Gordon Doherty - The Scourge of Thracia

‘It’s been a while, eh?’ Sura gasped, reading his thoughts.

‘Changed days,’ Pavo muttered absently in reply, casting his gaze around and taking a swig of his water skin to wash the dust from his throat. ‘And a changed land too, it seems. Only last year this was considered solid imperial territory. Then, we could march without armour.’

‘What’s that?’ Zosimus grunted, looking over his shoulder. ‘Nah, nothing to be wary of. I know these lands like the underside of my scrotum,’ he affirmed, then frowned and wondered at the comparison and whether he had ever actually set eyes on that part of his anatomy. He was about to add something, when they passed another deserted imperial watchtower. Beside it was a crushed legionary helm. He glowered at the abandoned tower and Pavo heard a low growl tumble from his lips. The big man was a Thracian by birth, and the sight of his homeland in disorder riled him.

The watchtower was but one such sight. The further north and west of Adrianople they marched, the more destruction they witnessed: deserted or dilapidated waystations, empty field forts, abandoned farmsteads and a stark thinning of the rural population — many having fled to the safety of the walled cities. Crop fields had been left to seed, fallow ground lay brown and bare apart from the weeds that had taken root. Fig and olive groves had grown wild and untended. In the months they had been in Persia, Thracia had suffered. The small bands of Gothic raiders who had managed to penetrate this far south before the five mountain pass blockades had been set up had reaped a heavy toll, it seemed. Even to this day, a few such bands still roamed in these lands. They passed one field where a few farmers dared to tend their crops: they did so nervously, eyes darting to the countryside every so often, their harvesting sickles clutched like weapons. The great road was empty too — as far as the eye could see. They had passed not a single imperial rider or sentry patrol in days. Every man, it seemed had been pulled to the Great Northern Camp, to focus on the main body of Goths beyond the mountains, while lower and middle Thracia had been left almost bare of protection. He shrugged, pulling his shield up on its strap again — this time for safety rather than of comfort — and took to switching his gaze this way and that.

The march grew more wearing throughout that day as they came to long tracts of heathland, dappled in purple heather and punctuated with grey limestone boulders. Here, long sections of the Via Militaris had fallen into disrepair with flagstones sunken, raised, or absent — gouged out and taken for some other purpose. In parts, repairs had been attempted, though rather crudely, with chunks of yellow sandstone and even slabs of expensive blue-veined marble crammed awkwardly into gaps. He passed over one such stone that had a worn dedication to Mars etched into it — no doubt from a forgotten temple to the old war god. Changing days indeed.

Late in the afternoon, they came to a fork in the road, where the Via Militaris continued on towards the western empire while a smaller, more ancient and broken road led off to the north. This smaller road scaled a small set of foothills, almost being swallowed by the swaying long grass that sprouted between its flagstones.

‘The road to the Great Camp,’ Gallus said, halting them and unfurling a map.

Pavo joined the others in sucking hungrily from his water skin, removing his helm and mopping the sweat from his face.

‘The camp lies a half-day’s march to the north,’ Gallus continued, ‘on the southern banks of the River Tonsus. ‘Fresh cohorts and a fresh cause await us there. Let us stop here tonight then rise early.’

It was the first words he had spoken since breaking camp this morning. Pavo helped the others in setting up the tent. Later, as Sura and Quadratus bickered over who would light the fire, he noticed that the tribunus was standing sentinel-like under a beech tree, hands clasped behind his back, again gazing west. Always west.

Darkness fell, and Zosimus set about topping bread with cheese then lightly toasting it and soon Pavo, Sura and Quadratus joined him in sitting round the fire to eat. Pavo took his piece of bread and munched on it. The warming meal innervated his tired limbs, and a swig of cool water washed it down nicely. He noticed that Gallus had not taken his piece from the plate, so he lifted it and took it over to him. Silvery spears of moonlight pierced the canopy of leaves above the tribunus and threw his face into sharp relief. The harsh, unforgiving glare was still fixed on the blackness of the western horizon. The tribunus’ troubles were well-guarded, and Pavo knew it would be a mistake to broach what little he knew of them directly. He sought a different tack.

‘The Praesental Armies will put an end to this strife, sir. We will bolster the legions at the Great Camp and await their arrival. Come next summer, these lands might once again be at peace.’

Gallus’ head swivelled, his gaze pinning Pavo. ‘Aye, the Praesental Armies of East and West will unite in Thracia. When they do, it will be the first time they have come together in a long, long time. The Goths should be wary. . as should we all.’

The words were laced with foreboding. Pavo understood Gallus well enough by now to know it was not directed at him. ‘Whatever happens, sir, know that you can rely upon your men.’

Gallus nodded, his head dipping so his eyes fell into shade. ‘I know that only too well, Optio. That just four of you remain is a fact that plagues my every thought.’

‘Eat, sir,’ he said, handing over the cheese on toasted bread. ‘Then sleep. You need to sleep.’

Something flickered at the corner of Gallus’ mouth. A prelude to a smile? Whatever it was, it vanished again. ‘Aye,’ he said, taking the food.

Pavo returned to the campfire, sat, then looked north. At first, he saw only a wall of black. Then, as his eyes attuned, he made out a speckling of stars and the stark, jagged horizon, jutting into the sky like fangs. The Haemus Mountains, the only thing that separated the Great Northern Camp from the Gothic horde.

Apprehension seemed to hang around the small party like a fog, but it failed to dampen his spirit, for the Great Camp was so near and one name rang in his thoughts.

Felicia!

The next morning, a fine mizzle fell, stealing in through a gap in the tent flap and waking them at dawn. Gallus rose first to find not a single chink of blue in the sky — just layer upon layer of scudding grey clouds. They ate a swift breakfast of hardtack biscuit and spicy sausage, washed down with a bellyful of water and a sip of soured wine. While his men bantered as they disassembled the tent, he looked westwards into the roiling grey sky, and imagined Emperor Gratian’s Western Praesental Army gathering. . and his shadowy agents readying to journey with him. Come east, you dogs. I will be waiting for you. Memories of his years of running stung him like a cloud of hornets, but he swept them away. I was once your prey, now you will be mine.

‘Sir,’ Zosimus said, scattering Gallus’ thoughts. Lost in his reverie, he had not noticed them hoist their burden of weapons and armour once more. ‘Ready to march!’

He met the eyes of each man. Each of them gazed back, expectant, loyal, focused only on their duty. . as comrades should be. This stoked an ember of guilt in Gallus’ breast. If even one of them was to fall because of his distracted mind. .

He steeled himself, donning the iron veneer across his heart then stood, sweeping his cloak back, hoisting his own shield and pack. ‘Move out!’ he cried.

Before noon, they peeled off the north road, following a dirt-track that weaved off through the last few foothills. The muddy track was scarred and pitted with myriad wheel-tracks, hoof and boot-prints. As they rounded the hills, the fine mizzle thickened into a shower, soaking their cloaks, armour and clothes and churning the earth underfoot. Each of them had raw ankles and aching backs from this rugged last section of the march.