Chapter 15
Dawn broke over southern Moesia, and with it came the babbling of scores of meltwater brooks. The thousand men of the XI Claudia spliced the land, marching south in an iron fin topped column towards Marcianople. Then, as the morning wore on towards noon, the snow gradually became dappled with patches of green where a thaw had begun. For the first time in months, the air was mild. But in every Roman heart, the ice had yet to thaw.
They had overtaken huge trains of Gothic women, children and elderly headed for Marcianople. But they had little hope of catching the huge sprawl of some seven thousand of Fritigern’s spearmen, miles ahead, let alone the vanguard of some three thousand Gothic riders that would already be at the city’s walls.
In the Moesian countryside all around them, Roman landworkers, slaves and estate owners stood together as one; frightened and confused by the massive horde of Goths that had swept down the Roman highway that morning, fully armed and unchecked. They called out to Gallus, Lupicinus, Salvian and Tarquitius at the head of the Roman column, pleading to be told what was happening, before rushing to join the rabble of Roman citizens in the column’s wake.
Pavo marched near the front of the third cohort, first century, alongside Sura. He cast frequent glances over his shoulder to the rear of the column where this rabble of Roman citizens followed. He prayed that Felicia and the folk of Durostorum were either in that rabble or had heeded Gallus’ hasty orders. Take word to Durostorum and the outlying towns and farms; they are to head south, to seek shelter in Thracia. The walls of Adrianople and the surrounding cities will protect them.
Pavo had scanned their faces again and again, but there was no sign of Felicia and her father in that lot.
‘She’ll be safe,’ Sura said, beside him. ‘She’s a smart one.’
Pavo gave his friend an unconvincing smile. ‘Too smart for her own good.’
Then they slowed as the column narrowed a little to filter across a fragile-looking timber bridge. The structure straddled the River Beli Lom – a narrow, twisting and deep waterway with spruce and beech thickets dotting its steep banks. Pavo frowned as he saw Gallus despatch a group of five legionaries from the head of the column to the rear, where they stopped the driver of the slow and cumbersome wagon at the tail end. He watched as the wagon slowed to a halt at the northern bridgehead, and the legionaries began unloading its contents; coils of rope and lengths of timber. The kit looked familiar, but he couldn’t quite place where he had seen it before.
Then an elbow jabbed him in the chest, and he twisted to face front again.
‘We must be near, look,’ Sura pointed to the columns of what he prayed was hearth smoke just over the rise ahead.
Pavo fixed his gaze on the plumes. His stomach shrivelled and he felt his bladder swell – the usual prelude to any battle. ‘Perhaps the ambassador can still find a diplomatic route to bring Fritigern back from the precipice?’
Sura looked up. ‘Eh? Salvian? I doubt he’ll get the opportunity. The time for talking is past.’
Pavo shook his head. ‘I’m not sure. Fritigern still has a good heart. If he can be persuaded to talk, there might be a chance.’
They marched until the rise fell away to reveal a verdant plain, frosted but mercifully snow-free. To the east, the hills tapered to reveal the distant blue waters of the Pontus Euxinus. To the west, patchwork farmland hugged the hills, punctuated by thickets of pine forest. Then the shimmering limestone hulk of Marcianople rose into view with its tall, sturdy walls and towers, and the hardy but few limitanei legionaries lining the battlements. It would have been a sight to warm any Roman heart had it not been for the swarm of thousands upon thousands of baying Goths pressing around the base of those walls.
Wrapped inside the walls, domes and red-tiled roofs jostled for space, an indication of city’s rise to prominence in recent years. The church dome towered higher than any other, a gold Chi-Rho cross extending into the clear sky. Pavo wondered if the Christianised Goths amongst those surrounding the city might hesitate upon seeing the symbol. But already, timber and vine ladders were being passed forward and leaned against the walls, reaching the battlements. The Goths were riled, just waiting on the order to fall upon the city. Before the main gate, Fritigern was mounted and as ever Ivo was by his side. The pair seemed to be berating the wall guard, gesticulating towards the high-arched and iron-studded gate, shut tight. Then, to add to their leader’s voice, a Gothic roar caused the land to shake and many of the rawer recruits to shrink, such was its ferocity. Then it fell sharply into silence, as Ivo raised his hands.
‘The empire has betrayed us!’ Ivo roared. ‘They promised us food and let us march on our last trace of strength. The Romans must be punished!’
As they neared the Goths, Pavo noticed Lupicinus and his riders slowing, dropping back down the column. He frowned, seeing the comes’ face etched with fright, knuckles white and trembling on his mount’s reins. Then Lupicinus shuffled in his saddle as if readying to . . .
‘Mithras, no!’ Pavo gasped in realisation.
Lupicinus’ blood ran cold and panic welled in his heart as he gawped at the baying Goths staining the plain, wrapped around the city like a noose. So many of them. So many sharp blades. They’re going to cut us to pieces. They will slice the flesh from my bones!
In the few battles he had fought in his time, the odds had never been this grim and he had managed to remain safely tucked into the rearmost ranks. Victory and survival had lifted him to his current post. Yet today, there would be no hiding, he realised, his limbs quivering. And his tarnished reputation would no doubt live on. The shame and ridicule from his early career would be his legacy.
At that moment he felt a surge of regret. Why had he let the bitterness of his childhood follow him through the rest of his life like a vile stench? Why oh why had he not ignored his father’s jibes and pursued a career in the senate regardless? He remembered that childhood day, on the shore outside the city of Odessus, when he had first gauged his father’s disgust at his craven nature. He had been playing happily in the sand, collecting shells and splashing in the shallows. Then, a scowling, pug-nosed boy had picked a fight with him, butting him back with the palms of his hands. Lupicinus had first felt the terror on that day; his breath short, his skin clammy and cold, his mind awash with confusion. He had looked to his father, sat nearby on the shingle, supping wine by the skinful, face red from inebriation and sun. ‘Help!’ He had cried out, reaching one hand to his father. ‘Fight back, you coward!’ Was all the help he received. The pug-nosed boy had beaten him to the ground and then rained blow after blow upon him unchecked. When at last the boy had finally grown bored and left, Lupicinus had squinted through swollen eyes, tasting the metallic tang of his own blood washing down the back of his throat. His father had stood over him, sneering, breath reeking of stale wine. ‘You’re no son of mine if you can’t fight, you coward!’
Something stung behind Lupicinus’ eyes and he felt them moisten. Then reality pushed the memories away as he heard Iudex Fritigern’s voice pierce the air.
‘Your emperor granted us access to your horreas and all the grain they hold, so you will open the gates, or we will smash them from their hinges. Do not presume that you could resist my armies. We may not possess siege engines, but I have enough men to pull your walls down by hand. And when my men fall upon your people, I can no longer be held responsible for what will happen to them.’
Lupicinus’ guts turned over at this. He realised that he and his riders were dropping back as the marching legionaries kept up the pace set by Tribunus Gallus. Then, as the column approached the rear of the Gothic swell, the warriors there turned, braced and ready for conflict, presenting a wall of spears to the Romans. Behind them were Gothic women, children and elderly; gaunt, pale and with black-ringed eyes, their usually well-groomed hair tousled and dirty. They reeked dangerously of desperation. Then, they split apart like curtains, opening up a spear-walled corridor leading to Ivo and Fritigern.
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nbsp; At the head of the column, Gallus did not hesitate, leading them into the corridor. Lupicinus and his riders were the last to enter. He could feel the baleful glares of the Goths burning on his skin and the speartips hung just an arm’s reach away on either side of him. Every muscle in his body twitched, longing to pull the reins and heel his mount into a turn and then a gallop out of the Gothic mass and far from this plain. Yes, he affirmed, my men will understand, they will ride with me. He stabbed out his tongue to dampen his lips, then glanced over his shoulder. But the faces of his men were stony. They were not for turning. In each of their eyes he saw his father roaring at him. Make your mark, you coward!
Worse, the Gothic corridor had closed up behind the column, like a predator devouring a meal. Panic rippled through him, and he shuffled in his saddle, wide-eyed. There was no going back. His heart thundered until he thought it would explode from his chest, when suddenly, an idea formed amongst the chaos in his mind.
He looked to the walls and saw safety behind the timber, iron studded gates. He filled his lungs.
‘Forward!’ He bellowed, digging his heels into his mount’s flanks and tearing his spatha from his scabbard, pointing it directly at Ivo and Fritigern. ‘Take down the leaders!’ Lupicinus roared. As he set off, his riders threw their confusion to one side and followed their comes.
And while they fight, I can reach safety, Lupicinus affirmed, before shouting up to the gatehouse. ‘Open the gates!’ Then he lowered himself in his saddle. The sea of stunned Gothic faces gawped as he hared forward. The men in the Roman column yelled out in anger and confusion, while those atop the gatehouse frowned at his calls for the gates to be opened. But they don’t understand; I’m not a soldier, I’m not meant to be here. The gates were growing closer and closer. All he had to do was swerve past Fritigern and Ivo and he was there. Surely they would open the gates for him? Inside the city he would be safe. To Hades with you, Father!
Then the iron-clad, mounted figure of Gallus swung into his path, face burning with ire. Three legionaries flanked him on either side, presenting a Roman spearwall to protect Fritigern and Ivo.
‘Halt!’ Gallus roared.
Lupicinus’ heart leapt and he reined in his mount, the beast skidding and the riders behind him toppling from their saddles. The comes’ wild gaze swept over Gallus and those flanking the tribunus. Then his eyes locked onto Pavo.
Pavo returned the stare, his top lip curling to reveal gritted teeth, his spearpoint resting by Lupicinus’ heart.
Lupicinus’ hands grew slack on the reins and his shoulders slumped. His mind drifted and his eyes grew distant.
Then a lone voice taunted him in his mind.
You coward!
Gallus raised a pleading hand to Fritigern, then trotted over to Lupicinus, grappling his wrist, shaking the sword from his grip. ‘You imbecile! You could have killed us all!’
But Lupicinus’ face was ghostly white and his gaze was far-off.
Gallus frowned. Then, finally, the comes twisted his head round to look straight through him, his lips moving but the words carried no feeling. ‘Dux Vergilius . . . will hear of your . . . insubordination.’
Gallus gripped his wrist and hissed in his ear. ‘That fat sot hears only the gurgle of wine disappearing down his throat. Here and now our actions could save the empire . . . or end it!’ He glared at Lupicinus, anticipating another retort, but the comes was lost somewhere behind his own eyes. Then, the reflection of Ivo grew in Lupicinus’ pupils.
Gallus steeled himself and turned to face the giant warrior.
‘Odd behaviour for an ally?’ Ivo sneered. ‘I feared we would have to slay you and your column in self-defence, Tribunus.’ The sea of spears and arrows poised around the scrawny Roman column creaked and rippled as if in agreement.
Gallus hesitated for a moment, then looked Ivo in the eye. ‘This was a dreadful miscalculation by my comes. Just as some of your riders broke rank when you first crossed into the empire.’ Then he turned to Fritigern. ‘I apologise unreservedly for this incident. Thanks to Mithras and Wodin that no blood was spilled.’
‘Yet the gates are shut, Tribunus. My people will still perish from hunger,’ Fritigern spoke coldly.
Gallus held the iudex’s gaze. ‘Grain will be delivered to your people.’
Fritigern frowned. ‘You will open the gates?’
Gallus shook his head.
Fritigern snorted. ‘Then don’t waste your breath, Tribunus.’ He looked around his people, then up to the walls. ‘This reeks of trickery; perhaps Rome thought she could spring some kind of trap upon my armies here, below your fine city walls?’ Fritigern spread out his arms to the surrounding countryside. ‘Well I see no reason to be fearful. My armies could shatter anything the empire was to throw at it,’ he leaned forward, wagging one finger at Gallus, ‘and you know this.’
‘It does indeed reek of trickery,’ Gallus replied, his eyes narrowing on Ivo. ‘Unfortunately, I fear both your people and mine have been tricked.’
Ivo looked back, his face expressionless.
Gallus glanced to Salvian, a few ranks back; the ambassador almost imperceptibly shook his head. One word rang in his thoughts. Proof. He suppressed a growl of frustration. To obtain proof would require time, and they had precious little of that.
‘But let us put this to one side and focus on the vital issue – your people need grain, as do mine. And I can assure you, Iudex Fritigern, that we are still bound as strongly as ever by our truce.’
‘No,’ Fritigern hissed, ‘this has gone too far. Too many concessions have been made. We came to you under truce, seeking refuge. Yet we have been subjected to rape, murder, starvation and humiliation!’
‘I beg for your patience, Iudex Fritigern. Grain could be here, in front of you, by morning,’ Gallus said, the tension tight in his voice. ‘Surely the promise of peace is worth one more night of patience?’ At this, the surrounding Goths fell silent.
‘Do not make promises you cannot fulfil, Tribunus. It will be worse for all your people in the longer term.’
Gallus looked Fritigern in the eye, his face gaunt and unsmiling. ‘I do not make false promises.’ A breeze whistled over them as they eyed one another in silence. ‘It is possible. Difficult, but possible,’ Gallus continued. ‘You would have to provide wagons and riders though, say two hundred of each. My turma of cavalry will lead your men to the settlements nearby. We could pull together enough to see us through a few more weeks.’
Fritigern made to reply, then stopped as Ivo whispered in his ear. Gallus’ eyes narrowed at this. Fritigern seemed to mull over the giant’s words for some time, before finally shaking his head, drawing a barely disguised sneer of disgust from Ivo.
The Gothic Iudex looked up, then beckoned a tall rider with topknotted locks and a decorated red leather cuirass. ‘Gunter, muster your riders.’ The rider nodded and wheeled away on his mount, then Fritigern looked back to Gallus. ‘You have until sunrise, Tribunus.’ Then he placed a hand over his heart and pointed to the Chi-Rho above the church basilica, then pointed to the wooden idol of Mithras Gallus was clasping in his hand. ‘After that, no god can help you and your empire.’
The waxing moon flitted between the scudding clouds in an otherwise pitch-black night. Mercifully, spring had taken hold of the land at last and the air was pleasant. Amidst the sea of Gothic tents and campfires surrounding Marcianople, a small, neatly aligned block of contubernium tents offered a semblance of order to the chaos of the day just passed; the XI Claudia legionaries were posted here outside the walls whilst Lupicinus and two centuries of his comitatenses had quickly volunteered to bolster the city garrison.
Inside his contubernium tent, Pavo lay stretched out on his cot. He had lain there for what felt like an eternity, studying the shadows cast by a guttering candle on the roof of the tent. He struggled to see how tomorrow could be anything other than his last day; the end of the XI Claudia and perhaps the beginning of the end of the empire? On and on his thoughts chu
rned until, almost surreptitiously, sleep crept across him. He felt the jabbering of his ruminations become distant, and his eyelids grew heavy. Then the nightmare came to him again.
‘Father?’ He called out, reaching for the hunched, tired old man before him. His heart wept at the sight. The once-proud legionary seemed to be fading before him. ‘Take my hand, before it is too late!’ He roared, glancing nervously around the peaceful dunes. The sandstorm would come any moment now, and when it did, Father would be gone again.
But this time, the sandstorm did not come.
Then Pavo realised that Tarquitius was standing by his side. The senator carried a writhing viper on his shoulders; the beast’s scales glistened as it wrapped around him, as if soothing him.
‘Senator?’ Pavo said uncertainly.
Legionary: Viper of the North (Legionary 2) Page 23