Gordon Doherty - The Scourge of Thracia

Fritigern ignored Alatheus, instead struggling to estimate the size of this horde of northern horsemen. A thousand Huns, maybe closer to two thousand, and the same number of Taifali, he reckoned. He sought to remain calm, to find logic in the situation: the Gothic Alliance could count over thirty thousand warriors, and that number was growing with every passing week — more than enough to keep these newcomers in check, surely. Perhaps these new riders would be of some use, he tried to convince himself. And, loathe as he was to admit it, he could not help but be impressed by the initiative, mustering a hardy wing of Germanic chargers and steppe riders and bringing them to his ranks in good order like this. This brought a question to his lips.

‘Who harnessed this horde?’

‘Our champion,’ Alatheus replied, stretching out a hand to one approaching rider near the front of the Hun horde: a mail-clad giant on a silver stallion, bull-shouldered, with raven-dark hair scooped into a knot atop his head and a trident beard.

Fritigern squinted in the darkness, then felt his stomach turn over as the moonlight flashed across this rider’s face: handsome yet spoiled by a fearsome expression and troubling, obsidian eyes. Reiks Farnobius, a troublesome leader of a few hundred of the Greuthingi Goths. The head-taker some called him. A savage on the battlefield and a mercenary off it — doubtless guided shrewdly by careful words from Alatheus’ silver tongue. And what else did he and Saphrax convince you to do, Farnobius? Fritigern thought, his eyes narrowing as he thought again of the drowned boy-reiks, Vitheric. Farnobius had once been Vitheric’s protector. Where were you that night the boy died, Farnobius?

Farnobius was the only one Fritigern doubted he could surpass in combat. Yet as the colossus approached, Fritigern sensed the eyes of all the other minor reiks fall upon him again. His skin writhed with a cold shiver as he imagined himself trapped in a pit of asps: small and troublesome on their own, deadly when united.

Farnobius halted his stallion before Fritigern, then bowed in response — tilting his head just a fraction as if adding a dash of disrespect. When he lifted his head again, he wore a grin. It was the grin of a shark, passing into a stony glower as the two beheld each other for what felt like an eternity. It was only some sharp, involuntary twitch of Farnobius’ head — as if some dark and troubling thought had snagged the man — that ended the moment.

With a low snarl, the giant reiks drew the battle axe from his back and swept it up to test the edge, cutting the air before him. The grin returned. ‘Iudex Fritigern, I bring you many more horsemen for your horde; warriors who will break the Roman blockade.’ He raised his voice so the gathering crowds could not fail to hear. A clamour of eager voices chattered and gasped at this proclamation.

‘When we next attack the mountain passes. . they will fall,’ Farnobius roared. ‘The heart of Thracia and all its fine cities will soon be ours to plunder!’

A great, guttural cheer erupted and washed across the Moesian Plain, shaking the land.

The dipping mid-September sun silhouetted Constantinople’s skyline: mighty stone walls that encompassed seven hills packed with palaces, gardens, markets, baths, columns and marble temples to the old gods competing with the great new domed Christian basilicas. The air remained disagreeably hot and dry, carrying with it a tang of dung and vintage armpits. The main way that ran from the Imperial Palace region at the tip of the peninsula all the way to the land walls was bustling as usual; thick with a sea of sweating faces and jostling wagons moving to and fro in a chorus of clopping hooves and babbling voices, a haze of red dust lingering above the throng. The people shoved and shouldered past each other to buy bread, wine, fabrics and spices at the street-side stalls. But there was one face amongst the throng entirely disinterested in trade: a young, lean man with a crop of short, dark hair and a sun-burnished, hawk-like face, heading west along the main road at haste.

Pavo barged past a pair of squabbling shoppers, straightening the sleeves of his fresh white tunic and brushing a hand across his smooth jaw. After some five months in the burning sands of Persia, such simple pleasures as shaving and clean clothes were still a novelty to be savoured. The very fact he had survived the fraught journey east was a blessing he would never forget.

A two-hundred-strong vexillatio of the Claudia had been sent into Persia that spring. Yesterday, just five had returned. They had sailed from Antioch, enduring a stomach-churning fortnight at sea before reaching Constantinople and docking at the Neorion harbour in the north of the city yesterday morning. Utterly spent, they had staggered to the dusty little barrack compound that they had left behind earlier that year. His itchy hay-mattress bunk had felt like a silken cradle, and he slept dreamlessly for the rest of that day and most of this one too. Waking just hours ago, he had eaten like a starving beggar with his four surviving comrades in the barracks. Half a pheasant, three bowls of mutton stew mopped up with half a loaf of bread, then yoghurt and honey, finished with a small lake’s worth of chilled water. They had said little as they ate, each man exhausted and acutely aware of their many absent comrades who had fallen in the east. So much had changed during those months in the burning sands. So many questions had been answered, he realised, gulping back the swelling in his throat as he thought of Father. And so many new questions posed, he mused, glancing down to the leather bracelet on his wrist — Father’s last gift to him.

Numerius Vitellius Pavo, Hostus Vitellius Dexion. Every beat of my heart is for you, my sons.

He could even hear Father’s voice as he read the etching on the bracelet one more time. A father lost, the promise of a half-brother found. It truly had been a monumental time in the fiery east.

A sudden waft of floral perfume from a passing group of lead-painted ladies on the way stirred him from memory and reminded him of his destination. All throughout the unpleasant voyage home, he had yearned for the moment when he would be reunited with Felicia. Again, his mind’s eye taunted him with images of her. Her amber locks, her floral scent. Her warm, soft skin against his. Soon it would no longer be a fruitless longing. Before setting sail from Antioch he had sent her a message on the Cursus Publicus , assuring her he was well and would return to her. The imperial messenger would have reached her in a fraction of the time their sea voyage had taken. She would have had days to eagerly anticipate his return.

He noticed his surroundings growing less salubrious as the road skirted the foot of the seventh hill — with crumbling insulae tenements becoming more dominant than marble edifices. Regardless, the sight evoked a thousand precious memories within him. His early years had been spent here with Father, and now it was home for him and Felicia. He came under the shade of the city walls and the Saturninus Gate and then veered off down a narrow and relatively quiet alley. His boots clattered on the uneven flagstones, drawing glances from the few characters lingering in doorways and looking down from windows. Pavo noticed one hooded fellow with a scarred face straighten up a little as he passed. From the corner of his eye he saw the tell-tale shift of something under the cloak. Lightning-fast, Pavo swung and shot out a hand, fiercely grappling the man’s wrist through the cloak until the sinews in his arms bulged. The man winced and a dagger fell from the bottom of his cloak.

‘Go and haunt some other street,’ Pavo snarled.