Legionary: Viper of the North (Legionary 2)

by Doherty, Gordon

  Gallus hesitated, his glare speaking a thousand words. ‘Foederati have, until now, been employed in manageable numbers. Some of them good-hearted and willing fighters, some of them vile cutthroats. Believe me, I have experienced the best and the worst of them. But we have never opened our borders to an entire people!’

  Lupicinus sat back, a look of smug contentment in his eyes as he tapped a finger to his temple. ‘Progressive thinking, Tribunus. We are now in a new age, an age when the legions alone are not enough.’

  Gallus dipped his gaze from the comes, and took a deep breath before looking back up. ‘But, sir, I have heard on the way through the fort that you plan to manage this situation alone? I am sure these are just rumours though; surely you intend to engage with the emperor, or at least call on the reserve legions of the Emperor’s Presence, stationed in Constantinople?’

  ‘These rumours are fact, Tribunus. I will see this crisis through, alone. The cowardly would call for help to those they see as their betters.’ Lupicinus’ eyes burned into Gallus and the six behind him, then he punched a fist against his heart. ‘And I am no coward!’

  Pavo winced at the man’s words, and the manic look in his eyes.

  ‘So you and your patchwork legion will get behind me in this endeavour. And be warned that, any attempt to engage Emperor Valens will be treated as an act of mutinous intent.’

  Pavo darted a glance to Quadratus and Avitus; the pair had intercepted Gallus on the way into the fort and told him of the rider who they had despatched to the east. Zosimus, Felix and Gallus had praised the pair, their frowns at the goings-on easing just a little at this sliver of hope.

  But the eastern frontier was weeks away by land and sea, and Pavo feared that Ennius’ efforts would be little more than a moral victory over this peacock of an officer.

  Then, with a screeching of his stool on the flagstones, Lupicinus stood. ‘Now, I will take my leave to eat. Before night watch begins, we are to gather here again, and Iudex Fritigern will be joining us. Watch and learn how I deal with the barbarian, and you could share in my glory.’ With that, he left with his six men, and a chill gust filled the room with snowflakes before the door slammed shut.

  Gallus stared at the door, his eyes wide in incredulity. Then he turned to Quadratus and Avitus. ‘Well you both deserve promotion to emperor for enduring that one for the last few weeks.’

  Quadratus saluted with a dry grin. ‘You don’t know the half of it, sir. But let’s just say that my first act in the purple would be to have him measured by a sackmaker.’

  ‘I’ll let my imagination fill in the gaps there, I think,’ Gallus cocked an eyebrow, then he tapped the table and gestured to the empty stools around it. ‘Now sit, I need my officers and veterans here to discuss the next steps. And I want to know all there is to know about Fritigern before we speak with him.’

  Pavo and Sura made to leave them to their discussions, when Gallus stopped them with a pinning stare. ‘Legionaries, draw up a stool. As I said, I need my veterans.’ Pavo glanced to Sura, then turned back and sat, rubbing his throat to disguise a gulp of apprehension.

  ‘Well?’ Gallus swept his eyes around each of them.

  Quadratus started. ‘Burns my tongue to say it, sir, but Fritigern is straight up genuine, as far as I can tell. There’s a real fear in his eyes; he’s not interested in a fight, he’s just grateful to have his people across the imperial borders safely.’

  ‘Is it true, sir, about the Huns to the north?’ Avitus asked as he sat. ‘All of Fritigern’s men look like they’ve seen Hades itself. They say that the forest came to life only days ago, and that the Huns fell upon their villages without mercy.’

  Gallus’ gaze grew distant, ‘I have not sighted them, but Pavo has.’

  Pavo nodded, feeling expectation tangle his tongue as the officers turned to him, faces deadly serious in the candlelight. Then he saw Salvian give him a nod of encouragement. He sucked in a breath and began; ‘It happened in Fritigern’s village of Istrita, near the border with Athanaric’s lands. We sorted out another uprising of rebels. That was bloody, but it was a piece of honey cake compared to what came next.’ The officers leant in, transfixed on his words. ‘They came out of the forest, just as Fritigern’s men said. It was dark as pitch, but there were easily,’ he paused, spreading his arms wide, ‘thirty thousand of them, more than a match for Fritigern’s army – if his Goths were prepared. But if they fell upon Fritigern’s villages and forts unexpected, then it’s no wonder that his people were driven to our borders. That so many of them escaped with their lives is a feat in itself.’

  ‘And all this happens in Fritigern’s lands while Athanaric’s lands go untouched,’ Avitus frowned, piecing it together, thumping a fist on the table. ‘Whoreson!’

  Gallus and Pavo shared a dark look, then the tribunus shook his head. ‘No, and this is the crux of it all,’ he paused, glancing around those in the room as if judging his next words. ‘I fear that the Huns and Athanaric are but the puppets in some greater strategy. The rebels, those swift few who drew out our vexillationes so effectively and softened our borders so we had no option but to accept Fritigern into the empire,’ he nodded. ‘It is their leader we seek.’

  Quadratus and Avitus looked to one another, eyes wide. ‘Their leader?’

  Gallus gazed into the flame of the candle. ‘They call him . . . the Viper. He has orchestrated all of this, yet,’ he paused, chuckling wryly, ‘to the best of our knowledge, he is a dead man, killed years ago in some botched exchange of hostages. Yet his shade seems to command the loyalty of the rebels and is aiding and encouraging the Huns.’

  ‘A dead man . . . ’ Avitus replied after a lengthy silence, his brow wrinkling. Then he looked up at Gallus. ‘Are you sure, sir?’

  ‘Avitus?’

  Avitus’ face turned grave, and he took a moment to compose himself. ‘A man can become a shade if it suits him, sir,’ the optio’s voice cracked a little, and he shot furtive glances around the table, ‘if his name is sullied, or his life is in danger. Or perhaps if it suits his ambition? And if enough people who seek a man believe he is a shade, then they will lose the heart to find him.’

  Pavo frowned. The little Roman had rarely shown such an introspective side to his nature. Something was troubling Avitus, that much was clear. Regardless, the optio had made a salient point.

  ‘Aye,’ Zosimus mused, ‘you can kill a man, but not a shade.’

  Pavo looked around the table; all had fallen silent as if the mention of this phantom had cast a spell on them. He looked to the flagstones, searching for that answer, the one thing that would hook it all together; the mysterious Gothic rebels, the Hun hordes, the coming of Fritigern’s people. His mind churned, but produced nothing. Even Gallus examined the palms of his hands as if desperately searching for an answer.

  Salvian broke the spell. ‘In my time I have marched with wise men, razor-witted and shrewd; I have marched with lion-hearted soldiers who have forgotten the meaning of fear. In only the precious few weeks I have been in the company of the men of this legion, I know for certain that you are both.’ He sat back from the candle, slapping both hands on the table’s edge. ‘Let us not be beaten by this Viper before we have even crossed swords with him, shade or otherwise.’

  Pavo’s skin prickled with pride at the words, and he saw the other veterans straighten up, square their shoulders and firm their jaws.

  ‘The ambassador is right,’ Gallus added, ‘we can only stay vigilant. The answer hangs somewhere in the fog. And as long as it is there, we will find . . . ’

  His words trailed off as a set of determined footsteps thudded up to the principia. All braced, expecting Lupicinus to enter.

  With a chill blast of air and a flurry of fresh snowflakes, the door burst open. But stood in the doorway was Iudex Fritigern, flanked by a warrior whose silver hair billowed across his face in the gale. Fritigern was dressed in a brown tunic and green woollen trousers. Otherwise he was unarmoured and unarmed, his red
locks framing contorted features. ‘Where is the comes?’

  Gallus stood. ‘I am Tribunus Gallus; I will speak for Comes Lupicinus until he returns to duty.’

  ‘Then perhaps you can explain what’s going on out there?’ Fritigern stabbed a finger towards the plain. ‘One of my men has been beaten, a woman has been raped and her children are missing; she claims they were taken by Romans.’ Fritigern paused, taking a deep breath before looking Gallus in the eye. ‘We came here as allies seeking shelter, but we are being treated like prisoners.’

  ‘Sit, Iudex Fritigern. We will talk this through as a matter of priority. Felix, will you see to it that a platter of bread and a jug of wine are brought to us?’

  Felix nodded and darted outside. Fritigern sat while the warrior accompanying him slunk into the shadows by the door.

  ‘I have not eaten since dawn yesterday, Tribunus. My belly roars and my legs tremble. But I do not care for food, not while my people out there live off only what grain they could carry across the river. They are already running short. When that happens,’ he leaned forward, his weathered face etched with pain, ‘I will lose control of them. This is not a threat, Tribunus, merely a reality. Insurgency has been rife over the last months. Whole villages have been sacked by these rebels since the summer. My failure to curtail them has seen the mood for change stick to my people’s thoughts like a plague. I have no means to police my people in their current state, yet I hear whispers that some of those very rebels are in our midst. Rumour and counter-rumour are rife!’

  Gallus paused for a moment, then said; ‘Some of these rumours may have more substance to them than you may think, Iudex. What do you know of the Viper?’

  Fritigern’s brow wrinkled. ‘Until these last few weeks, I had not heard that name in a long, long time. I know only of the tales of his brutality, told to me and my brothers when we were boys. A man bent on uniting the Gothic tribes and then leading them to war.’

  ‘And he is dead now, I believe?’ Gallus continued.

  ‘Long dead, Tribunus. And the Gothic tribes are the better for it.’

  ‘Are you sure he is dead?’ Gallus asked. ‘What if I was to tell you that the rebels we engaged fought under his banner?’

  Fritigern cocked an eyebrow. ‘Nonsense! What would be their motive – fighting for a dead man?’

  Gallus swept a hand towards the door of the principia, in the direction of the plain and the Gothic horde. ‘Perhaps the same motive as the Viper himself once had. To unite the tribes and march upon the empire.’

  Fritigern looked to the door, and for a moment, Pavo was sure the iudex’s eyes grew a little wider as he mulled over the possibility. Then, in a heartbeat, Fritigern’s face fell into a scowl and he snapped round to Gallus, thumping a fist on the table.

  ‘To suggest my people are any part of an invasion is a dangerous place to tread, Tribunus.’

  Tension crackled in the air, until Salvian sat forward. ‘This talk will not solve our immediate troubles. Perhaps if we were to start by taking stock of what supplies of grain and livestock we each have, then we could form a plan, perhaps a rationing strategy?’

  Fritigern seemed to teeter on the border of agreement. Then, finally, his shoulders dropped just a fraction and he nodded.

  Pavo watched as Gallus and Fritigern chatted. Roman scribes and workers from the horreum and their Gothic counterparts scuttled in and out on Gallus and Fritigern’s summons to confirm and correct the estimates.

  As the pair talked, Pavo tried to piece together the secret of the Viper once more. But it wasn’t long before he felt the toll of the past weeks begin to pull on his eyelids, and his weary limbs grew numb. He eyed the other veterans and saw that they, too, were flagging. He looked to the doorway, thinking of his bunk in the barracks, when the conversation caught his attention once more.

  ‘And while we are camped on this plain,’ Fritigern said, ‘I will focus all my efforts into seeing this rationing is carried out fairly. I will appoint one of my most trusted men to oversee the policing of this system . . . ’ he stretched out a hand to the hulking warrior in the shadows. ‘This man has been like a brother to me for over twenty years, and has saved my life more times than I can remember. Indeed, without him, we may well have strayed right into the Huns’ path on our way here.’

  Pavo frowned. As the warrior stepped forward, the shadows slipped from him, revealing a fine scale vest and forearms encased in leather greaves. Then the face was illuminated: long, silver hair and a beard, pointed nose, three bronze hoops dangling from one ear and a ruined eye that was a gnarled patch of scar tissue and milky matter. The figure grinned at him.

  Fritigern nodded sincerely. ‘Ivo will serve our alliance well.’

  Chapter 13

  The beetling walls of Antioch shimmered in the late morning sunshine, merging into the terracotta infinity of Syria. Stood on the battlements, Emperor Valens sighed. Under his snow-white fringe, his sharp blue eyes examined the land to the east. Trade caravans speckled the sandy paths leading from the city to the banks of the River Orontes. His gaze passed along the precious waterway that spliced the land, its surface dotted with cogs and imperial galleys, drifting lazily to their destinations. Then his eyes narrowed on the hazy line where sand met sky and remained there for some time.

  Reassured by the emptiness of the horizon, he turned to stroll along the battlements. While the centre of the city was abuzz with the usual activity of market day, the legionaries manning the walls were silent and pensive. They knew what lay beyond the horizon, in the eastern deserts. Each of them wore the lightest of linen tunics under their scale vests, skin glistening with sweat in the temperate climate, saluting promptly as he passed.

  Wintering in the east would be a pleasant affair, he mused, breathing the warm air in through his nostrils, but for the looming threat of Shapur’s seemingly infinite, well equipped and well-drilled armies. The Persian King’s advances into Roman Armenia had drawn the empire’s every resource to the eastern frontiers: grain, artillery, craftsmen and most importantly every available comitatenses legion either side of Constantinople. And he, as emperor, had neither seen the capital nor set foot west of Constantinople since the summer, and it looked certain that he would not see it for several summers more. He paused, gazing out to the east once more. Come on, mighty Shapur, make your move. Break me or break against me, before my empire crumbles behind me!

  Every night so far he had wakened while all else was still, troubled by the imminent danger he had left behind in the distant Danubian borderlands. Due to the empty imperial coffers, the Moesian fleet had been effectively decommissioned, now numbering a token set of just eight biremes patrolling the river while the rest lay rotting in a pontoon bridge near Durostorum. Added to that the already poorly equipped border legions had been forced to forgo their yearly resupply of armour, arms and clothing. And their numbers had never been fully replenished since the erosive mission to the Kingdom of Bosporus. The great western river itself now presented more of a barrier to the Goths than the Roman defences did. All it would take was for one concerted push.

  Despite the heat, he felt a shiver dance across his skin.

  Then footsteps thudded up the stone steps behind him, shaking him from his memories. He spun to see a sweating, emaciated man hobbling up towards him. Like birds of prey, two white-robed candidati, Valens’ loyal bodyguards, sprinted nimbly to shield their emperor, clutching their sword hilts. But, on seeing the sorry state of the man – his hands and thighs bleeding from a long journey on horseback most probably – Valens raised a hand, and the candidati relaxed just a fraction.

  ‘Quintus Livius Ennius of the Cursus Publicus,’ the exhausted man panted, saluting, then he slumped to one knee and held out a scroll with a wax seal. ‘Emperor, I have sailed and rode for two weeks and have not stopped for rest in the last three days. This message comes from . . . ’ his voice trailed off nervously.

  ‘Speak!’ Valens demanded.

  The man looked up, his
face taut with fear and awe. ‘This message comes from the west, from Comes Lupicinus in Moesia. The Danubian hinterland around Durostorum and the XI Claudia fort has been breached.’

  Valens pushed past his candidati, dipping to his knees as dread gripped him. He grabbed the man by the shoulders. ‘What? How?’ He tore the scroll from the man’s grasp, the wax seal crumbling as he unfurled it. His eyes flitted to the crux of the message.

  . . . and now the majority of the Gothic tribes have united and marched upon the empire under Fritigern’s banner, ascribing the arrival of the Huns as the catalyst. Fritigern claims he still observes our truce, and offers his men as foederati in exchange for food and sanctuary. But the grain supplies are almost gone, and the limitanei ranks all along the river are equally depleted. It is only a matter of time before the Goths’ hunger turns to anger. Emperor, I implore you to provide sanction for emergency grain supplies to be delivered to the Danubian frontier. And, as a matter of equal urgency, I beseech you to send legionary support to Moesia . . .