‘The sun here feels different, eh?’ Pavo said, marching level with his friend
Sura shrugged nonchalantly.
‘Here, tie this round your neck,’ he insisted, pulling the linen batting that padded the inside of his intercisa and offering it to Sura.
But Sura waved him away; ‘Back in Adrianople, they used to have this fire walking thing. In the alleys behind the basilica. People would bet that they could walk on hot coals for a count of ninety. Nobody managed past seventy. Not one,’ he puffed out his chest and jabbed a thumb against his breast.
‘Until you?’ Pavo snatched the words from his friend’s mouth.
Sura confirmed this with an all-knowing nod. ‘By the time we reach Antioch, I’ll be in fine fettle. I’ll show them how to drink, and I’ll give the local women a bit of Thracian charm,’ he chuckled at this, a mischievous grin spreading across his face.
Pavo cocked one eyebrow in doubt then took a swig from his water skin. ‘We might have to be cautious here, Sura. From what I hear, Antioch – indeed, this whole land – isn’t like Thracia or Moesia. They’re devout Christians in these parts. Sober, solemn types. There won’t be taverns full of roaring, ruddy, drunken dogs.’
‘Cah!’ Sura swiped a hand through the air as if swatting an imaginary gnat. ‘Not till we get there.’
Pavo tried and failed to stifle a chuckle. ‘We should tread carefully, that’s all I’m saying.’
Sunset cast a deep pinkish-orange light and stretched shadows across the land, and brought a welcome cooling of the air. At the last light of day, they rounded a bend in the valley and set eyes upon the magnificent city of Antioch, Emperor Valens’ headquarters for his struggles with the Persian Empire.
The panting of the column died away at the sight. They had all seen the majesty of Constantinople; this place was smaller but by no means was it any less magnificent. The city’s colossal, baked limestone walls enveloped a section of the Orontes valley. The northern and southern walls bridged the river and the eastern walls strode undeterred up the steep slopes of Mount Silpius, the battlements up there surely providing a fine vista of the Syrian Desert that lay to the east. Sturdy square towers studded the wall, crested by purple imperial banners. The battlements were well garrisoned, sentries patrolling every twenty feet or so. Up on the mountaintop walls, he saw the outline of ballistae, the bolt-throwing devices fixed and pointing eastwards. Inside the walls, he could make out a sea of marble structures; palaces, arches, aqueducts, domes, columns, arenas and many Chi-Rho topped Christian churches. The majority of these structures seemed fresh and unblemished – clearly recent constructions.
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.