stood a legionary, uplit by the eerie, pale light reflected from the snow, the grey blizzard swirling around him. ‘Numerius Vitellius Pavo,’ the legionary said. ‘May I enter?’

Rufina beckoned him inside. He came in, shutting out the storm, and sat by the fire, pulling off his snow-coated woollen cap and ruffling his short, black hair.

Rufina eyed him: dark, hawk-like and lean; young but with age in his eyes – the extra years soldiers seemed to carry. ‘Pavo… you were one of his comrades, weren’t you?’ she realised.

Pavo met her eye and gave a half-nod. ‘One of his closest.’

Lupia’s neck lengthened again, and she stared at Pavo in the brazen way only children can. ‘You are friends with papa and Uncle Quara… er, Quadar… Quadratus?’

Pavo’s lips played with a smile. ‘They meant everything to me.’

Rufina wondered if her daughter had picked up on Pavo’s use of the past tense, and held her a little more tenderly in case she had. The young soldier seemed to realise that the girl didn’t know. He let a considered silence pass, then took Lupia’s hand. ‘Your papa was a hero,’ he said. ‘Do you know how much he helped me and the other men in my legion?’

Lupia cocked her head to one side. ‘Helping other people? He always told me it was what made a person good. When will he be home again?’

Pavo seemed to choke in search of a reply.

‘He is coming home… isn’t he?’ Lupia continued. ‘Or is he… one of them?’

Rufina looked Pavo in the eye, confused, seeing Pavo was too. ‘One of who, darling?’ she asked her daughter.

‘The ones who live in here,’ she reached over and tapped Pavo’s breastbone. ‘Papa said many of his friends were there now.’ Her face crumpled. ‘He said that one day he might become one of them, but if he did, I was to remember that he would always be in here,’ she tapped her own breastbone.

Rufina squeezed her tight.

‘He lived true to his word,’ Pavo said. ‘He put my life and those of others before his and… he will live on in here, forever.’ He touched his own breastbone and little Lupia’s.

Realisation dawned. Lupia’s face crumpled and she turned to bury her head in Rufina’s chest, sobbing.

I’m sorry, Pavo mouthed.

‘No,’ Rufina said, reaching out to clasp Pavo’s hand. ‘I wish I had your courage. In the months since the battle I have been unable to do what you just did.’

‘Zosimus taught me all about courage,’ Pavo smiled sadly. ‘And he drew much of it from you both. He talked about you all the time. You were everything to him. That is why I came here – because there is so little