Gordon Doherty - The Scourge of Thracia

The bitter winter’s night could not fend off his elation. The weary but hearty laughter from the XI Claudia nearby strengthened his resolve. Only the echoing words of Geridus could temper his burgeoning hope.

Put your faith not in emperors, but in your gods and your comrades.

The Western Province of Belgica Prima was bathed in fine winter sunshine and sheathed in a thick fur of morning frost. The silver-grey roads that cut across the rolling hills and meadows all led to one place: the mighty city of Augusta Treverorum. The city’s beetling grey walls straddled the waters of the River Mosa, dominating the ancient river valley just as Emperor Gratian dominated his entire western realm from the palaces within. The place was a hallmark of imperial power: the vast, domed Basilica of Constantine, a fine and ancient arena, majestic temples, great bathhouses, wool mills and clusters of red-tiled villas segmented by broad streets and leafy forums.

The legionary garrison in the fourth storey of the high grey towers flanking the city’s mighty eastern gate strode back and forth, blowing into their hands and stoking the brazier, glancing from the arched windows and out across the countryside. There was always little activity in these winter months. But when they spotted a trio of riders approaching on the eastern road from Mogontiacum, they halted. The pace of these riders marked them out from the other few ambling wagons or herders.

‘Is that a messenger?’ one said, leaning on the sill of the opening.

‘Aye, looks like he bears the papers of the Cursus Publicus,’ his centurion agreed, nodding to the scroll clutched in the lead rider’s waving hand.

‘What of the other two?’ the first replied, frowning at the tall and gaunt man on one side, his dark, grey-streaked hair unkempt and his jaw sporting the beginnings of a beard. He wore a ragged, filthy red cloak. On the other side, a younger man rode, a hawk-like expression and a thatch of overgrown brown hair and similarly scruffy stubble on his chin. ‘They look like bloody barbarians.’

‘Hmm,’ the centurion mused. Ruses like this — with forged scrolls and men wearing stolen messenger robes — had been used in recent weeks by the rebellious Alemanni from across the Rhine to hijack Cursus Publicus waystations. . but what harm could three men inflict upon this great city? He chuckled at his own naiveté, then nodded furtively to the archers deeper inside the tower eating bread by the brazier. At once, these men hurried over to the nearby window, nocking arrows to their bows and peering at the approaching three but staying in the shadows and out of sight. ‘On my word,’ the centurion said, lifting a hand, one finger extended.

He leaned his other hand on the sill and called down to the trio. ‘What is your business?’

‘I bring word for the Emperor,’ the Cursus Publicus rider replied.

Of course you do, the centurion thought, seeing the furtive glances of the gaunt one by the rider’s side. This was no mere message. He teetered on swiping his finger down. The archers stretched their bowstrings in expectation of this.

‘From the East,’ the rider added.

The centurion’s complacency faded. ‘The East?’

‘From Thracia, sir, all the way from Thracia!’ the messenger insisted.

The centurion’s ears perked up and a shiver danced down his spine. The Quadi insurgents on the upper Danubius had cut off all communication with the east for over a month. Emperor Gratian had been enraged when he heard of this. I must know of the eastern situation. My uncle, Valens, is expecting me to march to his aid. Yet I find that my own realm is in turmoil? The Cursus Publicus — the very fabric that weaves my cities and provinces together, is unravelling?

The centurion then began to salivate, for Emperor Gratian had offered a reward. Word from the east would buy those who brought it a fine estate and early retirement too. He waved the archers back then made to call down to the gatehouse, when a last modicum of caution gripped him. ‘Who rides with you?’ he challenged the rider again.

‘Tribu-’ the rider started to reply, when the gaunt, wolf-like one grunted something and bowed his head a fraction, so his features were hidden. The rider looked to the two flanking him and then back up to the centurion. ‘Two soldiers of the Thracian legions.’

Now the centurion saw the leather bags the pair carried over their shoulders. Legionary kit.

He let his doubts fade and focused on the reward.

‘Open the gates!’

Gallus’ head swayed with his mount’s every stride through Augusta Treverorum’s flagstoned streets as he and Dexion followed the messenger towards the palace in the city’s north-eastern quarter. The journey had been relentless since they had crossed paths with the Sarmatians. That moment when the lead rider had pinned him to a tree, blade on his throat, had been the nadir of their quest. Moments later, when the Sarmatian chieftain had recognised him and Dexion as Romans, the blade had fallen and the rider had embraced them. The steppe riders had led them to the nearest Cursus Publicus waystation then set off for Trajan’s Gate at haste, eager to reinforce the legionaries there as Gallus had implored them to do. Loyal and fierce allies , Gallus thought once again, and Thracia will need them in what is to come.

As soon as the Sarmatians had set off, Gallus and Dexion had accosted the nearest imperial rider in the waystation. The young lad made little sense of their weary and garbled explanations, but soon they were off, the rider leading them overnight to the next waystation. There they swapped their exhausted mounts for fresh ones, and the imperial rider tasked his colleague at that waystation with leading them onwards to the next stop. And on it went over the next few weeks, Gallus and Dexion snatching just a few hours of sleep and rushed meals on the saddle as they galloped through fog, blizzards, flooded roads and gales. In the frenzied journey, he thought only of the objective. Reach Gratian’s court. Now, he had to confront the consequences.

Yes, the Western Praesental Army could now be hastened to the east. Yes, Thracia might yet be saved from the marauding Gothic hordes. Yes, his comrades in the legion, so far away, might yet know victory and see their families and friends safe and well.

But what about you, Gallus? a dark voice goaded him from within. What now, iron tribunus?

He looked up furtively, scanning the streets of this fine city. Passing eyes seemed to linger a little too long on him. Grim-looking legionary sentries posted in the forums they passed looked a little grimmer than they should. A boy tossing a stick for a dog ran to pick the piece of wood up when it landed before Gallus’ mount’s hooves. The boy’s playful expression fell away when he met Gallus’ ice-cold eyes, and he backed away, frightened.

It is written all over my face. They can see I am not here merely to bring word to Emperor Gratian, he thought. ‘They know,’ he muttered to himself.

‘Sir?’ Dexion said.

The young officer’s voice stirred him from his morose thoughts. He looked to his primus pilus, seeing Pavo for an instant then recognising the few features that marked him out as that plucky lad’s older brother. Dexion looked every bit as gruff and weary as Gallus felt, and this gave him a degree of comfort. ‘Merely thinking aloud,’ Gallus replied.

As they followed the Cursus Publicus messenger uphill towards the palace region, Dexion rode a little closer. ‘Sir,’ he said in barely more than a whisper, ‘outside, when we were challenged. . ’

‘Nobody in this place must know my name,’ Gallus cut him off. ‘You are Dexion, Primus Pilus of the XI Claudia. I am a veteran from your ranks, nothing more.’