‘They’re everywhere!’ a cry of alarm sounded from the column as, with a buccina cry, a rattle of armour and thunder of boots the men turned away from Deultum to face the Gothic arc, forming a defensive crescent.
Barzimeres instinctively hauled the reins in his white, trembling fingers, the mare swinging round to face the Goths with his men. The Goths took to rapping their spears on their shields and erupting in a visceral, animal barritus cry. Farnobius raised his axe, ready to give what was surely the order to advance.
‘Sir?’ panicked voices called out from his Cornutii ranks.
‘Lead us, sir,’ his Scutarii riders said. ‘We can win this.’
Barzimeres felt every last morsel of his hubris drain from him, and the contents of his guts suddenly turned into a fiery stone, desperate to be released. This was his moment to prove to those who mocked his bought command. ‘The Hero of Deultum?’ he wondered. Then, as if in answer to the proposition, he glanced over his shoulder to the remaining stretch of road that lay between him and Deultum’s gates.
Or . . . safety? Safety for a few who might break swiftly enough?
His resolve gone, he yanked the reins to wheel the mare around towards the city gates, but a firm hand clasped his wrist and stopped the action.
‘That is a fine horse,’ a calm voice spoke suddenly. He looked down to see the surly Cornutii centurion holding his wrist and stroking the grey mare’s mane.
‘Wha – unhand my mount and get to your place in the r-ranks!’ Barzimeres stammered.
‘My boy worked hard to look after the beast for Saturninus . . . ’ the centurion replied. ‘ . . . a brave boy, he was. Unlike the bastard who put a knife in his heart to take the horse from him.’
Barzimeres’ whole being shook now. ‘No!’ he gasped, his gaze switching from the centurion to the Gothic arc and Farnobius’ axe, which swept down like a standard.
‘Death to the legions!’ the giant roared. At once, the Gothic lines surged forward.
Barzimeres struggled to pull the reins free of the surly centurion’s grip. ‘I – I did what I had to. In the heat of battle, men must do grim deeds in search of victory! Now get back to your ranks or we will all die!’
‘We are all fated to die one day, Tribunus,’ he replied casually. ‘But at least now, I can avenge my son before I fall here with the rest of my comrades. And you can go to your death as the Hero of Deultum . . . ’ he said this, then drew a small dagger and swiped it. Barzimeres flinched, but the blade merely scored along the mare’s haunch, spilling dark red blood down its leg. The beast reared up in agony and panic and Barzimeres struggled to stay on the saddle, his helm slipping over his eyes. Then the centurion slapped the creature’s wound and the mare bolted. She burst out in front of the Cornutii spear line and galloped straight for the closing Gothic advance.
Barzimeres slid his helm up and from his eyes, hearing a great cheer from the Roman lines at the sight of their leader’s selfless ‘charge’. The mare was at full pelt, racing headlong for the centre of the Gothic lines despite his desperate yanking on the reins and digging of heels into its flanks. He saw Farnobius’ face broaden in a gleeful smile, saw the giant axe rise, glinting in the sun.
‘No! Turn, you foul creature!’ he yelped hoarsely. Worse than that weak-lunged dog, Saturninus, a scorning, sibilant voice hissed in his mind. He fumbled to draw his spatha, only to drop it in his panic and haste. His eyes locked onto Farnobius’ axe blade, swinging for him, and he felt the urine pump from his bladder to soak his breeches before the contents of his bowels were released at last. He felt only a dull clunk as the axe swept through his neck, sending his world tumbling earth over sky. When his head came to a rest in the grass, he saw his backwards-tilting headless body still saddled on the fleeing grey mare, blood spurting from the neck. By some trick of the gods, life remained with Barzimeres’ head long enough for him to see Farnobius dip in the saddle and pick it from the grass by the tuft-beard. The Goth plucked Barzimeres’ bronze winged helm and placed it on his own scalp, then hurled Barzimeres’ head to one side like a scrap of food.
With his final moments, Barzimeres heard the Gothic charge crash against the Roman lines, then the life left him as a pair of plucky carrion crows descended to devour his eyes.
The evening sky was stained with smoke and the stink of open guts danced on the wind. Fritigern watched as ladders pressed against Adrianople’s grey walls and Gothic spearmen raced up them for one final push.
‘Onwards!’ Alatheus bellowed, smashing the hilt of his longsword against the boss of his shield, his long, white locks billowing in the dusk breeze. Beside him, Saphrax echoed his cries, waving on not their own Greuthingi horsemen, but Fritigern’s Thervingi spearmen, carrying on their spears the sapphire hawk banners that had once been a symbol of pride. Yet this latest wave of attack faltered, just as it had the previous day, when the legionaries garrisoned on Adrianople’s battlements met the Gothic push, swiping heads and hands from the climbers or forcing back the ladders before the climbers could pour onto the battlements, sending those near the top crashing back onto the ground below where many already lay dead, broken or riddled with Roman arrows. Then the Roman ballista atop one of the city’s main defensive towers turned to the latest wave of onrushing Goths. With a twang and then a thud of timber, a bolt leapt from the device and ploughed into his massed kinsmen. They split like a cut of meat under a butcher’s cleaver, blood spraying up as two men were impaled and a third’s leg was torn off, while a handful more were knocked to the ground. Another bolt-thrower from the next nearest tower spat forth too, ruining four men as the bolt ruptured their heads in that one strike and sending those nearby scrambling in terror. Fritigern saw the isolated figure on top of those walls; the slight one with the long, dark hair, orchestrating the artillery with simple swipes of his hands. Saturninus’ retreat to the city might have been fraught and the Thracian armies might well have been broken in the withdrawal, but still enough legionaries remained to deny the Gothic Alliance the taking of the great cities. In the five days since the fall of the passes, the promised land of Thracia had not delivered as his people had hoped. Another bolt spat forth, this time skewering a Thervingi scout rider to his mount then casting the writhing pair back like tumbleweed blown by a gale, through a densely packed group of his archers, many of whom were crushed or maimed by the thrashing horse.
‘Enough!’ Fritigern roared. The cry drowned out Alatheus’ rallying, but it was barely needed, for now the Gothic attack was faltering. They withdrew, abandoning the ladders, handfuls more falling to the rain of Roman arrows that greeted the retreat.
Fritigern mounted his stallion and glowered at the two Greuthingi Reiks’ as he turned to leave the battle.
‘You flee?’ Saphrax cried over the drum of hooves and boots, his tone laced with derision.
‘The day is lost!’ Fritigern countered.
‘You could choose to rally them, but you do not?’ Alatheus said, stabbing an accusing finger.
‘There is no honour is dying before their walls, you fools. The Romans build fine cities and we possess little knowledge of siege-craft!’
Saphrax sneered at this. ‘A convenient argument for a craven lead-’
His words stopped short as a Ballista bolt skidded through the earth just missing him, a ruined Gothic head impaled on the tip. It was Fritigern’s turn to sneer as the squat reiks and Alatheus swiftly mounted too, and heeled their war horses out of range and then back to the north.
It was the dead of a dark, chill night when they returned to the Gothic camp, some twenty five miles northeast of Adrianople. Fritigern walked his stallion through the sea of tents and campfires, feeling thousands of eyes upon him. Soldiers on sentry duty, children and mothers carrying babes emerging from their tents, grandparents hunched and hobbling to hear the news of the latest assault on the Roman city. More, he sensed the glowers of Alatheus and Saphrax on him, riding on his flanks like allies, but their minds set on undermining him at every turn.
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When they reached the centre of the camp, a slave hurried to take the reins from him. He slid from the stallion and approached the fire around which the other reiks and nobles had already gathered. They feasted on wine and crab brought from the coast and toasted over the fire. Their eyes were not full of hope like the people; their eyes were like smouldering coals.
‘Another thousand dead, I hear?’ one of them said as he sat down.
The words stung Fritigern like a brand. But before he could retort, Alatheus cut in;
‘And with just another hour’s assault, their deaths would have had meaning. We could have been dining in the basilicas of Adrianople tonight.’
Fritigern swung his gaze round on the silver-tongued reiks. It was this one and Saphrax who had lobbied him to assault the city that morning, but now shied away from accountability. The man’s tranquil gaze stoked the fire in Fritigern’s heart. ‘Don’t you see? After nearly a week of trying to better the Roman walls, have you learned nothing?’ he shot to his feet, the sweep of his dark-blue cloak sending a storm of ember into the night air. The ring of reiks visibly shrunk at the gesture. ‘To quarrel with the Roman walls is folly! We . . . we,’ he reiterated, sweeping a finger round all of them, ‘have thrown men against Adrianople’s walls twice . . . and twice they have been broken against those beetling fortifications.’ He drew his longsword suddenly, and fear flashed through the eyes of the watching reiks. Then he stabbed it to the ground. ‘There is still a chance . . . just a sliver of possibility, that we can bring the emperor to parley.’
A murmur of agreement and disagreement broke out. Fritigern listened to the many voices, while noticing something to the north of the camp. A train of torches. Incoming riders?
‘The emperor had his chance to appease us when we first crossed the river. He betrayed us!’ one voice said, returning his attention to the matter in hand.
‘It was not the emperor who betrayed us – do you remember nothing?’ Another countered.
‘Iudex Fritigern is correct,’ another voice cut in. It was booming, silencing the others. ‘We are not strong enough to take anything from the Romans while they cower behind their walls.’
Fritigern looked up to see the hulking Farnobius, mounted at the head of the train of incoming torches: Taifali, Huns and a handful of Gothic spearmen. The ox-like leader with the smashed nose – still packed with congealed blood – had become something of a patron for the Hun riders he had brought from the north, and they followed him obediently. This, together with his already numerous band of Taifali cavalry, made him an ever-growing force in the asp’s nest of the Alliance’s politics. The giant reiks wore a plundered bronze winged helm. Fritigern had all but forgotten the man’s mission to Deultum – designed to keep the brute from the Adrianople siege . . . and to deny Alatheus and Saphrax his services.
Farnobius slid from his saddle and tossed something across the ground. It rolled to a halt near the fire. A grey, blood-encrusted, eyeless head with a gaping mouth and a tuft-beard that shrivelled in the heat of the nearby flames.
‘In the field today, I slew this dog – a tribunus and his two palatinae legions – in the plains by Deultum. Remnants of each legion managed to scurry inside Deultum’s gates, but we did not pursue them or challenge the walls. Our victory came in the field, as all victories past have.
‘Reiks!’ Alatheus hissed as if irked by the man’s boldness and almost certainly angered that he was addressing the leaders of the horde as equals.
‘Instead we returned here, to this camp,’ Farnobius continued, his voice a little louder – just enough to drown out Alatheus, ‘A place that offers little forage. A place where the pasture grows thinner by the day. Is this the prize you foresaw when we conquered the mountain passes and spilled into these lands?’ A babble of voices called out in support. ‘When the Roman Emperors of East and West converge on Thracia, do we want to face them as an army of starved wretches, or fierce, strong ranks, each man well-fed and clad in armour as good as any Roman might wear?’
‘The emperors will not be here for many months. You fear tomorrow when it is today we should eye with concern,’ Alatheus scoffed.
Fritigern noticed how the younger warrior ignored his supposed master’s latest interjection, then added, flicking his hands up to rouse opinion from the rest; ‘what is it to be?’
‘Hold your tongue, Farnobius!’ Saphrax growled, but few paid attention – most entranced by Farnobius’ homily.
‘Strength!’ one cried out.
‘Face them with vigour and steel!’ another agreed.
Fritigern ignored the squat, slit-eyed reiks. ‘So what would you have us do, Reiks Farnobius?’
Farnobius met Fritigern’s gaze, then gestured to a train of ants, scurrying from near the fire to a rock a few feet away and eyed them with disdain. ‘The Romans cannot remain behind their walls until the Praesental Armies arrive. They fled there in disarray – their grain lies in but a few cities and their weapon fabricae in a few others. If they are not to starve or go short of iron vests and blades then they will have to come out, taking resources from one city to the next . . . across the field.’
Fritigern’s eyes narrowed. He had rarely heard Farnobius speak before now, and had considered him a mindless warrior – a savage blade with no brain. But he spoke well; his tone was even and his words considered.
‘Then,’ Farnobius continued, grinding the heel of his boot upon the train of ants, ‘we take our plunder.’
A cacophony of cheering and dispute rose up at this, many nobles shooting to their feet, gesticulating with one another.
Fritigern’s gut tightened.
‘Abandon this tomb of a camp and the fragile hope that the Roman Emperor will parley with us,’ Farnobius pressed on. ‘Let the horde roam across Thracia and plunder all that does not lie behind Roman walls: wagons, waystations, unwalled towns, quarries and mines. Soon, our bellies will be full and all of our armies will wear scale and mail like the ranks of Suerdias and Colias,’ he gestured to two of the watching Goths who had once served as Roman centurions. ‘Unleash the horde!’ he affirmed.
Another babble of discord broke out.
‘Enough!’ Fritigern rose to stand. Immediately, he wished he had not, as the difference in height between Farnobius and he was stark, the giant towering a good head above him. But the voices had hushed and he had their attention. ‘Reiks Farnobius’ proposal has merit. But we will not be abandoning this camp,’ he said this with a tremor of ire, stilling a few reiks already on their way to rouse their riders as Farnobius had suggested. ‘Not yet. Here, we take stock of our herds, mend our wagons, care for our wounded, and await word of parley from the emperor. We must at least try this route first.’
Farnobius bristled, his jaw twitching, his ruined nose wrinkling and his nostrils flaring.
‘Sit down, Reiks Farnobius,’ Saphrax said, a little too gleefully, waving him down like a recalcitrant child. ‘Your thinking is unfettered with the shackles of reality and has served only to show that you have much still to learn.’
Fritigern swung round upon Saphrax. ‘His reasoning is sound, and untainted with personal ambition. It is just not right for our people . . . not right now.’
Saphrax recoiled as if detecting a nasty smell. Alatheus leaned closer and whispered to his crony, and this seemed to calm him. When Fritigern looked up, he saw that Farnobius had left the gathering, catching sight of his swooshing dark tail of hair as he disappeared into the night. The man was enraged. A dangerous beast at the best of times, Fritigern hoped the firebrand’s anger was with Saphrax and not with him.
Farnobius stalked back to his tent, shoving the slave boy aside and barging inside. Never had he felt such ignominy. Saphrax’s mocking words echoed through his head and Fritigern’s public denouncement of his plans prickled like stoked embers in his chest. He paced back and forth, and the bare-breasted, flaxen-haired concubine lying in his bedding pushed up against the corner of the tent, gathering up the furs around her
. The slave boy gingerly approached him, holding out a cup of wine as if offering a scrap of raw meat to an angered lion. Farnobius snatched at it, took a long gulp of it, then another. The wine brought a calmness to his veins and his breathing slowed. His concubine saw that he was relaxing and drew back the furs, offering herself to him. Farnobius stared at her, feeling how the wine had numbed his mind and sensing the stirring in his loins.
He gazed into the surface of the wine cup. The blood-red drink was almost opaque. But, as always, he saw below its surface the image that had followed him since that dark night. The gawping features of the boy Vitheric as he fought to breathe absent air. The confusion in those bulging eyes as he stared up at his protector. Confusion, then realisation that came in the moments before his life slipped away. The surface of the wine tremored as Farnobius’ hand shook and the image of the boy vanished. Then, from the gathering outside he heard the shrill, echoing laughter of Saphrax.
He glared at his concubine. ‘It is not wine and women I need,’ he snarled, throwing the wine cup down and sending the woman scurrying behind the furs again. ‘As long as I stand in the shadow of Alatheus and Saphrax, of Fritigern, then I will always be theirs to scorn and belittle.’
He clapped his hands. The slave boy crept in like a dog expecting a beating. ‘Rouse the Taifali, and the best of my steppe riders too. They are to ride with me before dawn.’
‘Master?’ the boy frowned, this order for a night sortie new to him.
Farnobius caught his instinct to strike the boy for questioning him, because another thought cut across his mind: the few reiks and nobles around the fire who had spoken up in support of his proposal. If they truly believed in his vision enough to come with him, they would add another two thousand infantry to complement his two thousand Taifali riders. ‘And take word to Egil and Humbert. Tell them that if they wish to share my destiny, they should bring their spearmen and meet me outside the camp.’
Legionary: The Scourge of Thracia (Legionary 4) Page 16