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wagons and people across those peaks, and five legions – one thousand men in each – have been deployed to resist any such effort. Thus, these five passes are vital.’ He tapped the hand along each one, west to east. ‘The Oescus Valley, the Trojan Pass, the Shipka Pass, the Kotel Pass and the Sidera Pass.’
    ‘And in reserve?’ Gallus asked in a tone that suggested he felt not a drop of intimidation in the presence of Emperor Valens’ direct subordinate.
    Traianus grinned wryly, tapping the map just south of the Shipka Pass. ‘The Great Northern Camp.’
    All of Pavo’s senses latched onto this. At once he saw how close to the Shipka Pass the camp was – barely a day’s march – and thought of Felicia. A cold stone of angst settled in his belly as he fretted for her safety.
    ‘Seven legions are stationed at the camp, ready to answer the call for reinforcements from any of the passes,’ Traianus said with confidence.
    But Pavo thought of the glass-eyed old man’s words back at the deserted apartment, and other hearsay that he had picked up on since arriving back in Constantinople. Some say the legions out there are in disarray. Men and units patched together from the survivors of Ad Salices – limitanei and comitatenses forged together in something of a rabble.
    ‘Seven legions, sir?’ Gallus asked. ‘I had heard mixed reports.’
    Traianus’ confidence faltered and he nodded briskly. ‘They are far from full strength, Tribunus, and most of them are somewhat pragmatic in their composition. Many fine cohorts – indeed, entire legions – were lost at Ad Salices, as you know,’ he and Gallus shared a solemn look of understanding and recollection. ‘Old legions have been laid to rest, their surviving vexillationes and leaderless cohorts have been merged with others in an effort to re-establish at least a core to the Thracian army.’
    ‘I understand, sir,’ Gallus nodded.
    ‘And that’s where you and your men come into play. You are to march your men to the great camp.’
    Pavo’s ears pricked up. The magister militum’s words were like an elixir to his fears. Felicia!
    But Gallus’ response was at odds with Pavo’s feelings. ‘The XI Claudia have just returned from the jaws of the Persian Shahanshah, and you plan to merge us into some other legion’s standard, sweep our proud history away like-’
    ‘The XI Claudia will live on, Tribunus,’ Traianus chuckled with a contented look on his face. The man was clearly encouraged by Gallus’ fiery response. ‘At the Great Northern Camp, you will find three new cohorts awaiting you. Your ranks will be what they once were.’
    Gallus offered no response, and Pavo saw a look of near-disbelief on the tribunus’ face. The XI Claudia had been in tatters for years, losing men on the battlefield as fast as it could recruit replacements, always well below its on-paper strength of some seventeen hundred men. Now it seemed that the guttering flame was to be rekindled in full.
    ‘ Magister Equitum Saturninus commands the Great Camp, and he will furnish you with your new men and further orders.’ Traianus then stretched the bronze hand out to the empire’s eastern desert borders. There, a cluster of wooden figures stood. These figures were legionaries too, but taller and broader than those in Thracia. And in their centre was a fine, plumed rider. Traianus hooked them across the map, bringing them to the Diocese of Thracia. ‘As you know, Emperor Valens is already gathering his Praesental Army in the east. Some thirty thousand men . . . yet he will not be able to bring them to these lands until spring at the earliest.’
    Pavo nodded along with the others. He recalled Valens telling them just this before they set sail from Antioch. Keep the mountain passes secure until I arrive, then we will rid Thracia of the Gothic blight.
    But when Traianus swept the cane out again, this time to the west, Pavo frowned. There, far beyond Pannonia and the upper stretches