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 Propontus 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 barely. 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.