Legionary: Viper of the North (Legionary 2)

by Doherty, Gordon

  But Tarquitius’ eyes were glassy and distant. He did not hear Pavo’s words.

  Then the viper slipped around Tarquitius’ neck and its head rose up behind him, tensing, broadening. Its jaw dislocated and stretched wide, fangs bared and dripping venom, throat gaping, ready to devour. Yet Tarquitius was oblivious to this.

  ‘Senator!’ Pavo stumbled back, horrified. The snake readied to sink its fangs into Tarquitius’ skull. The man would die and the truth would die with him.

  Suddenly, Pavo felt the weight of a spatha in his hand. At once, he hefted the blade towards the creature, but the snake slipped free of the senator at the last moment. With a punch of ripping meat, the blade scythed halfway through Senator Tarquitius’ neck. Blood pumped from the wound like an ocean, flooding the sands until Tarquitius’ body was shrivelled and shrunken to the size of a peach stone. Pavo stared, repulsed at the sight. Then he saw the tip of the viper’s tail slip under the sand.

  The first stinging grains of the sandstorm danced against his face, and Pavo remembered where he was. He shot his gaze back to the nearby dune, looking for Father.

  But the dune was empty. Father was gone.

  Pavo’s thoughts raced. Then he filled his lungs and clasped the phalera.

  ‘If there is a truth about you that I must know, then I will find it!’ He cried out over the empty dunes.

  Pavo blinked, realising he was sitting bolt upright, slick with sweat. The candle had burnt out, and it was still dark outside. He rubbed at his temples as the angst of the nightmare slipped away. Then he sighed at the sight of Sura in the nearby cot, snoring like a boar, as if tomorrow was just another day. Apart from Sura, the tent was empty; evidently many of the legionaries had found sleep hard to come by. He lay back in his cot, determined to sleep again.

  It seems the Viper is even infiltrating my nightmares, he stifled a wry chuckle as he shuffled into a more comfortable position. As he did so, his drowsy gaze fell upon a shadowy shape by the tent flap. Did it just move? He rubbed his eyes, sure it was just the residue of sleep in his mind. But his nightmares swirled with all that had happened in these last months: the Viper’s riders, embedded within Fritigern’s horde, operating under cover of night, slipping into Goth and Roman tents to slit throats and pillage grain.

  Then the shape glided forward like a shade, cloaked and hooded. Panic gripped Pavo’s every sinew.

  Was this the Viper himself? The hooded shade in the green cloak, the one who plots the end for all Rome?

  Pavo scrambled backwards from his cot, clawing out for his spatha and hopping up to standing, pointing the blade at the figure. Then he smelt a sweet, floral scent, saw the slender shoulders and curve of hips. He hesitated, sword in hand.

  ‘I was going to surprise you by slipping into your cot,’ Felicia whispered, stepping into a patch of dull torchlight from outside and lowering her hood. Then she let the cloak fall from her shoulders and her amber locks tumbled down her back and chest. She wore a close-fitting blue tunic and brown leggings. ‘I thought you might be pleased to see me, but not this pleased.’

  Pavo frowned then blushed, realising that he held the spatha hilt near his groin, the tip hovering near Felicia’s breasts. ‘I . . . oh, sorry.’ Then he sheathed the sword, and a dreadful realisation crept over him. ‘Felicia, it sickened me to think you might not have got out of Durostorum safely, but this is the worst place you could have come to.’

  ‘But I am here,’ she spoke flatly. ‘I followed the column, rode alongside the wagons.’

  ‘Then I should never have taught you to ride,’ Pavo spoke in scorn, but then couldn’t resist melting into a smile when he saw her eyes sparkle in the gloom.

  ‘I think we’ve taught each other a thing or two in the last year,’ she cocked an eyebrow.

  Pavo chuckled, then composed himself, gripping her by the shoulders. ‘I’m serious, Felicia, it’s dangerous here; if grain does not come by morning, war could be upon us. The enemy are wrapped around us and Marcianople like a noose, ready to snap shut. You should head further south, to Adrianople.’

  ‘I will, when the time is right. Father is already there, looking for a place for us to stay. Yet I fear for what might happen there – the city will be like a hive in a few days and grain is surely as sparse there as anywhere else?’

  Pavo slumped to sit on his cot. ‘Aye, trouble lies in every direction, it seems.’

  Felicia sat next to him, clasping his hand in hers. ‘Perhaps we should forget about what happens next, if only for a short while?’

  Pavo saw that she eyed the empty cots around the tent with a frown. Then she checked herself and the sparkle in her eyes returned and she pouted, her lips full and soft. ‘Perhaps,’ he leaned closer.

  Then a grunt from behind broke them apart.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Sura propped himself up on one arm, squinting, a foul look on his face. ‘Felicia? What’re you doing h . . . ’ then his face fell and he sighed. He picked up his cloak and stomped for the tent flap. ‘I’ll be outside.’

  Pavo smirked at this. Payback, he reckoned, considering the number of times he had spent the night trudging aimlessly while his friend ‘entertained’ the local women of Durostorum.

  Felicia pulled him back to her.

  He held a hand to her shoulders. ‘Just promise me that you will ride from here, before dawn.’

  She glanced again to the empty cots, eyes narrowing. ‘I promise.’

  With that their lips pressed together. They kissed hungrily and Pavo smoothed his hands over her curves, cupping her breasts, caressing her buttocks. It had been so long since they had been together like this. She pulled off her tunic and leggings and Pavo slid off his tunic. In the dim light, they pressed together, then fell back in a tangle of lust.

  Gunter the horseman sucked in a breath of fresh night air and looked back to the orange glow emanating from the Roman port-citadel of Odessus. The wall guard had braced in alarm at the sight of his Gothic riders approaching, their bows stretched, ready to unleash on the foreign cavalrymen. Fortunately, the escort of Roman equites sagittarii cavalrymen had raced to the front to explain that they were friendly. And so, despite stubborn resistance initially from the Roman governor, they had completed their mission and acquired the precious grain – just enough to stave off hunger and war for now.

  He thought of his wife, skeletal and feverish after weeks of starvation since their flight from Peuce Island on the Danubius delta. But she refused to eat, giving everything over to their son. Young Alaric possessed a sharp mind and was growing into a tall and powerful boy for his age. But even he was flagging after a sustained diet of boiled grass and indigestible root.

  ‘But now the famine is over!’ Gunter spoke aloud, looking up to the sky, touching a hand to the bronze Christian Chi-Rho amulet around his neck and allowing himself a smile for the first time in so long. Perhaps this religion that was spreading from the empire like wildfire was the true faith after all? At this, habit kicked in and he whispered a word of apology to Allfather Wodin.

  With that, he heeled his mount into a turn and then a gallop. His topknot swirled in his wake as he entered the forest to catch up with the train of mules and wagons. The grain sacks heaped on the beasts and vehicles had taken on a treasure-like quality, with Roman and Goth riders alike eyeing the haul with wide eyes, no doubt scenting the fresh-baked bread it would soon become.

  The forest floor was cool and damp and mercifully almost clear of snow. The pace had slowed a little due to the terrain, but so long as they pushed on, nothing could stop them reaching Marcianople before dawn. He raised his hand and punched the air as he galloped to the fore of the column, filling his lungs, ready to emit a roar of encouragement.

  But that breath stayed in his lungs.

  Up ahead, on the forest path, a figure loomed.

  A lone rider shrouded in a dark-green, hooded cloak, mounted on a jet-black stallion.

  ‘Who goes there?’ Gunter called out, squinting at the ethereal figur
e.

  The rider remained motionless, head bowed. The mount’s breath clouded in the night air.

  Gunter held up one hand, slowing the column. ‘I said, who goes there?’

  The rider’s hood shuffled, looking up. The shadow where a face should have been seemed to pierce Gunter’s armour. Then the rider raised a hand only a few inches from the reins of the mount and extended one finger. All was silent for a moment. Then the figure swiped the finger down.

  Gunter’s eyes grew wide as the treeline either side of the column rippled. He caught sight of hundreds of speartips that emerged. Then he saw the dark-green snake banner the rogue warriors carried. The Viper has come for us! His stomach fell away as he realised what was about to happen. He mouthed the first words of a prayer for his wife and little Alaric, then a cloud of arrows tore through his face, neck, thighs and arms.

  Gunter of the Thervingi slid from the saddle, the life gone from his body as it hit the ground like a sack of wet sand. All around him, screaming rang out as a wave of the Viper’s Goths sprang from the woods and clamped onto the column like wolves, longswords raised. The riders of the grain column, Romans and Goths, fought for each other in vain as the jaws of the trap slammed shut upon them.

  When the last of the felled riders’ throats had been slit, a chant broke out from the victors. ‘Vi-per! Vi-per! Vi-per!’

  The green-cloaked rider trotted forward.

  ‘Now burn the wagons, burn the bodies, burn the grain . . . let them starve . . . ’

  Then the rider raised a clenched fist and pulled on the stallion’s reins so the beast reared up.

  ‘Bring me war!’

  Pavo stirred from a second bout of sleep, blessedly nightmare free. He rubbed one leg against the other in the warm comfort of his blankets as he came to. Then, patting the other half of his cot, he realised he was alone. Felicia was gone.

  He sat up; all around him, the rest of his contubernium were present in the form of slumbering shapes under blankets. The usual chorus of rumbling emissions of gas and grating snores punctuated the stillness, Centurion Quadratus being the main culprit.

  He crept from his cot and pulled back the tent flap: it was still dark outside, though a purple band on the eastern horizon, beyond the forest, heralded the first coming of dawn. His gut shrivelled as he stepped outside, rubbing his arms at the stark chill. The grain column was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘Tomorrow is almost upon us,’ a voice spoke.

  Pavo spun round. Salvian was standing just behind him, hands clasped behind his back, dressed in a clean, high-necked tunic, woollen trousers and muddied riding boots. The ambassador’s face betrayed no fear, despite the weighty truth behind his words. ‘Are you frightened, Pavo?’

  Pavo shook his head, realising that he was not; all his ruminations had been for the safety of Felicia, for Sura, Gallus and the veterans. For Salvian. ‘I have a duty,’ he patted his scabbard. ‘And that’s not haughty talk, ambassador.’

  Salvian smiled at this. ‘You have faith in Tribunus Gallus’ plan; the grain column?’

  ‘I would march with that man until the bones in my feet crumbled,’ he replied.

  ‘That’s not an answer,’ Salvian chuckled.

  Pavo looked to Salvian. ‘Let’s just say I have come to expect the unexpected, to prepare for the worst.’ He looked to the first sliver of sun that appeared over the horizon, then turned to the ambassador with a frown. ‘You could ride from here you know, if things turn nasty. Nobody would expect an ambassador to stand and fight with the legion.’

  Salvian issued a wry half-smile. ‘I don’t run from my problems, lad, never have.’

  Pavo sighed at this, and held the ambassador’s gaze. ‘You are one of the wisest, shrewdest men I have ever known, but you should not underestimate how fast a battle can spread – it is like wildfire. I’ll be fighting at the front with Gallus and the veterans, but should we fall . . . ’

  Salvian cut him off, placing a hand on Pavo’s shoulder. ‘Your father would have been proud to know the man his son has grown to be.’

  A silence hung in the air, and Pavo felt his heart swell with pride.

  ‘Now,’ Salvian said, ‘put my safety from your mind, for Gallus has other plans for me anyway. He wants me to help organise the Roman refugees. To lead them north, back to the far side of the River Beli Lom.’

  ‘Then make haste, and I wish you safe passage,’ Pavo nodded. ‘Until we meet again.’

  The pair shared a wistful gaze and then went their separate ways.

  Pavo turned to head back to his tent, passing the centre of the Roman encampment and the silver eagle and ruby bull banner of the XI Claudia standing proudly near Gallus’ tent. Dawn would break soon and there would be one hundred thousand starving Goths expecting a delivery of grain. He mused over whether there would be any point in starting a campfire for his contubernium to cook breakfast upon, given that most of them only had quarter rations of hardtack left.

  Spotting some discarded kindling, he stooped to pick it up anyway. When he stood upright again, a cloaked, hooded figure flitted past the tents before him. The figure was tall and the cloak was . . . he froze.

  The cloak was dark-green.

  Pavo’s blood iced.

  Calm yourself! He tried to brush it off – many Goths wore green and there were a few Goths and Romans up and about already. He affirmed that it was just some residual unease from last night’s nightmare. But something wasn’t right: the movement of the figure was odd; stealthy and swift, and it stopped every so often, casting a glance this way and that, like a hunting predator.

  Pavo peered through the gap between the tents; the figure seemed to be making for the city gates. The wall guards above the main gate gazed to the eastern horizon in hope of sighting the grain column, and were oblivious as the figure crept up to the well-bolted, iron-studded gates.

  Then the figure halted at the gates and shot a glance around, the shadow where a face should have been scouring the camp for observers.

  Pavo ducked behind the tent, his heart thudding until he heard the noise of knuckles gently rapping on wood. He risked a glance up; the figure waited by the small hatch near the edge of the gate, a section about half the height of a man used to allow controlled access without opening the gates in full. Pavo frowned, then his heart froze as the hatch opened, and a hand beckoned the figure inside. As the green-cloaked figure slipped into the city, the blubbery features of Senator Tarquitius poked out of the hatch, etched with guilt and fear, snatching a glance in every direction.

  ‘You treacherous dog!’ Pavo hissed under his breath, ‘what ruin are you concocting now?’

  The hatch swung shut and he stayed behind the tent and watched, hoping for more activity, something of substance to follow up on. He suddenly felt conspicuous as the horizon changed from purple to dark orange and a few more Romans emerged from their tents. Frustrated, he pushed away from the tent and headed for his own. He glanced round once more at the walls, sure there was something more to deduce, but all was normal, sentries gazing east in silence.

  Then he saw it.

  For just the briefest of moments, the dark-green hood appeared behind the battlements, just above the gates. The sentries were oblivious to the figure’s presence, the twin gate towers blocking their view. Pavo watched as the figure wrapped its fingers over the crenellations, shaded features scanning the ground outside the gate. Pavo froze as the figure’s gaze swept past him, then stopped and darted back to him. At that moment, Pavo felt as if he was in the sights of a master archer.

  ‘Morning, sir,’ a croaky voice spoke next to him.

  Pavo started, turning to the red-eyed legionary who had shuffled from a tent nearby. It was one of the younger recruits – barely sixteen by the looks of it – from the now disbanded fifty he had led to Istrita. Pavo nodded stiffly, embarrassed and proud of the salutation at the same time. ‘Morning,’ Pavo replied. ‘Glad you’re in our ranks for what lies ahead today, soldier.’

  ‘L
ikewise, sir.’ The young lad smiled and saluted, then marched off to the latrine pits.

  Pavo’s smile faded and he spun back to the battlements. The space between the gate towers was empty. He squinted, sure he had seen someone up there. Perhaps my many nights of demi-sleep have finally caught up with me, he realised with a wry shake of the head. He walked through the Roman tent rows and turned into the one that would lead to his. He welcomed the thought of the scathing banter that would no doubt break out between the contubernia over yet another scant breakfast. It was the way the soldiers dealt with the brutal realities of their work; when you served in the limitanei, every morning could be your last, and this morning especially so. He glanced sombrely to the treeline to the east: the tip of the sun had pierced the horizon and still no sight nor sound of the grain column. And the Goths were gathering. He frowned, clutching the phalera medallion, detecting the first needles of trepidation in his gut that usually came in the hours before conflict.