Gordon Doherty - The Scourge of Thracia

Dexion flinched a little at Gallus’ tone, and Gallus immediately felt guilty. ‘I’m sorry. Like you, I’m exhausted. But without you, I couldn’t have made it all the way here. Your blood is every bit as fiery as your brother’s, and I want you to know that what happens next. . well, I don’t want you to be part of it. I want you to return to Thracia, find the XI Claudia — Mithras willing that the Sarmatians rode to their aid in time — and lead them in my stead.’

Dexion’s face paled and he shook his head. ‘No, sir. . what are you planning to-’

‘I don’t know,’ Gallus whispered. ‘But I know that I cannot rest until the shame of my past has been eradicated. They always follow the emperor and his court. They are here,’ he hissed, flicking a finger to the looming palace gates and the hulking marble edifice beyond — silhouetted in the winter sun. ‘The Speculatores are here. ’

‘Sir, please, I beg of you, be wary. . ’

Dexion’s words faded as they came to a halt before the palace gates, flanked by a pair of bearded, bronze-helmed guards there.

Heruli , an auxilium palatinum legion, Gallus realised seeing their shields of concentric white and red rings. Part of Gratian’s Praesental Army. The army of the West and maybe the saviour of the East? He wondered.

The palace gates groaned open and they dismounted, surrendered their arms and armour, then left the Cursus Publicus rider behind and followed the Heruli inside. They strode through ornamented archways, fine lawns and gardens speckled with scented winter blooms and fountains babbling gaily. The aroma of spices and cooking meat wafted from the lower chambers of the great palace as they approached, and Gallus realised how long it had been since he had eaten properly. But hunger could wait. .

Justice could not.

They climbed the marble stairs and entered the palace’s cavernous main hall. A cloying, sweet smoke wound from sconces mounted on the forest of porphyry columns. Every footstep echoed around the room, bouncing from tiled floor to frescoed wall and gilded ceiling. Slaves scurried past, shooting horrified glances at their tattered condition, while the noses of fine-robed courtiers wrinkled as they passed. When they came to a towering doorway, the Heruli halted, one slipped inside then returned. ‘The emperor will see you now.’

Dexion looked to Gallus.

Gallus shook his head. ‘This is not the time for me to speak. . sir,’ he said, bowing deferentially as if Dexion was his superior.

Dexion beheld him with one last look, then nodded. ‘Then be seated, soldier, until my dialogue with our emperor is complete.’

Gallus watched Dexion slip inside the imperial chamber, then slumped on the bench by the door. For the first time since that dark confrontation in the Mithraeum in Constantinople, he drew the idol of Mithras from his purse. He stared at it absently, thinking of Thracia, of his brothers in the XI Claudia, of the hope for that land and his people. Then he wondered at how close the dark agents were to him right now — how close justice was.

Which is it to be? The dark voice taunted him.

The thought troubled him greatly until, like the passing of a cloud, he saw that it was a false choice. It can be both, he retorted, Thracia can be saved, he glanced to the door of the imperial chamber, knowing that Dexion’s words would surely spur Emperor Gratian into action, and I. . I will have my revenge.

Torches crackled in the corners of the dim throne room, sending dancing shadows across the painted scenes of the old gods and the fresher emblems of the Christian faith. A raised dais in the centre of the room was crowned with the imperial throne. Dexion came to a halt before the dais, genuflected, then beheld the young man on the seat of power. Draped in a purple robe and silk brocade, he looked every inch the youthful emperor. His fair skin was flawless and unblemished, his golden locks were swept across his forehead and his delicate features bore an expression of pure equanimity. There was no trace of a scowl or disgust at this guest’s ragged condition. It was then that Dexion noticed there was nobody else in the room. Not a single guard.

‘You bring word from the East?’ Gratian said, breaking the tense silence.

‘The Goths have overrun Thracia, Dominus, ’ Dexion replied, licking his dry lips. His words seemed to be swallowed in the echo of the emperor’s question.

Gratian did not flinch. ‘And what of the legions in those lands — the comitatenses and the limitanei?’

Dexion mulled this over, thinking back to the fragmented remains of Thracia’s field army and of the scattered border legions. ‘They remain a force that can at least monitor the Gothic movements, but-’

‘Yes, yes,’ Gratian interrupted, swishing a hand lazily as if swatting a fly. ‘But when my Uncle Valens comes from Persia with his Eastern Praesental Army, will the remnant of the Thracian forces be enough to supplement his ranks and to win this Gothic War?’

Dexion remained silent, his golden eyes darting to the shadows around the dais.

Gratian’s air of serenity evaporated and his face bent into a predacious grin. ‘Come now, we are alone. You can speak freely.’

Dexion beheld this feral creature before him. . then responded with a cold grin of his own. ‘Without your aid, Dominus, Thracia will fall.’

Gratian slunk back in his throne and chuckled with satisfaction. ‘Excellent. . excellent. Then the fate of the Eastern Empire is in my palm. And who better to rule over both East and West, but a saviour? I will muster my armies and yes, I will take them east. . but only when it suits me to do so.’ He stood and descended from the dais, his cloak trailing behind him. He beckoned Dexion with him to the tall, segmented and stained window at one side of the throne room, looking down the gentle slope to the heart of the city. ‘Your time in the east has been lengthy, and your comrades wondered not when but if they might see you return here.’

Dexion nodded, gazing down to the side of the forum, where the boy they had passed played with his dog. Joyous, unburdened with life. A true smile played with his lips, then crumbled as he saw the boy’s mother and father come for him. They took a hand each and walked him, lifting him with every second step, the dog yelping playfully as the boy laughed. He had known no such pleasure. His father had abandoned him and Mother to survive on their own — deserting them in favour of another family. And Father’s abandonment had stoked the cancer in Mother, he was sure. His forehead furrowed into deep, dark ruts as he thought of Pavo. He had first sought out his lost half-brother long, long ago, finding him on that hot summer’s day at Constantinople’s slave market. He watched from the pillars at the rear of the square as the fat and rich had bid for his last blood-relative, all the time weighing the purse of coins he was sure would be enough to buy Pavo for himself. He had watched, one foot ready to stride forth and into the bidding.

He had watched, ready to save his half-brother. . then he had walked away.

Pavo had been favoured by Father, why? Why should he step in to save the boy who had gained all he had lost? He gazed into the ether, losing himself in this question, a fiery heat spreading across his chest and his top lip twitching, then he considered the emperor’s words.

Your comrades wondered if they might see you return here.

It was as an orphan that he had found his true family. Not the military as he had told Pavo, but the Speculatores. They were his blood and his soul. When one fell or was lost, others would replace them. They would never leave him, never abandon him. Pavo was nothing to him — nothing but a mocking reminder of his loss.