Legionary: Viper of the North (Legionary 2)

by Doherty, Gordon

  ‘No, Quadratus!’ Avitus called as he ran to the scene. ‘Don’t fight them, I know you’re innocent. We can sort this out.’ The little Roman turned to Lupicinus. ‘I’ve told you, there’s no way he did this, sir. Centurion Quadratus lives, breathes and sleeps for this legion.’

  ‘The money was found concealed by his bunk,’ Lupicinus countered, ‘we discussed all of this last night. Although you two were in a disgraceful state – it’s little wonder you remember none of it.’

  Avitus frowned and looked away from the tribunus. ‘I know the money was found by his bunk, but that doesn’t mean he put it there, surely? Let me defend him.’

  Lupicinus turned to him with a sneer. ‘Defend him?’

  ‘At the trial?’ Avitus cocked an eyebrow.

  Lupicinus barely disguised a grin. ‘There will be no trial. The execution is to take place today. Immediately.’

  One of Lupicinus’ men unfurled a large hemp sack. ‘The snake keeper is here, sir,’ he purred.

  ‘No trial? You can’t do that. The tribunus would not allow it,’ Avitus stammered.

  Lupicinus’ men barged him out of the way, three of them tethering Quadratus’ hands. ‘You forget, your precious Tribunus Gallus is not here. I am in charge and I insist that the thief dies before the sun has risen. His drowning will teach the rest of the ranks to think twice should they be tempted to line their purses.’

  With a suddenly leaden heart, Quadratus glanced back at his optio and good friend. He knew it would probably be the last time he would see him. Wearing just a tunic and boots, he was marched through the fort and out onto the snow-coated plain. The stark chill searched his bare limbs as he was guided towards the banks of the Danubius. There he felt the eyes of the formed-up and scant garrison upon him; the two sagittarii, the smattering of auxiliaries, the turma of equites, the turma of foederati and the pocket of Claudia legionaries alongside Lupicinus’ century and a half of comitatenses. Did they pity him, despise him or fear him? It didn’t matter, he realised, nothing would matter in moments. He looked up at the sky, blue in between the gathering clusters of fresh snow clouds. He could hear only the rush of the waters as he searched for the words of the prayer to Mithras. Then he wondered if a prayer to the Christian God would be prudent.

  Then a hiss of a snake tore him from his thoughts and, for the first time in years, he felt fear twist through his veins. The snake handler held in his arms an asp that writhed in agitation, and beside him was a timber crate, the gaps between the slats revealing several more of the creatures. His heart thudded and then, like the passing eye of a storm, the fear dissolved and he felt only sympathy for the beasts, for they were to die needlessly as well.

  Then, as Lupicinus read out the charges again, he noticed something else, behind the snake handler. A black-cloaked and hooded figure stood, hands clasped. Then the hands moved to lower the hood. It was Felicia the barmaid, but her usual beauty was wrinkled in a cold, spiteful grimace. Quadratus frowned. Then he noticed something else: Avitus had joined the ranks. The little Roman winked at him, then patted the bow slung across his shoulder and nodded.

  Quadratus frowned, then realised what his friend had in mind. But all around them, Lupicinus’ legionaries stood guard – too many of them. He tried to fire a frosty glare to Avitus. But before he could, a knee barged him forward, to the lip of the bank where the earth had sheared away and a six foot drop into the Danubius awaited.

  He eyed the swirling torrents, shivering at the sight of the occasional chunks of ice that clashed together on the surface. With a chorus of angered spitting and clouded breath, the snakes were dumped in the sack. Then he heard footsteps march up behind him. He closed his eyes.

  Then he heard the stretching of a bowstring.

  Quadratus spun on the spot. ‘No, don’t do it!’ He called to Avitus.

  But Avitus, standing with the bow slackening in his grip, stared back not at him but across to the north bank of the river. Lupicinus and the watching ranks did likewise, mouths agape. The snakes sprang from the sack and clamped their fangs into the snake handler’s throat and shoulders, but not one person moved to help him or even looked in his direction.

  Quadratus blinked, then turned to the north bank. There, emerging from the tree line, were armoured Gothic cavalry and spearmen. First a few. Then hundreds.

  Then thousands.

  At their head, surrounded by sapphire-blue hawk banners, Iudex Fritigern was saddled on a black stallion and in full battle armour.

  A Gothic horn moaned, and the cavalry flooded onto the pontoon bridge.

  Chapter 11

  The gale had eased and now the snow fell silently over the upper Danubius. Pavo waited in line as each of the weary column hopped from the northern bank, across a gangplank and onto the Roman trade cog that Gallus had abruptly commandeered from the riverside. The portly ship’s captain had suffered an apparent loss of hearing when the tribunus had first hailed him, but a few well aimed plumbatae had remedied that.

  The already heavily burdened cog sunk lower in the water as each of the legionaries hopped onto the ship. Gallus stood on the deck, waving each of them aboard. ‘That’s it, lads! As soon as we’re off the banks we can eat, slake our thirst and set sail for home.’

  Pavo stalked across the plank and thudded onto the deck; treading on wood felt good after nearly seven days of relentless marching through knee-deep snow with only fleeting breaks to rest. They had hunted and foraged along the way, sheltering in caves when the storm grew too fierce to continue.

  He trudged past the captain, whose face grew darker the further his vessel sunk into the water. Then he sidled over to Sura, who had already pulled his hardtack and mutton ration from his pack and was chewing on it like a starved wolf.

  ‘Hunger is a spice for any meal, eh?’ Pavo sighed as he took off his helmet then set down his shield and pack to sit by his friend, letting the tension ease from his body. Still munching, Sura offered Pavo a piece of hardtack in lieu of a reply. He took it, snapped the piece in two and crunched into one half, then washed it down with a generous swig of soured wine. All around him, the legionaries groaned as they loosened their boots and burdens likewise.

  The gangplank was withdrawn and the cog set off downriver. Pavo sighed as he took another swig of wine. The liquid was tart on his tongue and instantly warmed his blood. He watched as Gallus strode around the deck, offering words of encouragement to his men. It had been a seamless and natural transition of command; the survivors of his fifty merging with Gallus’ vexillatio. Even Crito and the rest of Lupicinus’ men behaved like model soldiers under Gallus’ gaze. The mere presence of the tribunus had driven them on, even when they were at their weakest. And, at last, Pavo was back in the ranks. It was what he had craved since Lupicinus had forced command upon him, but now that it had been taken away he felt a stinging shame on his skin. He did not resent Gallus in any way; instead, he loathed himself.

  Crito ambled past, groaning, rubbing a hand across the small of his back. Pavo braced for either a sneer or some barbed comment, but instead, the veteran simply gave him a nod. Pavo wondered if he had won some modicum of respect from the grizzled veteran, or if Crito now no longer saw him as some kind of threat or affront now that he was a mere grunt again. His mood darkened.

  ‘You’ll get your chance again, lad,’ a familiar voice spoke beside him.

  He looked up to see Salvian. The ambassador was still lithe and looked comparatively fresh for a non-military man who had just been subjected to such a march. If anything, he looked in better shape than many of the legionaries.

  ‘My chance? I’m not sure I want it,’ Pavo spoke in a hushed tone, expecting Salvian to chuckle at this and hoping Sura by his other side would not hear him.

  But the ambassador shook his head, his sharp features sincere. ‘You were magnificent back at the pass. Your tribunus has commented on this more than once since then. It’s not a matter of whether you will be given a leader’s role, Pavo, but when. I meant what I s
aid before, you know; your father would have been proud of you,’ Salvian continued unabated.

  Pavo nodded firmly, hoping the moisture welling in his eyes at the sentiment wasn’t visible. He realised he was looking at Senator Tarquitius, stood alone at the prow of the ship. The senator still cut a haunted figure and had barely uttered a word since the skirmish at the pass.

  Salvian followed his gaze and then smiled. ‘Ah, yes, the senator’s demands of you. Have you made your decision – will you humour him?’

  Pavo frowned. He had barely had time to think over Tarquitius’ demands for garrison information.

  Salvian sighed. ‘I’m sorry, your mind is troubled enough. Think only of where we are headed, the fort, your woman . . . ’ he finished with a half-grin. With that, Salvian strolled over to a cluster of legionaries, accepted the offer of a wineskin, then immediately had them roaring in laughter with some quip.

  Pavo looked to Salvian, and then to Tarquitius again at the opposite end of the boat. To betray my legion and learn the truth? His mind filled with a collage of all the times he had been a whisker from death at the end of a barbarian blade. Father had fallen to such a blade. He thought over Salvian’s words in the forest just a handful of nights previous. If you choose well, you are blessed; if you choose poorly, you will be stronger for it. Perhaps it is time to serve yourself? He nodded; maybe it was time to sacrifice a sliver of honour.

  He lifted his soured wineskin once more and took a generous swig. Then he strode over to Tarquitius, rested his hands on the prow and looked downriver to the same distant point the senator’s gaze was fixed on.

  ‘I will do as you ask. But on one condition; you must promise me that no lives will be lost from whatever . . . initiative you have planned.’

  The senator remained silent, staring downriver. Pavo frowned. ‘Senator?’ He said, his voice low.

  Then Tarquitius turned to him, face ghostly-white, eyes bulging and distant, sweat snaking across his forehead despite the cold. The Senator’s lips trembled as he spoke. ‘I have no need of the Sardica information now.’

  Pavo’s blood boiled at this. ‘What?’ He hissed. ‘Is this some kind of game to you? You dangle some truth in front of me and then tear it away! You will tell me what you know of my father!’ Pavo snarled.

  Tarquitius’ haunted expression did not change despite Pavo’s ire. Staring through him, the senator muttered; ‘I can never tell you.’

  Pavo felt his hands tremble, and the urge to wrap them around the senator’s fat neck was overwhelming. Then he felt the eyes of the other legionaries on them. ‘This is not over,’ he snorted in disgust, then took another mouthful of wine and strode to the side of the vessel, his breaths coming short and shallow.

  He leant over the side; the rippling water growing hypnotic. Perhaps this was fate telling him he had made the wrong choice, he mused. He felt his mind grow giddy as the wine took hold, and this lifted his spirit just a fraction, pushing the senator’s game from his thoughts. But, almost immediately, the grim truth of what might be waiting on them downriver came flooding in to replace it. He longed to learn that Felicia was safe, and he searched the swirling rapids as if looking for some confirmation of this.

  He turned from the edge of the vessel and made to take another swig of soured wine, but stopped, seeing Gallus walk over to him.

  ‘Drink your fill, Pavo. Mithras knows you’ve earned it.’

  Pavo nodded, then looked into the mouth of the skin and sighed. ‘Perhaps later,’ he said, putting the cork back in place. ‘I feel it may taste far sweeter once we have set eyes upon Durostorum and the fort and are sure all is well there.’

  Gallus frowned.

  ‘It’s the Hun horde we saw, sir. Every time I think back over it, I am sure it must have been a nightmare,’ he shook his head, ‘but it was real, and I fear that we may be returning too late.’

  ‘Then you are not alone.’ Gallus looked downriver pensively. ‘A game is being played, Pavo. The Huns will show no mercy to Fritigern’s people, and I just know Athanaric is embroiled in their arrival.’ He paused, shaking his head. ‘But this . . . Viper, I fear he is no shade. We have both seen the rebels and their devotion to the Viper’s cause. Men do not fight for shades, Pavo. Yet this creature has so far remained invisible . . . and the most deadly enemy is the one you cannot see.’

  At that moment, a distant moan of a Gothic war horn sounded downriver. The entire crew of the cog froze.

  Pavo and Gallus stared at one another.

  Avitus could only stare at the sight; the rush of the rapids and the rapping of hooves filled the air as the Gothic cavalry rumbled over the timber bridge, snow churning in their wake.

  Every fibre in his being screamed to run or draw his spatha, but he noticed that the riders did not move at a charge. They looked weary and nervous and their weapons were sheathed. More, behind the warriors on the far bank, many thousands of Gothic women, children and elderly had emerged from the forests, their faces gaunt and staring like lost souls. He glanced to Quadratus; the big Gaul’s fingers hovered close to his spatha hilt as he stepped back from the riverbank.

  ‘What is this? Do they come in peace?’ Avitus said.

  ‘Aye, so it seems,’ Quadratus nodded, then he turned to the rest of the legion; some were stumbling into a run for the fort, others were levelling their spears, eyes wide in panic. ‘Sheathe your weapons!’ The big Gaul cried. But even as the words left his lips, one legionary roared in a mix of terror and bravado, hurling a plumbata at the foremost Gothic rider who was halfway across the bridge. The dart punched through the man’s jaw and sent him sliding onto the pontoon bridge.

  ‘You bloody fool,’ Avitus gawped at the legionary who had thrown the dart. It was Ursus, one of Lupicinus’ men, and he had already turned to run for the fort. At this, other legionaries hurled their spears and darts at the approaching riders before turning tail. Three more Goths were punched from their mounts by the hail.

  On the bridge, a rabble of confusion grew amongst the Goths, then boiled over into a cacophony of anguished cries as word of the slayings spread. The riders around the slain men cried out and drew their longswords. Then, like a porcupine presenting its spines, all those behind followed suit. As one, the Gothic cavalry broke into a charge.

  ‘Oh, bollocks!’ Quadratus bundled the recruits back towards the fort. ‘Run, you bloody idiots, run!’

  Avitus turned to run with the big centurion, then stopped short as he saw Felicia. Her face was torn in a scowl, stalking round to the rear of Quadratus, a curved iron dagger in her hand. He leapt for her, grappling her by the arm so the dagger fell to the snow.

  ‘Get your hands off me,’ she hissed, her breath clouding in the air.

  ‘Sorry, miss. No time for manners or we’re all dead,’ he spoke gruffly, shoving her towards the fort gates.

  Her eyes narrowed on Quadratus as she backed away before turning to run for the fort. At that moment, Avitus realised that she knew. Or at least she thought she knew. She had found his scroll and assumed that it belonged to Quadratus, framing the big Gaul for the wage theft.

  Then a ham-like hand grappled his tunic collar and yanked him forward as well.

  ‘Move!’ Quadratus bawled in his ear.

  The pair set off at a sprint, the ground shaking beneath them from the chasing cavalry. Up ahead, Lupicinus sprinted at the head of the Roman retreat, all decorum and smug majesty from moments ago discarded. They stumbled past the four-pronged ballista and Avitus growled. ‘Never even got a single shot away!’

  Quadratus pulled him along. ‘Just keep your eyes on the gate, we’re almost there . . . ’ his words were cut off by the crunch of a Gothic spear ripping through the chest of a recruit who had stumbled just ahead of him.

  ‘Death to the Romans!’ A jagged Gothic cry filled the air.

  Avitus shot a look over his shoulder; Fritigern and his retinue of riders followed the charging cavalry, but while the lead riders’ faces were twisted in fury, the Gothic Iudex
was roaring at them, gesticulating, waving them back. ‘Stop, you fools,’ Fritigern roared at his men, ‘the Romans are not our enemies!’ But the charging cavalry were deaf to their leader’s pleas.

  Avitus faced front again. Then his shins thwacked into something, and he and Quadratus tumbled to the ground, ploughing into the deep snow.

  Avitus scrambled to his feet and glanced back to see what they had tripped upon.

  Comes Lupicinus lay in the snow, clutching his ankle, panic welling in his eyes. He reached out to Quadratus, his lips flapping silently as if stalling when trying to call for help.

  Avitus looked to Quadratus, then the pair looked to the cavalry haring in on the felled Roman, spears raised. With a grunt, Quadratus leapt up.

  ‘No!’ Avitus yelled. But Quadratus was determined, stomping back towards Lupicinus. With a frustrated growl, Avitus prised a spear from the hands of a dead recruit and hoisted it then hurled it forward with a roar. The missile punched through the lead cavalryman, who was thrown back into his fellow riders’ paths and the charge faltered for a precious instant. Quadratus heaved Lupicinus up and slung him across his broad shoulders, then hobbled for the fort gates. Avitus skirted around the centurion, loosing arrows at the reforming riders to cover the retreat. The recruits spilled onto the battlements and began roaring encouragement to the trio.