Gordon Doherty - The Scourge of Thracia

Then an inchoate, grey shape took form amidst the wall of white. It came and went like a reluctant shade at first — like the infernal shadow-man from Pavo’s dreams — before spilling into reality, spreading and dominating the width of the valley floor: a mass of warriors marching from the white infinity to the ghostly echoes of cursing men and whinnying warhorses, drifting in and out of earshot over the snowstorm. Then came the crunch-crunch of boots and hooves in snow, and the poor light glinted on the panoply of sharpened, flesh-ripping steel they carried.

With the certainty of a cock crowing at first light, Pavo felt his gut flip over, his mouth drain of moisture and his bladder swell. At least five thousand men, he realised — Taifali riders, Huns and Gothic spearmen — against the five centuries of the XI Claudia. His mind screamed at him, pleaded with him, to turn away, to flee, and to let another force come and be the salvation of this pass. But with a gnash of his teeth, the weakness was gone.

‘By Mithras, there are thousands of them. They’ll cut us apart!’ Trupo stammered, barely heard over the growing Gothic din.

Pavo leapt upon the comment, swatting it away as if it had escaped his own lips. ‘They’ll be lucky to get close enough,’ he snarled.

A chatter of nervous, almost disbelieving laughter spilled from the men of his century at this. And it seemed to scatter the spell of fear from Trupo, who nodded at the rebuke, then adopted a trembling grimace, knuckles white on his spear shaft. And it was the same in each direction Pavo looked: to his right, big Quadratus’ face was bent with the anticipation of battle, and the mad-eyed Libo bore a feral grin almost matched by the lantern-jawed Rectus. To his left, his own century and the hulking Zosimus’ snarled, muttering to themselves, some of their faces tear-streaked, some eyes looking skywards as if for a final blessing. By his side, Sura glowered ahead, lips taut and twitching to betray clenched teeth. ‘The whoreson has dared to face us,’ he said with a growl.

Pavo frowned, then followed Sura’s gaze as the Goths broke out in a cry. An assured, throaty chant.

‘ Far-no-bi-us! Far-no-bi-us! Far-no-bi-us! ’

The chant grew fierce as one colossal mounted figure emerged from the grey.

He felt a steely hand pass across his heart at that moment. His brow dipped and he thought only of Felicia. This dog of a reiks would pay. Then his mind flashed with images of the absent Tribunus Gallus. The iron wolf was absent maybe, but also very much by his side — mantras and lessons from his years under Gallus’ tutelage sparked in his thoughts and would serve him well today. He thought of Father and Dexion, imagining them with him too, steadfast, mocking the odds before them. Avitus, Brutus, Felix, Habitus, Noster, Sextus. . the armies of the dead that Gallus had talked of stood with him too. At that moment, he avowed to live through this, to be reunited with Gallus and Dexion again.

As the Goths approached, the timber stockade trembled from the vibrations. He sensed some of the men of his century back away from the edge of the timber stockade, just a half step or so. This brought back flashes of his first ever battle. He wished he could tell them the fear would ease over time, but the truth was that the fear never left, it just became a dark and familiar presence. ‘Pull together!’ he roared. ‘Shoulder to shoulder — not a sliver of a gap between your shields.’ A surge of vigour overcame him. ‘This is your wall, built by your hand. Now stand. . your. . ground! ’ he snarled.

He heard Zosimus and Quadratus utter similar commands and felt a surge of elation as the legionaries along the walltop erupted in a surge of noise. Spathas clattered against Roman shields. The buccinas sounded over and over in competition with the Gothic din. The baritone chorus of men with fire in their blood swamped the Gothic commotion for that precious moment, and Pavo was sure that — just for a moment — their advance slowed.

Suddenly, the Roman war-song faded and the Gothic advance did too, coming to a sudden halt just a few hundred paces shy of the pass defences. The valley was eerily quiet with just the blizzard daring to whistle. Then the Gothic ranks rustled and the giant horseman rode through the sea of spearmen, archers and cavalry.

Pavo beheld Farnobius with a flinty glare.

The Reiks took to riding his silver stallion along the Gothic front like an emperor, his savage axe held aloft. His chest bulged like a bull’s and his jaw jutted with hubris, the black trident beard jostling with every stride and the nose Pavo had shattered shuddering like a lightning bolt between his inky-black eyes. He took to rallying his masses with some Gothic homily, and this roused rhythmic cheers from them, each one causing the ground to tremble. It was then that Pavo noticed the giant’s headwear.

‘Hold on, is that-’ Sura started.

‘Barzimeres’ helm. Aye, it is,’ Pavo confirmed.

‘Wonder what happened to the rest of the useless bastard?’ Sura mused.

Farnobius’ sermon ended, then he swung his mount round to face the Roman defences and walked it forward a few paces, snow flicking up with every stride. His grin was devoid of mirth and more like that of a ravenous predator, and half of his face was plastered in snow.

‘Brave Romans, you have come to the sacrifice, I see? It would have been easier to send a herd of lambs.’ His Goths broke out in a raucous laughter at this.

Pavo remained unblinking, the needling rhetoric glancing from him like a wayward arrow from his helm.

‘There are a few hours of light left, but I feel no need for my men to make camp, for this tumbledown stockade of yours will be shattered by dusk.’ He cast a hand to the west. ‘But I am no brute. I understand that every fibre of your being longs to stay far from the ends of our swords. So I offer you these next few moments to run. Go, scatter into the hills like wild sheep. Spare me the trouble of taking your heads.’ He drew his grim axe and deftly flicked it over in his grip, the blade flashing in the poor light.

Not a single legionary moved. But Pavo sensed their spirit being sapped by these words. He heard one set of teeth chattering, and felt the pulsing heartbeats of the others through their pressed-together stance. When a pair of spears were passed forward from the midst of the Gothic ranks, Pavo squinted at the shapeless masses atop them, then recoiled at the grey-blue, staring and lifeless heads fixed on the lances. Governor Urbicus of Trimontium, he realised, seeing the black hair and flashes of grey at the temples of one head. The other, almost black with decay, sported a brown tuft beard hanging below a gawping mouth. Barzimeres , Pavo realised.

‘Well we’re finding out what became of him, piece by piece,’ Sura muttered dryly.

‘What is bravery, courage anyway?’ Farnobius continued, planting the butts of these two spears in the ground and allowing snow to settle on the cold, rotting heads. ‘Is it not what Roman generals talk of while they stand far behind the battle lines drinking wine and gorging on goose livers?’

Still, not a legionary moved, but now Pavo felt their stance change: they were not leaning forward and putting their weight behind the shields as before, but shrinking, pulling back. His brief and fierce homily to the legionaries felt like hours ago. What more could he offer? He glanced to Zosimus and up to Quadratus on the walls. Both men were likewise searching for some riposte. When it came, it was from none of the three centurions.

‘You talk of courage, Goth?’ the voice cried in a throaty burr, then a wineskin hurtled overhead from the fort spur and splashed down on the no-man’s land between the Goths and the timber wall, bursting in a shower of crimson, stark against the snow. ‘Then let me offer you some liquid courage. With Mithras as my witness. . you will need it!’