Legionary: Land of the Sacred Fire (3 page)

Jovian nodded then listened as Shapur read the document aloud. Virtually all of Roman-held Mesopotamia was to be surrendered. Everything between the Tigris and the Euphrates. Five trade-rich and strategically positioned regions, plus fifteen well-walled forts. Worse, the three mighty fortress cities on the western banks of the Euphrates – Nisibis, Singara and Castra Maurorum – were to be abandoned by Rome then garrisoned and populated by Persia. These were the bulwarks of Rome’s eastern frontier. With these three cities, Shapur and his armies would have the perfect staging post to crush the remainder of Roman Syria. The blood pounded in Jovian’s ears. His eyes darted. He clutched the goblet and drank deeply. Yet the wine struggled to quell his panic.

‘You must accept these concessions,’ Shapur concluded, placing the scroll before him. ‘Else I will be forced to darken the shores of the Tigris with yet more blood.’

The words felt like an icy lance through Jovian’s gut.

‘Do you accept?’ Cyrus hissed, thumping a fist upon the table then wincing and clutching at his bandaged wound.

‘At ease, Spahbad,’ Shapur raised a placatory hand to Cyrus. ‘The Roman will agree, I am sure. The new lands will be yours, as we discussed.’

Jovian looked up, blinking. He looked to the scroll. Several copies lay rolled up beside it. His lips trembled. So far, his meekness and cowardice had afflicted his life like an insatiable parasite. Now it threatened the empire. His thoughts swirled like a sandstorm until he saw one possibility.
Let them have the fortress cities, let them have Mesopotamia,
he thought,
but they must give something in return.

‘Permit me to present to you an amendment,’ he croaked.

Shapur’s eyes narrowed at this. Cyrus frowned in confusion, then Ramak leant in close to him, whispering in his ear.

Cyrus nodded, then fixed Jovian with a foul glare, his nose wrinkling; ‘You are in no position to bargain.’

Shapur raised a hand to the spahbad. ‘A bargain is more virtuous than yet another slaughter.’ Then his expression darkened. ‘But it must be the right bargain. Go on.’

Jovian gulped. ‘Have Mesopotamia. But the armies of Persia must never set foot west of the River Euphrates. In return, Rome’s legions will never tread upon its eastern banks.’

At this, Cyrus’ eyes darted this way and that in confusion. Ramak seemed unmoved, then leant in to whisper again in Cyrus’ ear. Cyrus’ pallid face wrinkled in anger, then he cast out a disdainful hand towards Jovian. ‘With our blade at his neck, he endeavours to dictate the destiny of our people?’

Jovian continued before Cyrus could protest further. ‘While such an amendment might be to our advantage now, it may not be so for long. The eternal struggle you speak of will doubtless soon swing back upon Persia eventually. Let us end it. Here. Now.’ He heard the words as if spoken by another. His chest tingled with pride.

Shapur’s eyes darted as he contemplated the suggestion. A long silence passed. ‘A noble proposal,’ he said at last. ‘But will the generations to come abide by such an agreement, when we are both but dust and bones?’

The Persian Shahanshah contemplated his own words in another silence. Jovian willed him to agree. Cyrus and Ramak looked on, eyes narrowed. At last, Shapur gave a faint nod. ‘Perhaps, with some adjustment, an amendment can bring stability between our great empires.’

Cyrus stood up at this, his chest heaving in disgust. ‘I must protest!’

Shapur looked up to his spahbad, and spoke calmly. ‘Leave us then, Cyrus, while we draw up the finer detail of the agreement.’

Cyrus stood, glowered around the gathering, then strode from the table. Jovian instinctively tensed like a strung bow as the man brushed past him. The spahbad stopped at the tent flap, his breath coming and going in a weak and wet rattle, then beckoned Ramak with him. The archimagus hesitated at first, seemingly unable to tear his steady gaze from Jovian. Then he too stood and followed Cyrus outside.

‘Cyrus is a brave and loyal Spahbad,’ Shapur muttered as the pair left the tent, ‘but a troubled soul in these last years. He will not live past sunset with that wound.’

Jovian wished he could share Shapur’s pity for the man, but he could think of nothing other than the scroll before him. As it stood, the detail allowed him and his army to retreat to Roman Syria with their lives. But with the territorial concessions made, his reign as emperor was likely to be short and brutal, with the Persian army free to push home their advantage. Peace of some sort was a must. But would a perpetual peace be truly possible, or would pursuing this endanger his chances of ending this day both free and alive? With a shiver, his mind flitted with the tales of past Roman Emperors who had met their fate at the hands of the Persian rulers. He was yet unsure of how far he could push the great Shapur. The wording of the amendment would be key; it could be the saviour of him, or even of the empire. A question struck him at that moment; which was more important?

How Jovian handled these next moments would define him as a person. A craven or a hero.

He thought of something his father had often repeated in his twilight years of drunken haze, something Jovian had never understood. Until now.

Fear and courage are brothers, warring within the soul.

One will hasten death to you; one will reap a darker toll.

Fourteen Years Later

May 377 AD

The Roman Province of Thracia

Chapter 1

A stiff breeze carried a cool grey mizzle of rain across the deserted Thracian plain. Then a wagon appeared from the south. Laden with flax, it rocked across the soft grass, the wheels cutting into the wet soil, releasing an earthy scent. The man and girl on the driver’s berth were sodden, their hair plastered to their faces. The man drove his mounts with one eye closed to the rain and the other searching the grey up ahead for the outline of Adrianople.

‘Can you see it, Father?’ little Tacita asked.

Pontius spat the rainwater from his lips as the wagon bucked and leapt over another dip in the earth. ‘Not yet,’ he said edgily, peering into the grey, ‘not yet.’

He had been nervous about this shortcut from the start. The going was treacherous and he had lost his bearings more than once, but so long as they reached the market in Adrianople safely, his decision to avoid the main roads would prove a prudent one.

Almost as soon as he had comforted himself with this thought, the sound of hooves thudding on wet earth echoed from the surrounding grey. The breath caught in his throat as, from the mist, grey shapes emerged. Riders. Nine of them. Terror crawled across his skin as he beheld the nearest; braided golden locks knotted atop the head, blue
stigmas
spiralling across the face, nose wrinkled and teeth bared. A Gothic warrior. Steam billowed from the mount’s nose and churning mud flew up in its wake. The rider held aloft a longsword and let loose a roar that sent Pontius and Tacita scrambling back from the driver’s berth. Pontius wrapped an arm around his daughter to shield her, gawping as the longsword swept down for him.

But a cracking of bone rang out and the snarling rider froze, something juddering in his exposed flank. A legionary
plumbata
. Blood leapt from the Goth’s lips as he dropped his sword and clutched at the lead-weighted dart embedded in his ribs. His eyes rolled in his head and he toppled from the saddle, then the riderless mount hared off past the wagon. Pontius shuddered, darting glances all around. Likewise, the other eight Gothic riders coming for the wagon slowed, uncertain. Then, from the grey behind the wagon, another rumble of hooves rang out, and a lone rider galloped into view. He wore no armour but a
spatha
hung from his sword belt - a Roman! He was a young man; lean, dark, and shaven-headed, with an aquiline nose. His glower was black under his thick brow as he lifted another of the lead darts from his saddle. Moments later, a second rider burst into view; young too, but broader-shouldered with blonde locks and pale skin, also wearing just a tunic, sword belt and boots. The pair held the Gothic riders at bay with their glowers for a few heartbeats. But the Goths realised they still had the weight of numbers and trotted forward menacingly. At this, the two Roman riders loosed another dart each, striking down two more foes, before drawing their spathas.

‘
Equites!
’ the dark Roman rider cried out, waving his spatha to a point behind the Goths.

The six remaining Goths frowned and slowed, then looked over their shoulders. From the mizzle, a
turma
of thirty Roman riders emerged, clad in mail, soaked red cloaks and crowned with iron helms, spathas drawn. With a cry, the equites and the two unarmoured Roman riders rushed for the Goths. In moments it was over, one Gothic head flying from its shoulders to bounce across the sodden plain, another run through and the rest fleeing in panic.

Pontius lifted his shaking arm from his daughter, in disbelief that both were unharmed. The dark rider and his blonde comrade sidled up to the wagon, both slick with rain, chests heaving and faces stained with blood-spray.

‘Be on your way to the city, and be swift,’ the dark one said.

Pontius nodded hurriedly. ‘Aye, aye we will,’ he agreed, taking the reins with one shaking hand and turning Tacita’s gaze from the headless Gothic corpse with the other. ‘But who are you? You are not legionaries?’ he said, eyeing their dress.

‘Aye, we are legionaries. But for today we are scouts. I am
Optio
Numerius Vitellius Pavo of Legio XI Claudia, second cohort, first century. This my
Tesserarius,
Sura,’ he gestured to his blond comrade. ‘We’ve been tracking those Gothic riders for two days. Luck would have it we met with the equites on patrol just this morning; else we might not have been able to save you.’

‘Well I will make an offering to Mithras tonight,’ Pontius grinned. ‘May he be with you in all your efforts, Legionary.’

With that, he lashed the reins of his horses and the wagon moved off once again.

Pavo and Sura parted from the equites then travelled south-east for the rest of the day. When darkness fell, they camped under the shelter of a spruce thicket on a soft carpet of pine needles then rose at dawn to yet another damp day. After sharing a light breakfast of boiled eggs, bread and honey, they drank and watered their mounts at a nearby stream, readying to set off for Constantinople.

Pavo splashed the cool water over his stubbled scalp then looked over his shoulder and off to the north-west from where they had come. Through the grey cloud, he could just make out the Haemus Mountains, the peaks looming like the fangs of a predator. Moesia and Thracia, once Roman heartlands, were now riven by the Gothic War and occupied by Fritigern’s hordes. The Roman
limes
had been hastily withdrawn to the south of the mountains in an attempt to curb the Gothic movements. But the impoverished
limitanei
legions manning those new timber forts and patrolling those treacherous lands had been battered back further still in these last weeks. Indeed, he thought, touching his fingers to the dark stain on his ribs and the stinging Gothic longsword cut underneath, enemy scouts were being sighted further south with every passing week, roving ever closer to the major cities, Adrianople and Constantinople itself.

‘Take a good, long look,’ Sura said, resting an elbow on Pavo’s shoulder and gazing back with him. ‘For it will be some time before we set eyes upon these lands again.’

Pavo thought of the mission that had been hanging over the XI Claudia for these last weeks. A mission that would take them thousands of miles to the east, to the Persian frontier. He shrugged. ‘When I first joined the legion, everything about this land seemed wretched. Now it feels like I’m leaving my home behind in its hour of need.’

Sura chuckled dryly at this, patting at the legionary
phalera
medallion hanging on a strap around Pavo’s neck. ‘All you’ve talked of these last two weeks is about going to the Persian frontier. About him.’