Legionary: Viper of the North (Legionary 2)

by Doherty, Gordon

  But Pavo’s mind was elsewhere. He wondered just how far he was prepared to go to weed the truth from Senator Tarquitius. Just last night he had found the nightmare of Father replaced by one where he was drinking a cup of warm blood, draining it before gleefully asking for more. Then he had looked down to see that in his dream he wore a senatorial toga. That had been enough to waken him, panting, bathed in sweat.

  He shook his head of the memory and cast a glance across the plain to the dark outline of the Durostorum. At this, another cloud was quick to settle over his thoughts. They had visited The Boar and Hollybush earlier that evening. Felicia had been there, and once again, she had been distant, distracted.

  ‘You think she’s after a bit of Quadratus?’ Sura chirped, blowing into his hands.

  Pavo’s face wrinkled and he turned to his friend.

  ‘Well she did ask more than once when he was due to patrol the Gothic camp?’ Sura shrugged. ‘I’d say there was a chance she was after a bit of . . . ’ he looped one forefinger and thumb and prodded his other forefinger through it vigorously.

  ‘Did she look as if she was in that kind of mood?’ Pavo snapped.

  ‘Ach, she has a reputation . . . ’ Sura started, then stopped, seeing Pavo’s scowl.

  They walked on in silence, and Pavo thought of his bunk, praying tonight would be the night when he would fall into a dreamless sleep. The phalera tingled on his chest as if to remind him that hope was futile. He rubbed at his eyes; perhaps another night of chatting with Salvian was in the offing. They had spent many nights in these last few weeks talking and drinking watered wine while the rest of the fort slept. Conversation was always so easy with the ambassador, and offered a pleasant alternative to the nightmares. Pavo felt the beginnings of a smile lift his lips.

  Then a high-pitched scream and angered voices rang out from a nearby cluster of tents.

  Pavo looked to Sura and Sura stared back.

  The Viper? Sura mouthed silently.

  Then, without another word of deliberation, the pair clasped their hands to their scabbards and ran to the noise, their mail vests chinking.

  From the corner of his eye, Pavo saw tent flaps ripple, Gothic heads poking out, frowning.

  ‘Every Goth in the camp must have heard that scream,’ Sura hissed as they ran.

  Then they stopped, mouths agape at the scene before them, lit by the dancing orange of a campfire. This was not the work of the Viper.

  A golden haired Gothic lady, ageing but still beautiful, cowered in the centre of a circle of eight legionaries. She whimpered, holding a hand to her face, unable to stem the flow of blood where her teeth had been knocked out. The legionaries were scale-vested comitatenses and carried blue shields; Lupicinus’ men. They had their spears levelled, keeping at bay a pack of five Gothic men, all of the same family going by their hair and features.

  Then the lead legionary kicked a dark piece of matter, clearly crawling with maggots, towards the woman. ‘You got your meat, now eat it, before it rots!’

  Pavo recognised the voice instantly; it was Ursus, the snub-nosed and scowling ringleader of the group accused of raping the Goth noble’s wife. Ursus rubbed at his knuckles, red with the woman’s blood. The rest of the men were those of Ursus’ contubernium, and they wore the same sneers of malice.

  A wave of ire and nausea swept over Pavo as he eyed the scene, and his mind echoed with Salvian’s words. There are occasions when brute force is the order of the day.

  ‘What in Hades is going on here?’ He roared.

  Ursus stopped, then turned to Pavo as if he had just punctured his wineskin. ‘You’ve got no business here, limitanei. Move on.’

  Pavo and Sura stepped forward together. ‘Aye, but we do. This is our plain, our fort, our town,’ Pavo growled. ‘And these are our allies.’

  Ursus snorted. ‘Our allies? They’re dirty, stinking, barbarian whoresons. Legionaries like you pair of pussies are the reason we are in this state in the first place. The whole of the Claudia are just the same.’ His cronies rumbled in laughter at this. ‘Now be on your way or you’ll be sorry.’

  Pavo laughed a mirthless laugh, feeling his heart thunder. ‘No, you’ll tell us what you’re doing.’

  Sura clasped his spatha hilt and added; ‘Or believe me, you’ll be sorry.’

  Just then, one of the male Goths with striking green eyes stooped to pick up the rotting piece of meat and held it out. ‘We begged and begged them for food. Grain, flour, barley, anything that would fill our children’s bellies. They said they’d provide more boar meat, but only if we gave up . . . ’ the man’s words were interrupted by a howl from the cowering woman, ‘ . . . only if we gave up our eldest child for the slave market. We gave up our boy, knowing that we would buy him back one day when all this is over. I haven’t cried so hard in all my life, Roman, as I did on the day they took him away.’ The man’s eyes were glassy and his expression lost, then it curled up into sheer hatred, and he hurled the stinking, maggot-infested meat onto the snow. ‘Then they brought us this; foul scraps of dog meat. And we are but one family of many that these whoresons have destroyed.’

  Pavo gawped at Ursus and the contubernium. ‘Have you lost your minds?’

  ‘Are you trying to spark an uprising?’ Sura added.

  ‘Watch your mouth,’ Ursus spat back.

  Pavo’s blood iced as he noticed from the corner of his eye a crowd of Goths emerging from the darkness, agitated, many armed. There were at least fifty of them. ‘Ursus, we can arm wrestle later, but for your own sake leave, get back to the fort.’

  Ursus’ grimace faded when he noticed the ring of Goths that grew around them. ‘I have nothing to fear from these animals,’ he swept his sword derisively at the gathering Goths. ‘You barbarian dogs can scurry back inside your tents!’

  Then, one Gothic boy leapt forward from the ring to grapple at the injured woman’s shoulders in an attempt to hoist her clear of the Romans. Ursus instinctively swept his spatha down. The boy toppled to the ground, his head cleaved at the crown, grey mush dribbling from the wound. Ursus looked up and round, his eyes wide in panic. ‘I thought he was coming at me with a blade!’

  A silence hung in the air. Then a jagged Gothic cry rang out.

  ‘Kill them!’

  ‘No!’ Pavo roared, but his words were lost in the tumult as the crowd of Goths fell upon the contubernium. He and Sura tried to claw the Goths back, but were pushed away. At the centre of the circle, spears, axes and swords were battered down on Ursus’ contubernium again and again, the thud of shattering shields ringing out. Then, when the Roman shields were ruined, the punch of ripping meat and the crunch of snapping bone filled the air, accompanied by the final screams of Ursus and his men.

  Then, without warning, a pair of Gothic warriors grasped Pavo and Sura, pulling them back from the incident. One of the Gothic pair hissed in Pavo’s ear. ‘Thank your Mithras that you have shown some valour today, Roman, otherwise you would have met the same fate.’

  Pavo shrugged free of the man’s grasp.

  Then a voice split the air. ‘Cease! By God and Mithras, cease!’

  Pavo twisted round. Out of the darkness, Gallus, Lupicinus, Fritigern and Salvian emerged, side by side on horseback. Either side of them, the first century of the XI Claudia formed a line: Felix leading them and Quadratus, Zosimus and Avitus flanking them on the right. The legionaries edged forward, shields and swords ready, their crested helmets jutting forward like fangs. Pavo and Sura fell back to join them.

  Fritigern heeled his mount forward and the Gothic circle parted immediately. ‘What have you done?’ He cried, seeing the sop of gristle and blood that was once Ursus and his men. ‘Comes, Tribunus,’ he called back to Lupicinus and Gallus, ‘You must believe I had no wish for this!’ Then he turned back to his people. ‘You have been warned!’ He roared at them. ‘You will pay for this.’

  The Goths looked back with stunned faces, and more and more flooded to the scene. Then one Goth shouted back. ‘
We have paid dearly as it is, Iudex Fritigern.’ It was the green-eyed Goth who had spoken to Pavo. ‘They have sold our children into slavery and mocked us by giving us rotten dog meat.’ At this, hundreds of voices chorused in agreement.

  Fritigern’s face changed at that moment from panic to disgust. The Gothic Iudex twisted in his saddle and shot a burning glare at Lupicinus. ‘Is this true?’

  Lupicinus’ lips trembled wordlessly, his tongue stabbing out to dampen them, his eyes darting around the gathering Goths.

  Then Fritigern looked to Gallus, exasperated, his arms out wide. ‘Tribunus?’

  Gallus’ nose wrinkled at the claims and he shot a fiery glare towards Lupicinus. ‘It appears so, Iudex Fritigern. But clearly, like you, I had no knowledge of these men’s intentions before their deeds were done.’

  Fritigern looked from Gallus to his people, once, twice, then again. He panted through gritted teeth, his fiery locks whipping over his wrathful eyes, and pointed a shaking finger at Gallus and Lupicinus. ‘You cannot hide behind ignorance much longer, Romans.’

  At this, the Goths rallied in a cry of support; thousands of them had now gathered, swelling around the first century. Fritigern seemed to flinch as he realised the effect of his words, and he turned to address his people, hands raised in a calming gesture. ‘Turn your minds from trouble, my people.’

  ‘Trouble is all around us!’ One voice roared back.

  ‘You will obey your iudex!’ Fritigern roared in riposte.

  ‘Then give us food! Give us food and we will follow you! Otherwise, step aside and let us fight for our lives!’ Another lone voice cried out. At this, a thousand more voices agreed. Then, with a rasp of iron, a thousand longswords were drawn and then held overhead.

  ‘Oh bollocks,’ Sura hissed, seeing Fritigern’s face fall, and Gallus’ arm rise to give the order to ready shields. ‘This is it!’

  Pavo readied to draw his spatha. ‘I’ve got your flank, brother.’

  But then a rumble of hooves grew from the south of the camp, accompanied by a cry. The Romans and Goths hesitated, turning to the south to scrutinise the two riders who thundered towards the confrontation.

  Senator Tarquitius rode at the fore, clutching a scroll, and Ivo followed close behind. ‘Emperor Valens has sent word! We have grain, we have plenty grain!’

  At this, the Goths lowered their swords and their roar died. All eyes fell upon the senator.

  Quadratus and Avitus broke from the Roman line, stalking over to Tarquitius, the little optio grabbing at the senator’s sleeve. ‘Ennius the rider, he made it back? The man’s got a knack for timing!’

  Tarquitius avoided his gaze. ‘The emperor’s orders are here, and that’s what matters.’ With that, the senator unfurled the scroll and Fritigern and the gathered Goths hushed to hear as he puffed out his chest to read aloud.

  As Tarquitius let the first few words from the scroll spill from his lips, Gallus noticed something; Erwin the Goth stood, face pinched in hatred. His gaze was fixed not on the senator, not on Fritigern, but on Ivo.

  Gallus’ breath stilled as he looked to Fritigern’s giant aide; Ivo’s good eye sparkled under his brow, and an inappropriate, shark-like grin curled under his arrowhead nose as the scroll was read aloud. A cool dread gripped Gallus’ heart as he looked to the broken wax seal on the parchment. He remembered how easily Quadratus and Avitus had forged the outgoing scroll. He glanced to Ivo again. What if . . . He leaned over in his saddle towards Tarquitius. ‘Senator . . . stop,’ he hissed.

  But Tarquitius was in full flow and his voice filled the air.

  ‘. . . and while military support may be some distance away, an imperial reserve of grain is available for just this eventuality, just a short distance south of Durostorum . . . ’

  Gallus’ hopes were momentarily lifted. Perhaps his fears were unfounded. If the grain could be gathered up from the southern towns and brought back to this plain then there was a chance that the Goths could be placated. Keeping them on this plain was vital.

  But Tarquitius’ next words chilled him to his core.

  ‘ . . . Iudex Fritigern and the Thervingi will find grain at Marcianople, and should proceed to the city. No Goth or Roman will starve as long as . . .’

  At this, the Goths cried out joyously, drowning out the rest of the message. Ivo, however, did not so much as blink.

  Gallus stared at the giant warrior and then at the senator. There was no imperial grain reserve left in Marcianople. He knew this because he had requisitioned the last of it some months ago to fill the empty horrea of Durostorum and the fort. More, there was no way Emperor Valens would invite the Goths to march south. He looked up to see Ivo ride over to Fritigern, then whisper in his ear, gesticulating to the south, urging and prompting the iudex as always.

  But this time it took little effort, for Fritigern’s features were tinged with the same glow of hope as his people. The Gothic Iudex heeled his mount round to face his people, then swept a hand to the south.

  ‘Wake all in the camp, tell them Rome has promised us salvation. We will march with haste!’ Fritigern cried. ‘Cavalry: form up at the head and ride at full gallop. My infantry and archers, you will accompany the families and what animals we have left. The sooner we reach this city the sooner we are saved, as by the emperor’s solemn promise.’

  Gallus tried to heel his mount towards the iudex, to correct him, to quell his expectation. But he and the first century were blocked by a surge of Gothic bodies; the cavalrymen rushed for their mounts and the people broke away from the scene of the standoff, hurrying back to their tents to douse their fires, tear down tents, collect their belongings and ready their wagons. Gallus felt control spinning away from him. He glanced to Lupicinus; the comes gawped at the goings-on with the expression of a boy lost in a busy city street.

  ‘Marcianople? That can’t be right,’ Felix stammered over the rabble, ‘The horrea of the city were near empty the last I heard.’

  Gallus eyed him gravely, shaking his head. ‘Not a grain left in them, Felix.’

  Quadratus’ face fell. ‘Fritigern will snap if he gets to Marcianople and there is no grain.’

  Salvian sidled up next to them, watching Fritigern and Ivo at the head of the Gothic exodus. ‘Do the people of this city know what is coming for them?’

  Gallus spoke in a hiss; ‘The gates of Marcianople will be closed when Fritigern arrives there. When this happens, I can only pray Fritigern’s wisdom and dislike of fighting against city walls still holds true. But I fear that his thoughts will be twisted towards conflict by the man who rides by his side.’

  Salvian’s brow wrinkled, following Gallus’ gaze to the front of the Gothic migration. ‘You suspect Ivo, Tribunus?’

  Gallus nodded, then drew his icy gaze around the gathered legionaries. ‘Ivo is no aide of Fritigern or ally of Rome. He knew what was on that scroll before it was read.’ He cast a foul glare at Tarquitius, who avoided eye contact. ‘Every misfortune that has occurred in these last months has pushed Fritigern’s people towards this; the arrival of the Huns, the tyranny of the rebel riders and their leader, the Viper – that shadowy creature who remains unseen yet seems to be ever-present in all of this like a vile stench – and then the ruination of the Goths’ food supplies. It has been a blessing that, despite this litany of disasters, Iudex Fritigern has held good to the truce until now . . . but that scroll has just pushed us to the brink of war!’

  Gallus twisted to Ivo. ‘Senator!’ He barked. ‘I can only hope that there is record of Ennius the rider bringing that scroll into the fort.’

  Tarquitius’ features blanched and his jowls quivered. ‘I . . . ’

  ‘Don’t test me, you fat fool!’ Gallus roared over the snowstorm. ‘Where did the scroll come from?’

  ‘It came from the rider . . . ’ Tarquitius stammered, ‘ . . . I think.’

  ‘Who handed it to you?’ Gallus pinned him with a glare, heeling his mount over to Tarquitius and grappling the neck of the senato
r’s robes, yanking him from his saddle so they were nose to nose.

  ‘Ivo. He brought it straight from the rider and then the rider made haste to Constantinople. Ivo thought that haste was imperative and so came straight to me,’ Tarquitius lied, his eyes darting wildly over Gallus’ enraged features. ‘So there will be no record of Ennius the rider’s arrival at the fort.’

  Gallus snorted, shoving the senator away again. ‘Then we are to believe that the words on a scroll delivered by a Goth are those of our emperor? This is a nonsense – we must ride Ivo down and take him from Fritigern’s side!’

  Salvian placed a hand on the tribunus’ forearm. ‘Be wary, Tribunus – we are on the brink of war. Remember, we need proof!’

  Gallus closed his eyes, his shoulders heaving as he took in a series of calming breaths. ‘Then we must shadow Ivo’s every move,’ he spoke at last. With that he heeled his mount into a turn and barked at the watching legionaries. ‘Form up the legion; we march south immediately!’