Gordon Doherty - The Scourge of Thracia

‘Have you considered what might happen if there is a Gothic attack on this camp?’ Gallus continued.

It was Barzimeres’ turn to snort. ‘No. No more than I worry myself over the boil that grows on my arse. The five passes are secure, Tribunus. The mountains either side of them are far taller and more impassable than the walls of Constantinople. Any Goth who seeks to scale and pass over those jagged, rocky peaks will find himself lost in the bleak heights, or lying, legs shattered in some unseen gully.’ He tore a handful of grapes free and crammed them into his mouth. ‘The carrion crows would feast upon them while they still lived!’ he roared with laughter.

Gallus nodded. It was true that the Haemus Mountains were a perfect barrier to prevent Fritigern’s hordes from moving south. ‘Then what if the Goths were to journey east, around the mountains, or if — just if — one of the passes was to fall?’

Barzimeres’ laughter faded and he gazed at Gallus with glazed and mirthful eyes, then erupted once more in a fit of hilarity. ‘If the Goths tried to come round the mountains to the east,’ he chuckled, ‘then they would face the forces stationed there. . and we would receive word of it weeks before they reached us here. Weeks! ’

‘And if one of the passes were to fall?’ Gallus reiterated the rest of his question.

‘They will not, Tribunus,’ Barzimeres sighed, growing weary of Gallus’ questioning now. ‘We have held them since spring. Six months have come and gone and Fritigern’s dogs have failed to break through. They have succeeded only in breaking great packs of their finest warriors on the walls and palisades we have built there. Indeed, their last attack was nearly a month ago. They are giving up hope now, surely.’

‘But what if-’ Gallus persisted.

‘If the Goths did break through?’ Barzimeres cut him off, his heckles rising. ‘Then they would be rushing into the maw of a trap. They would flood south, aye — to the river!’ he shot out a finger towards the dull babble of the Tonsus outside. ‘Over on its northern banks what would they do then? Gaze desirously across its swollen waters at our camp as they realise they can barely get within bowshot of our tents here on these southern banks? Maybe they would drink their fill. They would be wise to, for it would be their last. The armies at the other four passes would fall back and onto their rear, pin them against the riverside. . and crush them!’ he smacked a fist into his palm as he said this, then gulped more wine.

Gallus weighed the man’s logic. There was some logic in there, but the flaws leapt out at him like flashing blades. ‘If that was a viable tactic, then surely Saturninus would have arranged it already.’

‘Hmm?’ Barzimeres grunted, clearly having consigned the argument to his ‘victory’ pile, a rivulet of wine running down his overly-groomed beard and staining his white robes.

‘If enticing the Goths south and onto the riverbanks, as you suggest, was workable, would your magister equitum not already have done this — feigned the fall of one of the passes? Perhaps he might lose a few hundred soldiers, but to corral and defeat Fritigern’s hordes as you suggest that would be a cheap price to pay.’

‘Ah,’ Barzimeres swiped a hand through the air. ‘Saturninus is a timid, diffident fellow. Some fool tied him to a sword and shoved him into command. He loves combat only when he has a sturdy wall between himself and the enemy. He knows nothing but that which I tell him.’ He jabbed a finger into his chest as if to reinforce the point. ‘Yet he is still too craven to act upon my advice.’

Gallus let this bone of contention lie. There would be no convincing him that his glorious plan was folly. He sought another tack. ‘And when the rains stop, are you so sure the Goths would be halted by the river?’

Barzimeres’ face was ruddy like the wine now. ‘Why wouldn’t they be?’

‘The swollen river is broad and fierce, but only as long as the rains fall. When this bout of rain slows and stops, the Tonsus returns to being little more than a glorified brook — was it not so in the summer?’

Barzimeres’ lips twitched, devoid of a riposte.

‘And if winter brings ice, then it presents a solid, unbroken walkway for an army to march across, does it not?’

Barzimeres’ eyes widened with Gallus’ every word. ‘Well, we will act accordingly if that happens. The palisades will be re-erected. I have a tower on the riverbank watching for any signs of danger — be it from enemy soldiers or from Terra Mater herself.’

‘And will your men remember how to dig a ditch, how to line up atop the ramparts, how to hurl a volley of darts at an onrushing enemy?’

Barzimeres bridled at this interrogation, and suddenly shot to standing. ‘You think I do not know how to instil discipline in my men? Have you seen my Cornutii, my Scutarii?’

‘I saw them. I also noticed how they choose to camp further along the riverbank in small palisade forts of their own. The rest of this rabble remain here in this disgrace of a camp and uphold your command only because they can do as they please. They do not respect you, sir.’

‘I think you need a lesson in respect, Tribunus,’ Barzimeres raged then grabbed and unfurled a scroll lying on the map table. ‘Saturninus sent a messenger today, asking for reinforcements at the Shipka Pass. He specifically asks for men who know the region north of the passes well.’

Gallus felt the balance of the conversation turning.

‘Your lot know Moesia well, do you not?’ Barzimeres’ features wrinkled as he grinned in victory. ‘Tomorrow, you will march faster and harder than ever before to the Shipka Pass redoubt. My Cornutii and I will lead the way and show you just how much skill I expect from my soldiers.’

‘But my new cohorts,’ Gallus interjected.

‘While you are gone, I can have my best men muster your precious cohorts,’ Barzimeres purred, slumping back in his chair like a contented cat.

Gallus’ nose wrinkled at the reek of stale wine on Barzimeres’ breath. The only sound in the tent was of his teeth grinding like rocks.

Pavo stumbled back to the tent, his head spinning like a drunk’s. He barely noticed the squelching mud nor thought of the missed curfew. His eyes traced the etching on his leather bracelet again and again.

Hostus Vitellius Dexion.

He had made Felicia repeat his name, his full name, countless times.

‘You are sure?’ he had gasped even when she became angry at his questioning.

‘I told you,’ Felicia had insisted, ‘he’s at the Shipka Pass and has been for three weeks.’

She had only relented in her ire when he showed her the bracelet. Her eyes had widened as she read the etching upon it. In the silence that followed, he told her everything about those final moments when Father had tied the leather band onto his wrist. ‘Dexion is my brother,’ he had whispered to her.

‘Optio?’ a voice cut through his thoughts.

‘Sir!’ Pavo half-yelped, seeing that Gallus’ and his paths had crossed. His thoughts scrambled to conjure some excuse, but his mind was in pieces.

‘What’s wrong, Optio?’ Gallus asked, the expected rebuke not coming.

‘Sir, I. . ’ he untied the bracelet, holding it so Gallus could read the etching. ‘My brother is. . but a short march from here, at the Shipka Pass.’

Gallus’ eyes widened. ‘Then you may be the only one of us who will cheer the brief Barzimeres has just given me.’

A century of the Cornutii and the five men of the XI Claudia set off from the Great Northern Camp at dawn, the armoured column snaking north towards the Haemus Mountains, rain driving into their faces as the damp day wore on. By late afternoon when the grey light began to fade, they found themselves on the lower slopes of the great range.