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 The Roman limes had been hastily withdrawn to the south of the mountains in an attempt to curb the Gothic movements.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.’
Pavo shared an earnest gaze with his friend. Sura was one of the few who knew the truth behind the phalera. About Father. ‘Aye, I may fret about this place when we are gone, but nothing will stop me going east.’
Sura grinned. ‘Stubborn whoreson since the day I met you.’
They set off once more across the plains, grateful when at last they reached the paved Via Egnatia, the great highway winding west-east across Thracia. By mid-morning, the clouds and mizzle had dispersed and a languid sunshine bathed the land. Before noon, they were within sight of Constantinople.
The imperial capital dominated the horizon, a mass of marble and limestone perched on the edge of the land, framed by the glittering waters of the Golden Horn in the north, the Bosphorus Strait in the east and the Propontus in the south. The broad walls were gemmed with glinting intercisa helms, scale vests and sharpened spear tips of the sentries. The banners atop the towers hung limp in the windless and clement air. Pavo took a deep breath to appreciate the sight, the pleasant heat, the chattering cicada song and the nutty scent of barely. For just a moment, the war with the Goths that raged in the north, and what lay ahead in the east seemed comfortably distant. Then Sura spoiled the moment of serenity.
‘That cheeky bastard’s on watch again,’ he grumbled as they approached, squinting up at the battlements above the arched Saturninus Gate.
Pavo followed his gaze to the sneering sentries up there, then called out; ‘Optio Numerius Vitellius Pavo of the XI Claudia, returning from scouting duty.’
The lead sentry, a short, plump man, glowered down the length of his nose as if he was a giant. ‘Ah, the limitanei dregs – taking up space in our city barracks now that your border forts have been shattered?’ The words betrayed not a hint of humour.
‘Perhaps you would like to discuss this with the tribunus of my legion?’ Pavo fixed him with a gimlet stare until the man looked away to his comrades. He heard their mutterings carried on a gentle breeze.
‘He’s with Tribunus Gallus?’ one voice hissed. ‘Open the bloody gates, quickly!’
The thick, iron-studded timber gates groaned open and the pair heeled their mounts on under the shade of the fortified gateway. At once, the sedate chatter of the open countryside was gone. In its place came the frenzied babble of the city streets. The influx of refugees from the Gothic war had swollen this ward to breaking point. The broad, marble-lined Imperial Way was packed with a sea of ruddy faces, gleaming bald pates, waving arms, swishing horse manes and tails and juddering wagons. Aromas of wood smoke, sweat and dung battled in the air as the pair picked their way through these masses. They passed under the shade of a squat marble cistern, then had to wait their turn to trot around a pile of grain sacks being unloaded beside the horreum to fill its silos.
A trader forced his way in front of Sura as he waited. ‘For you, ochre to stain your skin!’ the man yelped, holding up a clay pot.
‘Nah, you can’t improve upon perfection.’ Sura shrugged and rode on past the trader, rounding the grain sacks.