‘Thracia can be saved, Emperor,’ Gallus interjected. The words came from his heart.
‘From where do you draw such hope?’ Valens asked, looking over his shoulder from the window, one eyebrow arched.
These words seemed to search inside Gallus’ armour. At once, he touched a hand to his purse, feeling for the idol in there. ‘Mithras stands with the legions back in Thracia.’
‘Then let us pray he betters Wodin and the Gothic hordes,’ Valens said with a mirthless snort. ‘But the fate of Thracia must wait. For a more ferocious and wily enemy now prowls at our door. The eastern frontier is on the brink, Tribunus.’ He swung round from the window, his eyes shaded under a deep frown. ‘Persia’s gaze is upon us.’
This was it, the moment Gallus had been waiting for. The brief that had brought him and his men east. ‘Emperor?’
‘Shapur has taken control of Armenia. Ten thousand Persian riders now patrol those lands and puppet the fickle princes who once swore loyalty to Rome.’
‘And you suspect the king of kings now readies to invade the empire?’ Gallus’ eyes narrowed as he said this, his gaze flicking to the campaign map.
‘Nobody knows what is brewing in Shapur’s mind. But I have heard rumour and counter-rumour that he is coming under ever-increasing pressure to make a decisive move,’ Valens’ expression darkened. ‘There are many within Persian lands who resent the House of Sassan. They see no reason why their ancient houses should not rule Persia in Shapur’s stead. They will demand that Shapur moves upon our empire or they will have his head and seize his throne. The taking of Armenia serves as a dark portent. Roman Syria is in absolutely no state to deal with an incursion of any kind.’ He strode over to the campaign table, resting an oil lamp near the centre of the map. Beckoning Gallus over and gesturing to the stools beside the table, he sat and tapped the spot on the map north-west of Constantinople, where the new temporary limes had been set up in Thracia. ‘Had it not been for the Gothic migrations across the Danubius, I would not have had to divert many of my eastern legions to those lands.’ He then swept his finger across the map, almost tracing the route of the XI Claudia’s voyage, bringing it to a rest in the area just east of Antioch. Here, more than forty soldier-pieces were spread out in a line running north to south. ‘The number of pieces here is misleading. Many of these legions are little more than vexillationes, some numbering only a few hundred like your own. Barely twenty five thousand men, stretching from northern Syria, all the way down to Egypt. And nearly half of them are mere limitanei. . ’ he looked up, fixing Gallus with his gaze. ‘I mean no offence, Tribunus. The border soldiers here barely compare with your kind — and that is exactly why I summoned you.’
Gallus smoothed at his chin with a thumb and forefinger. ‘Yet the eastern defences are sturdy, are they not? The fortifications along the Strata Diocletiana are legendary,’ he suggested, drawing a finger along the line on the map that ran from Armenia in the north down past Palmyra in the south. He had heard many tales of the proud network of stone forts that studded that desert road. ‘Surely — limitanei or otherwise — these legions here could bed in and man our strongholds should Shapur choose to invade?’
Valens pulled a wry smile. ‘The Strata Diocletiana has fallen into grievous disrepair. There are scarcely enough legionaries to garrison those forts, let alone funds to repair them. If Shapur turns his armies upon them, they will fall.’
Gallus frowned. Suddenly, the memory of the ballistae lining Antioch’s mountaintop eastern walls took on an air of desperation — like some final bastion. ‘And the Persians, what forces can they muster against us?’
Valens’ gaze grew distant. ‘Including the Armenian garrison, nearly one hundred thousand warriors. Perhaps a third are paighan — peasant infantry, many of them chained and forced to march. But the heart of the Persian army, over half, are Savaran.’
‘The Savaran?’ Gallus asked. ‘The Persian cavalry?’
Valens’ brow knitted in a frown. ‘Cavalry? Aye, perhaps you could call them that. Though the empire over I have yet to see riders so fierce.’
‘Emperor?’ Gallus asked, agitated by the sense of unease creeping back into his gut.
‘The detail we can come to later on,’ Valens waved a hand as if swatting a mayfly, ‘but you should be aware that the Sassanid rulers have changed the Persian way of war. In these last decades, they have shed the last vestiges of the old Parthian dynasty. They have fine forts, broad roads — they even model their borders on our limites. Their standing armies are as well-drilled as any legion.’ He stopped, screwing up his eyes and pinching the top of his nose as if fending off a headache. ‘Suffice to say they are a formidable foe.’
Gallus smoothed the tip of his chin. ‘Perhaps their unity — or lack of it — might be exploited? If Shapur has his enemies as you say,’ he offered.
‘A salient question, Tribunus, and one I have exhausted in these last months.’ Valens’ eyes sparkled keenly. ‘Unity is a multi-faceted concept. To a man, the Persians fight under the banner of their Zoroastrian god, Ahura Mazda, and unanimously rail against anything they see as the work of his antithesis, Ahriman. After that, internecine rivalries and power struggles muddy Persian politics so wickedly that few have a clear picture of how things truly stand. The spahbads who answer to Shapur control vast wings of the Savaran. They are like kings themselves, fiercely proud of their satrapies and their ancient and noble houses. And then there are the Zoroastrian Magi who walk before the armies, carrying torches that blaze with the Sacred Fire, a symbol of their faith. These men are mystical, powerful figures who control the hearts of people, armies and kings alike.’
‘It sounds like we could stoke some trouble that might keep them occupied?’ Gallus persisted.
Valens’ lips played with a smile. ‘Again, you echo my thoughts of recent times. Indeed, I have tried. Last year I sent a party of riders into The Satrapy of Elam in an attempt to bribe the spahbad and his army.’
‘Did the riders return?’ Gallus asked, sure he knew the answer already.
‘In a manner of speaking, yes. Their heads were delivered to a fort on the Strata Diocletiana, mouths stuffed with Roman coins,’ as Valens said this, his gaze faltered. ‘The Persians will not turn upon one another for a few bags of Roman gold. . and our coffers are all but empty in any case,’ he said dryly. ‘Subterfuge of any other kind — stoking up rivalries, instigating blood-feuds, that kind of thing — takes time, Gallus. And I fear time is running out. This year, next year at the latest, the Persian armies will fall upon these lands.’
‘Very well,’ Gallus nodded, his gut twisting further. ‘So if invasion is inevitable, and our fortifications cannot withstand such an assault, then why have you called us east, Emperor? Surely my vexillatio can offer little to change this?’
Valens shook his head slowly. ‘On the contrary, Tribunus. I know that you and your hardy men can.’ He clapped his hands and a pair of slaves hurried in with a jug of watered wine and a plate of fresh bread, figs and cheese. ‘Fill your belly and I will explain.’
Valens poured a goblet of wine and added three parts water, then swirled the concoction, gazing at the surface. ‘Fourteen years ago, an emperor died on the edge of a Persian blade.’
‘Julian,’ Gallus nodded, folding a piece of bread around a chunk of cheese and chewing upon it. He washed the mouthful down with water, forgoing wine as always. ‘I remember his reign. I was a young lad at the time. The Apostate, they called him — he had little time for Christian meekness.’ He said this with the beginnings of a dry chuckle, then remembered that Valens was a staunch Arian Christian and thought better of it.
Valens beheld him with a solemn gaze; ‘Then you will know of the man who succeeded him.’