Gordon Doherty - The Scourge of Thracia

Gallus, dressed in just his tunic and cloak, stepped into a forgotten doorway halfway along a quiet alley, then descended the stony steps within that wound from Constantinople’s streets and down into the blackness below. He felt the muggy night air of the city streets dissipate, a creeping underground chill quickly replacing it. He resisted the urge to gather his ruby cloak to fend it off. The stairs wound round and round, ever-descending, ever-darker. Then the descent ended. He halted, gazing into the gloom. Before him lay a long, vaulted chamber.

The old Mithraeum was bathed mostly in darkness, lit only by the guttering half-light of a torch in the street above, the pale orangey light dancing weakly through a small iron grid in the temple’s ceiling. The floor of the underground vault was dank with water leaking in from the River Lycus, which flowed unseen under Constantinople’s streets. The whitewashed walls were flaking, streaked with mildew and slime and the timber benches that lined the sides of the cramped space were rotting. Desiccated laurel and acanthus leaves from long-past ceremonies lay piled in the corners. A musty stench of decay hung in the air and a rhythmic drip-drip was interrupted only by the occasionally muffled, drunken voice from the streets above. In this Christian city, the old gods had been forgotten, it seemed. But Gallus had not forgotten Mithras, nor the oath he swore with the bull-slayer.

Gallus peered along to the far end of the temple, eventually making out the carved slab mounted vertically there. As the city slept above him, he strode towards this sacred altar. Sleep was no friend of his on the best of nights, but on this night more than any other he found no peace. He had tried to rest but had been besieged by the shrill chatter of thoughts. Memories of the past played out from the moment he fell asleep. After that, shame jabbed at him every time sleep tried to return. Why had it taken so long, so many years, to reach that moment in Persia when he realised what he must do? That moment, on the bloodied floor of the Spahbad’s arena, with Carbo standing by his side.

Eventually, we all must face our past, Tribunus.

Carbo’s last words lived on. That haggard soldier had died along with so many others out in the east. But after years of running from his past, the man had died a noble death, facing his demons, striking them square in the eye. And Pavo, that callow youth who had grown into a fine soldier and a burgeoning leader, had echoed the sentiment, having marched through the desert to find his father against all odds.

Every step through the burning sands. Every lash of the whip in those mines. Every blade that scored my flesh. It was worth it all. I faced the past. The nightmares are gone.

‘Then you are braver men than I,’ Gallus whispered into the cool blackness, his breath clouding, outlining his gaunt features and greying peak of hair.

He stalked along the centre of the long, narrow chamber, past the rotting benches and the small food-preparation antechamber, strewn with long discarded bowls and platters, shrouded in dust. When he reached the altar at the far end, he stretched out a hand and traced his fingertips over the image carved into the rock there. The relief of Mithras slaying the bull had long since lost its vibrant colours, with only flecks of paint surviving. The god’s eyes were featureless, as if blinded by the near darkness he had been consigned to. He thought back to those days when he had thrown himself into the legions and embraced Mithras’ calling. He traced a finger along the scar welt under his right wrist, recalling the blinding, white-hot pain of the initiation test that had caused it — the Mark of the Raven, they called it. As his flesh had bubbled and split, the men of the Mithraeum had hailed him as a brave soul. But Gallus alone knew the truth: he was naught but a man too scared to face his demons. For a blessed few moments, the white-hot knife had caused him to forget the awful sight of Olivia and Marcus’ corpses.

He knelt on one knee before the altar, his ruby cloak slipping around from behind his shoulders and enveloping him as his head fell forward. Pulling the idol of Mithras from his purse, he ran his thumb back and forth over the worn carving. ‘Almighty Sun, Our God. . ’ he began the well-rehearsed verse in a muted tone.

The prayer usually led his thoughts away from darkness, but this time it failed him, his thoughts snagging on one line;

‘Keep our harvest and those precious ones we love from all harm. . ’ he fell silent, shaking.

He thought of those who had slain his family and had then pursued him doggedly for years afterwards. Why had they finally let him be? Perhaps the Speculatores of the Western Empire knew of the torment that would plague him and saw it as more fitting than any gruesome death. Fated to live every day with the shades of his wife and child calling for him.

‘And I accepted this fate. Accepted it! ’ he spat.

Just then, a wagon wheel clunked over the iron grating. Gallus blinked, realising the night sky up above had grown dark-blue. The new day would soon be upon the city. He stood and offered Mithras a lasting gaze. It was time to say his piece.

‘I swore to give everything to you, Mithras, asking in return only that you let me forget my past and die an honourable death at the head of the legions. Yet you starve me of both. Why?’ The question echoed around the chamber, fading to utter silence. ‘Whatever the answer may be, know this; I relinquish you from the oath, as I relinquish myself. I have been running from my past for too long.’

He gazed off through the darkness, thinking of the fecund countryside of Northern Italy, the green hills and towering cypress trees. In his mind’s eye he saw Olivia and Marcus there, playing, laughing by the wagon. Sunlight flooded the memory. It was a time of simple pleasures, until the Speculatores had entangled him — a simple farming man — in their wicked game. He had chosen the noble path, refused to do what they asked. . and lost everything for it. Everything but his own life. The image of Olivia and Marcus crumbled, and the memory of their pained screaming filled his head, then the crackling of the burning pyre. Sharp, stabbing sorrow came at him like enemy blades. He cast it aside, then thought of Traianus’ revelation today: Emperor Gratian was coming east with his armies. . and his agents. The Speculatores and he were fated to clash.

He glowered at the faded image of Mithras, his brow shading his ice-blue eyes.

‘I will run no longer,’ he hissed.

His words echoed around the vault as he swung round and strode from the Mithraeum, ascending the steps, his cloak swishing in his wake.

A clear blue sky hung over the Thracian countryside. A hot afternoon breeze blew, rippling through the grass on the green hills and the golden wheat stalks on the flatland. The Via Militaris cut north-west across this pasture like a great grey vein, running all the way from Constantinople, across Thracia, Dacia and into the Western Empire, ending at the distant fortress-city of Singidunum on the banks of the River Danubius. Here at this mid-section of the great highway, two days march north-west of Adrianople and six days into their march overall, the five legionaries of the XI Claudia moved swiftly under their silver eagle standard, the ruby-red banner hanging from the crossbar bearing the effigy of a bull. Gallus led them, eyes set on the western horizon, his red cloak and the black plume on his intercisa helm rippling in the breeze. Quadratus and Zosimus followed, marching abreast, with Pavo and Sura at the rear.

Pavo felt the strain of marching keenly, sweat streaming across his brow and his skin smarting from the late summer sun. The trials of Persia had strengthened certain muscles, while others had atrophied, it seemed. He had almost forgotten what the combined weight of a legionary’s kit felt like. The helm compressing the neck, the mail shirt digging into the shoulders despite the linen focale scarf worn under the collar, the wooden oval shield dragging on the left shoulder where it was carried on a strap, the weighty spear chafing the palms and straining the right arm, the trusty spatha and scabbard jostling and rubbing on the left hip and his leather boots chewing at his ankles. Worst of all, the extra kit strapped to his back felt like carrying a baby ox: two water skins, a shovel, rope, sickle, hammer, saw, axe, pick-axe and the framework of tent poles were all stuffed in there — with Sura carrying the goatskin that would shelter the five overnight. He grunted, hauling his shield higher on its strap and ridding himself of the nagging voice telling him to stop and rest his aches.