Gordon Doherty - Land of the Sacred Fire

As they came closer to the city, Pavo noticed activity on the wall up ahead. A few hundred feet east of the point where the Orontes flowed under the bridged section of the wall, the flagstoned road they marched on met with the Porta Orientalis. This arched, north-easterly gate was low and wide. Atop the two towers bookending it, a cluster of sentries filed into place to scrutinise the approaching vexillatio.

Just then, one raised a buccina to his lips and the sound of the horn keened through the valley. It echoed between the mountains either side, as if a thousand shade armies were signalling in reply. When the melody of the horn finally died, Pavo and the vexillatio came to a halt before the gate. Pavo saw that the men up there were legionaries, silver Chi-Rho emblems etched on their blue shields, and each of them wore the stoniest of glares. A faint breeze blew around Pavo’s shoulders as if to highlight the silence.

Finally, Gallus stepped forward. ‘Tribunus Manius Atius Gallus of the XI Claudia Pia Fidelis,’ he held up a scroll and shook it. ‘Emperor Valens awaits our arrival.’

The legionaries on the gatehouse seemed deaf to his words for a moment, then grudgingly gave a curt nod and signalled for the gates to be opened. Pavo glanced up just before they marched under the shade of the gateway. The legionaries glowered down on them, noses wrinkled, eyes flinty.

Sura leant in to Pavo’s ear. ‘Friendly bastards, eh?’

Gallus stood in the cool shade of the palace campaign room, awaiting Emperor Valens. The marbled floors and towering arched ceilings seemed intent on magnifying his every shuffle or clearing of his throat. The Christian mosaics adorning the walls glared down on him accusingly, their gold-flecked and austere lustre amplified in the dancing lamplight. He had been given the chance to bathe in the nearby thermae then dress in fresh clothes before this meeting. Now he stood in his freshly polished mail, helmet clasped underarm. He was ready.

Ready for what? he mused, not for the first time. The emperor’s brief had been succinct, to say the least; Bring your best men to Antioch.

He sighed and turned his gaze on the eastern wall of the chamber. There, a tall, arched window lay ajar. A clement night breeze tumbled in and brought with it the thick scent of incense, burning on the sill. Outside, blackness reigned, punctuated only by starlight and torches. The crickets lent a chorus to the endless babbling of the Orontes. A lectern stood before the window, bearing a scroll with a chart of the night sky etched upon it. In the centre of the room, a map of the empire covered a broad oak table. Upon it were carved wooden pieces — each representing a legion. Gallus eyed the clusters of pieces in Thracia and those here in the east. Everywhere else, there were precious few pieces.

Footsteps shook him from his thoughts. He stood rigid and readied to salute, his eyes darting to the doorway. When Valens entered, he wore an earnest, welcoming look that belied the austerity all around him. His snow-white fringe partially masked the network of frown lines on his forehead and dangled to a point just above arched eyebrows and sharp, studious blue eyes. He wore a long, purple robe and a ceremonial, muscled bronze cuirass. Flanking him were two candidati, the tenacious warriors who seldom left his side. They wore no armour, preferring just light and pure-white linen tunics for swiftness of movement. They carried gold-threaded spears, spathas and white shields emblazoned with a gold Chi-Rho emblem.

Valens stopped before Gallus.

‘Imperator!’ Gallus barked, throwing an arm up stiffly.

‘Tribunus Gallus,’ Valens said with a nod and a gentle smile. ‘At ease. Much has happened since last we met.’

Gallus felt pleasantly disarmed by the emperor’s familiar tone. And Valens was right, he realised, thinking of that brief spell at the palace in Constantinople over a year ago. He had dined with the emperor and a rabble of power-hungry vultures whose ambitions lay masked behind senatorial and ecclesiastical robes. The calamitous Bosporus mission had followed soon after. The months that followed saw the Danubian Limes torn apart, the XI Claudia forced to flee into southern Thracia as the Goths went on the rampage. ‘Much has happened, Emperor, and much of it regrettable.’

‘The regrets are for me to reflect upon, Tribunus. You and your men have done your utmost to protect the empire — indeed, that is why you are here,’ Valens said, then turned away and paced across the room. ‘Perhaps one day the empire will be but a distant memory. Yet the people who choose to remember it will recall the legacy of the brutish Emperor Valens.’ He spread out his arms by the open window. ‘In times of relative peace and prosperity I have embellished the cities of the empire in an effort to breathe life into those ancient settlements and hope into the hearts of their peoples. Constantinople, Alexandria, Nicomedia, Adrianople, I have cared for all these places as if they were my homes. Here in Antioch I commissioned the fine, open space of the new forum, dedicated to my departed brother,’ he pointed to the circular clearing across the river, part-hidden in the sprawl of domes and marble structures. There, a column stretched into the night sky, with a gilded statue of Valentinian perched on its tip, in muscled armour, one hand on his heart and the other holding a spatha skywards.

Gallus stared at the sight of the dead Western Emperor. His top lip twitched. Hatred built in his veins. He thought of Olivia, of Marcus. It had been under that cur’s reign that. .

‘I spent vast sums from the imperial treasury on revitalising the Great Church of Constantine,’ Valens continued, stirring him from his dark thoughts, nodding to the largest of domes to the south-east, ‘because the people implored me that I must. And there are the baths, the arena, the gardens. . ’ he stopped, his head dropping a little. ‘But this will be forgotten. The dark tide of war will be my legacy. Yes, I have waged wars, and bloody ones too.’ He shook his head as if stirring from some troubled memory. ‘But now the tide of war has turned against the empire, Gallus, and ferociously so.’

‘Thracia can be saved, Emperor,’ Gallus interjected. The words came from his heart.

‘From where do you draw such hope?’ Valens asked, looking over his shoulder from the window, one eyebrow arched.

These words seemed to search inside Gallus’ armour. At once, he touched a hand to his purse, feeling for the idol in there. ‘Mithras stands with the legions back in Thracia.’

‘Then let us pray he betters Wodin and the Gothic hordes,’ Valens said with a mirthless snort. ‘But the fate of Thracia must wait. For a more ferocious and wily enemy now prowls at our door. The eastern frontier is on the brink, Tribunus.’ He swung round from the window, his eyes shaded under a deep frown. ‘Persia’s gaze is upon us.’

This was it, the moment Gallus had been waiting for. The brief that had brought him and his men east. ‘Emperor?’

‘Shapur has taken control of Armenia. Ten thousand Persian riders now patrol those lands and puppet the fickle princes who once swore loyalty to Rome.’

‘And you suspect the king of kings now readies to invade the empire?’ Gallus’ eyes narrowed as he said this, his gaze flicking to the campaign map.

‘Nobody knows what is brewing in Shapur’s mind. But I have heard rumour and counter-rumour that he is coming under ever-increasing pressure to make a decisive move,’ Valens’ expression darkened. ‘There are many within Persian lands who resent the House of Sassan. They see no reason why their ancient houses should not rule Persia in Shapur’s stead. They will demand that Shapur moves upon our empire or they will have his head and seize his throne. The taking of Armenia serves as a dark portent. Roman Syria is in absolutely no state to deal with an incursion of any kind.’ He strode over to the campaign table, resting an oil lamp near the centre of the map. Beckoning Gallus over and gesturing to the stools beside the table, he sat and tapped the spot on the map north-west of Constantinople, where the new temporary limes had been set up in Thracia. ‘Had it not been for the Gothic migrations across the Danubius, I would not have had to divert many of my eastern legions to those lands.’ He then swept his finger across the map, almost tracing the route of the XI Claudia’s voyage, bringing it to a rest in the area just east of Antioch. Here, more than forty soldier-pieces were spread out in a line running north to south. ‘The number of pieces here is misleading. Many of these legions are little more than vexillationes, some numbering only a few hundred like your own. Barely twenty five thousand men, stretching from northern Syria, all the way down to Egypt. And nearly half of them are mere limitanei. . ’ he looked up, fixing Gallus with his gaze. ‘I mean no offence, Tribunus. The border soldiers here barely compare with your kind — and that is exactly why I summoned you.’