Sneak Peak at Wolf and the Crown

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PROLOGUE

Africa, AD 373

The dust swirled around him, assaulting his eyes so he had to squint beneath his headscarf. His mount was skittish, tossing its head from side to side, as desperate as he to be out of the basking heat. He stroked the beast, whispering in its ear until it calmed. Before him, sand coloured walls rose ten feet to the air, dwarfed by the mountain peaks behind them.

Just another fort, he thought. No more or less remarkable than any of the others that had fallen to him over the previous months. He smiled to himself. This one would fall just like the others. ‘Your orders, Dominus?’ came a voice from behind him. He turned his horse, coming face to face with Prefect Gaius Felicius, one of his more competent commanders.

‘Have the men battle ready and in formation. All packs dropped to the rear. Tell the men to empty their water skins now. We’ll be drinking theirs by sunset,’ he said, throwing a thumb over his shoulder. The comes rei militaris Theodosius shared a smile with his officer, before turning back to the wall. An iron gate barred passage to within, but between the grates he could see men running from left to right, hear the orders being shouted over the dust covered wind. For a moment, the general closed his eyes and thought back to his time in Gaul and Britannia. He remembered complaining of the cold, tried to remember the howling wind and driving rain. God, what he would do for some of that now.

‘State your name and rank!’ a shrill voice called from atop the gate. Looking up, he saw a dark-skinned man, fat bellied and bald, small hands clasping the clay walls. The man was no warrior, no general to match him. Of that he was certain. He smiled once more.

‘I am the comes of Valentinian, Lord of the World, sent to destroy a murderous robber. Unless you give him to me at once as the invincible emperor has ordered, you will perish utterly with the race over which you rule.’

A silence then, spreading like the dust on the wind. ‘Big words from a man at the head of such a small army! And still you have not spoken your name.’

‘I am Theodosius, comes rei militaris of Rome. I am the man  who won back Britannia,  who vanquished the Alamanni on the banks of the Danube! I am the man who fought Firmus from the northern seas to the mountains! Now go and get him, bring him to me and let him face Roman justice!’

Firmus. The reason for him being here, on this dust covered plain, in front of these tired walls. Theodosius had been sent here the previous year by Valentinian, his emperor under God. Word had spread of uprisings in the African provinces, raids on cities going unanswered. Thrust from the never ending war on the Danube, Theodosius had crossed the sea with an army taken from Gaul. They were auxiliaries all, good men, if undisciplined. But the core of his force was made up of the Fourth Cohort of Gauls, under the command of Gaius Felicius. The two had fought together five years previous, winning Britannia back for the empire after it had been all but cut off.

To say they had found the going tough would be an understatement. They landed with thick woollen cloaks, heavy tunics and trousers. They were men kitted out for Britannia and Gaul, not for the basking heat of the African plains. But, as always, they had so far prevailed. Theodosius had found the cause of the raids quickly enough. It seemed the local governor, Romanus, had made an agreement with the local barbarian tribes. They would raid the cities of North Africa, and Romanus would do nothing to stop them and take his share of the proceeds.

Theodosius had despised the man as soon as he’d set eyes on him. He was young and impertinent, claiming his family could trace their lineage back to the Republic, like his blood counted for anything. A man’s actions were what defined him, not the blood that flowed through his veins. Any man worth their salt knew that.

Realising the man could prove problematic to him, and knowing the close relationship he shared with Gratian, Valentinian’s son, Theodosius said nothing of treachery when he met Romanus, instead ordering him to take command of a small force of men guarding an outpost. Those men, however, belonged to Theodosius. He smiled, even then as the dust whirled around him, to think of the horror Romanus must have felt when he realised the men he had been sent to command were actually his jailors. Packed off back to court with a letter from Theodosius, the general hoped Valentinian would be much sterner with him than he had. Friend of the Caesar or not.

With Romanus out the way, it had been simpler. War. War was what he knew. Firmus was the rebel leader. A good man by all accounts, and one who had been loyal to Rome. He, though, had suffered like most of the local populace under the raids the governor had done nothing to stop, and had decided to take things into his own hands. Raising a huge army of Moors, Firmus had spent months causing havoc for Rome, even going as far as to call himself a king, claiming ‘his’ lands now stood outside the empire.

Theodosius felt some pity for the man, and those  who followed him. Always he tried to put himself in his opponents’ shoes, think like them. Would he have acted any differently under the circumstances? He supposed not. But he could not allow a threat to the empire to go unchallenged.

Firmus had been retreating from him for weeks. Hiding in the mountainous terrain, striking where he was least expected. Theodosius had come to form a grudging respect for the man. He was competent. But now, finally, he had him cornered. The fat man had disappeared from atop the battlement. Theodosius cursed the dust. He couldn’t see a thing. Hoofbeats on the dirt behind him. Turning, he saw Felicius galloping towards him. ‘Enemy army coming from the west, sir! All on horseback by the look of things!’

Theodosius cursed again. He cast one more longing look at the walls. ‘May God spite them!’ he spat. ‘I shall come for you later!’ he shouted at the walls, knowing it was petulant  but not caring. ‘Have the men form up in one big square,’ he said to Felicius.

‘Sir? Is that wise against cavalry?’

‘Just do it, Gaius!’

With the prefect riding off, Theodosius steered his own mount away from the fort and cantered over to the waiting army. The men had improvised their kit where they could. Their trousers were long discarded, and now they wore tunics with the sleeves cut off, mail the same. Around half the men had been able to swap their leather boots for sandals, but even with every cobbler in Africa working around the clock, they hadn’t been able to make enough for all two thousand men. Theodosius had thought his force tiny when his ship had docked and he’d had time to take stock of the task at hand. Now, though, he was almost grateful he had no more men to worry about.

They had lost over a hundred to the heat, men literally boiling in their armour. Another fifty or so were at a hospital by the coast recovering from extreme heat stroke. Every man had skin redder than sacrificial blood. Theodosius drunk deep from his water skin, relishing the last drops slipping down his throat. ‘No more water,’ he said to the aide, waiting to give him his helmet. ‘We’ll have to take theirs, hey?’ he said, smiling at the man with a confidence he did not feel. He’d taken a gamble, marching here without properly supplying first, banking on a quick victory and pillaging his enemies’ food and water. He could make sure of the former, at least.

Out of the dust cloud, he could make out the figures of the Moors, there to rescue their stricken leader. He left his horse where it was, walked through his men until he was with Felicius in the front line. The prefect nodded to his superior, leaning slightly, favouring his good leg. Theodosius knew the man had nursed an old wound in his thigh for a number of years. The months in Africa had done it no favours. ‘Form Testudo,’ he said to Felicius.

‘We’ll be surrounded, sir?’

Theodosius nodded. ‘I know.’

Felicius barked the order, and trumpets trilled in the dusty air. The Roman force formed up in one giant square, shields overlapping on all sides, raised above their heads in the centre. To their enemy, they were nothing but an unbreakable square of shields. It rained then, not water, but spears and arrows. Thud. Thud. Thud to his front and above. Arms straining on his own shield, Theodosius winced. He was not a young man, and war was a young man’s game. ‘We move north at a walk,’ he said to Felicius. He heard the murmurs as his order was passed from front to back and left to right. His pulse thrummed in his ears. He counted its frantic beat. When he got to a hundred, he said: ‘Now.’

They moved. Step by step, shuffling sidewards like crabs, moving inexorably north. Men fell, shields giving way beneath the near constant barrage, but the Romans did not stop. Feeling his left bicep cramp, Theodosius changed grip, resting his shield’s weight on his right arm. In just a few moments, he felt the same pain there. Huffing breaths through clenched teeth, legs like lead, he tried to catch a glimpse of their progress through a small gap in the shields. All he saw was dust.

‘Can’t do this for much longer, sir,’ Felicius said through a ragged breath.

‘We won’t have to.’ As if on cue, the barrage on their shields seemed to lesson. The thrum of hooves on dirt faded, and Theodosius ordered a halt, though no man risked lowering their shield. ‘What’s going on?’ Felicius croaked, voice as coarse as gravel.

Theodosius grinned. ‘The prisoners we took last month. We had them held back from our formation so the men of the town didn’t see them.’

‘What of them?’

‘Our friends out there saw us moving towards them, thought them reinforcements.’

‘Why would they think that?’ Felicius asked.

‘Because I had a centurion dress them all in tunics and mail,’ Theodosius said with a wink. Shields lowered, the two men moved out of the formation, over to the huddle of prisoners.

There were five hundred in all, each once a loyal citizen turned traitor. They would be executed that night, their hands cut off and then burned alive, by imperial decree. But in their last meaningful act, they had saved the lives of Theodosius’s army.

‘You really do think of everything, don’t you?’ Felicius said, a wry grin fixed on his face.

‘Not quite everything.’ Theodosius tried to swallow after he spoke, but there was no moisture to be found in his mouth.

Firmus was brought out to them as the sun was setting. They’d pillaged food and water from the enemy dead, resumed their positions at the gates of the fort. The bald commander had not held out for long. It seemed Firmus, on hearing of the day’s events, had chosen the easy way out and hung himself. Theodosius found he couldn’t blame the man, hearing the screams of the prisoners as their hands were chopped from them. Firmus’s fate would have been even worse.

‘What now?’ Felicius asked him, the two sipping water like it had been blessed by the Almighty Himself.

‘Now we put this province to rights,’ Theodosius said, smacking his lips in satisfaction.

*****

He did that and more in the two years that followed, restoring peace and the people’s faith in the Roman government. He stood on the bay of Carthage and sighed. It should have been one of contentment; instead, it was one of sadness and regret.

In his hands was a letter from Gaul. The emperor was dead, his heart giving out after he had got himself into one of his famous rages. He hadn’t always seen eye to eye with Valentinian, but the man had come to rely on him after his success in Britannia, and the two had even become friends.

The new Augustus, Gratian, Valentinian’s son, seemed to be moving quickly to remove anyone who might consider rivalling him for the purple. Not that Theodosius would have. He was happy with his lot, content with life. It would seem, though, that he would not be given the chance to impress that on the new ruler of the world. Five men stood behind him, from the scola scutariorum secunda, part of Gratian’s elite guard. They had orders to kill Theodosius, orders the general had just read himself. Their commander, a thick bearded German by the name of Romulus – a ridiculous name given to him on his acceptance of Roman citizenship, – could not keep the grin from his face as he’d handed the parchment over.

Theodosius would not give the man the reward of seeing his fear. He was a Roman, a proud man, and a general to boot. He would meet his end with the same dignity he had lived his life. A clamour behind them, as Theodosius’s officers demanded to be let through. ‘Outrage!’ they cried. ‘Treachery!’ It was not lost on Theodosius that the very man he had sent back to court in disgrace was probably the one  who had suggested this order be given. He thought of the rat Romanus then, his face slipping into a leer.

‘Sir! Sir! We cannot accept this!’ Felicius called, his body straining against the imperial guardsmen that held him.

‘Let him through a moment, would you,’ Theodosius said to Romulus, as if he hadn’t a care in the world. ‘A quick word with my friend here, and you may despatch your orders as you see fit.’

‘This cannot be happening!’ Felicius said as he reached his commander’s side.

‘And yet it is, old friend,’ Theodosius said through a thin smile. ‘Calm yourself, Prefect. I have lived a wonderful life, reached heights I could never have dreamed of as a boy. I have seen much of this world, sampled its delights, and now it is time to meet my maker.’ He took two deep breaths, composing himself. He’d never been one for grand speeches; would seem odd to change that now. He unbuckled his sword belt, passed it to Felicius. ‘Give this to my son, would you? He will take the news hard, I know. Tell him I love him, and that I have missed him these last years. There is greatness in him, Gaius. He will achieve wonders, you mark my words. But promise me something, before I go.’

‘Anything,’ Felicius said, eyes wet.

‘Be there for him when he needs you. This world is full of liars and thieves, men who smile at you whilst the sun is shining and stab you in the back from the shadows. He is young yet, he will need friends around him.’

‘I promise. On my life I swear it.’

‘That is all a man can ask for. There is one more thing, a letter for Theo, on my desk. You will make sure he gets it?’ Felicius nodded, unable to speak. Theodosius gripped the younger man by the shoulder, squeezed it, then ushered him away. ‘Go now, you don’t have to stay.’

He turned back to the bay, to the glistening water swirling lazily beneath him. All was calm, all was quiet, and he breathed deep, one last gulp of sweet air, and closed his eyes. He pictured his wife, their estate back in Spain. The smell of freshly pressed olive oil sprung to mind, a distant memory from his childhood. Finally, he pictured his son. Young Theo, named after him. No longer the child he had been, but a man in his own right. A smile touched his lips. He knew the son would eclipse the father, that he would reach heights unimagined. The world would remember the name Theodosius, but it would be the younger, rather than the elder.

He had no regrets.

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