As Fritigern eyed the two armies, a tense silence crackled in the air.
Then Ivo heeled his mount into a canter and halted between the three armies.
‘Feel the sun on your skins, my people!’ He roared out. ‘For today is a great day. Today we see, at long last, the unification of the tribes. Armies will flock to our cause. Iudex Fritigern will lead us to greatness!’
A murmur broke out across the ranks, some of Fritigern’s men started to cheer. Then all eyes fell upon the iudex.
Fritigern felt the weight of expectation like an anvil on his shoulders. There was no turning back now, he realised, steeling himself. He drew his longsword, held it aloft and addressed his followers;
‘We cannot allow this moment to pass us by. We stand by our common enemy’s artery. Our blades are sharp. Let us cut through it with all our combined might!’
Then Ivo punched the air. ‘Let the blood of the Romans flow under our feet like the Mother River. The time has come!’
To a man, the Goths roared like lions and the earth shook beneath them.
Pavo ducked back from the ridge, his heart pounding, his skin rippling at the tumultuous roar. Was this really happening? Had the thin air and the mist played tricks on his senses? He glanced up again, over the lip of the ridge. No, it was all real; Goths innumerable cried out in fervour as Fritigern and Ivo stood amidst the three united armies. But there was another figure, mounted and flitting between the masses of spears being punched into the air. Pavo’s skin crawled; was it the hooded, green cloaked rider from the plain? He blinked and rubbed his eyes, and the rider was gone, consumed in the sea of warriors . . . or perhaps never there in the first place? He turned away from the ridge, flushing the thoughts from his mind.
Lying flat beside him, Gallus punched a balled fist into the grass. ‘Whoresons!’
All along the line of legionaries, similar muted curses and laments rang out.
The handful – just over thirty – who had survived these last few weeks since the sack of Marcianople had tracked the Gothic column vigilantly. They had stalked along the ridges of the foothills, hidden in dells, slept in caves, melted into the forests as though they were the barbarians, waiting on the moment, the sliver of opportunity when they could get at Ivo. In all that time, hope had ebbed on an almost daily basis as they had passed burnt-out forts, razed settlements and scorched lands. Now it all appeared to be for nothing.
‘It’s over,’ Sura said, his tone that of a lost child. ‘The Goths have won.’
Pavo ran his fingers across his scalp, his dark locks curling and his beard thick after so many weeks without shaving. ‘And we didn’t even get a chance to fight them properly.’
Felix gathered the group together, then turned to Gallus. ‘We need a new strategy, sir,’ the primus pilus’ voice was steady, but his eyes urgently searched the tribunus for a response.
Gallus looked across his weary band of men. ‘No, we still have a chance. You all saw how cold Fritigern was with the Greuthingi Iudexes and the renegade legionaries; it was Ivo who bound them together and brought that cheer from their armies. The strategy still holds good. Until a viable alternative becomes apparent, we must stay honed on getting to Ivo.’
‘We need hope,’ a lone voice spoke up.
Pavo turned with the rest to the voice. It was Crito. The veteran had become withdrawn in the weeks since Marcianople, and was surely a portent of where the morale of the rest would be headed.
‘I’ll stick with the plan, to the last,’ he spoke steadily, ‘but I fear the last is not too far away. That’s what I mean, when I say we need hope. Something has to go our way.’
Pavo felt for the man, and his words seemed to resonate around the group as some heads nodded, some went down, and shoulders sagged. He turned to Gallus, but even the iron tribunus was struggling to find the words of inspiration Crito sought.
Then, the ground rumbled with the thundering of hooves, approaching fast from the misty lowlands behind them.
Instinctively, the thirty spun away from the ridge and the meeting of the Goths. They snatched their spathas from their scabbards and leapt to readiness, eyes wide as they scrutinised the misty curtain down the hill. Gallus signalled frantically but in silence for the thirty to gather together as a square.
Pavo stumbled into position on the front line, Sura pushing up beside him. The pair only had a single shield to share between them, and barely half the front presented spears. Mutterings of despair started across the Romans as they waited on the Goths to burst from the mist.
‘Been a pleasure fighting alongside you,’ Sura said.
‘Aye, likewise,’ Pavo replied.
‘Cut out the chit-chat, you couple of bum-boys,’ Zosimus cut in abruptly, ‘and get ready to fight as I taught you!’
A panicky chuckle spread across the line and then the group fell silent, and then braced as a shape burst from the fog.
‘Mithras on wine!’ Zosimus gasped, his mouth falling agape.
Pavo’s eyes bulged at the sight.
A turma of thirty Roman equites rode in a wedge on fine, muscular mounts. But the lead rider was mounted on the finest of them all as he trotted forward to examine the thirty. The man’s jaw was broad and speckled with grey stubble, his nose narrow and hooked and his skin sun-darkened. He was no renegade Goth – this man was Roman through and through.
Gallus stepped forward and saluted. ‘Manius Atius Gallus, Tribunus of the XI Claudia Pia Fidelis.’
‘Appius Velius Traianus, Magister Militum Per Orientalis,’ the man replied with a salute. ‘Now tell me, Gallus, what in Hades has happened here?’
The Roman cavalry turma and the straggle of legionaries spilled down a shrub-coated hillside into the dell, where a trickling stream would make a fine and secluded site for rest and refreshment.
Traianus sighed, flexing his grip on the mount’s reins, his chest tightening as he tried to take stock of the sorry state of affairs. Every town, city and fort from the Danubius to Marcianople had been razed or was braced for such an assault. The limitanei legions were in disarray and he and his cavalry had encountered ragged bands like this dotted all across the countryside. But this band was different; they were not fleeing south. It had come as no surprise to him that these thirty were led by the fastidious Tribunus Gallus. Valens had warned him of a selection of unworthy dogs who held sway in the limitanei, but had described Gallus in stark contrast as a pithy and iron-hearted man who would fight until his heart burst. Indeed, Gallus was insistent that they should stay close to the main Gothic horde, despite Traianus’ plans to withdraw to the south.
‘We cannot fall back,’ Gallus insisted again, marching ahead of his straggle of soldiers to draw level with Traianus’ mount. ‘We are on the cusp of bringing down the man who has orchestrated all of this!’
Traianus’ eyes narrowed at this. The chatter since they had stumbled across Gallus and his men that morning had been swift and chaotic, but he had heard a name mentioned several times now.
And he longed for it not to be true.
‘This Ivo . . . you say he was behind the rebel uprisings in Fritigern’s lands, and now he rides at the head of the united Gothic army?’
Gallus nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’
A cold shiver danced up Traianus’ spine. It is him, it has to be. ‘Describe him to me.’
‘Three hoops in his ear, a nose like an arrowhead and . . . ’ Gallus started, then touched one hand to his eye.
‘. . . one ruined eye, milky and scarred?’ Traianus finished for him.
Gallus’ eyes widened. ‘Then you know of him?’
Traianus nodded. ‘I do. I once crossed swords with the man.’
Gallus frowned. ‘If you know of Ivo, you must surely know of the Viper?’
Traianus nodded. ‘Iudex Anzo was a callous whoreson, Tribunus. Yes, he lived for this to happen: to see the tribes united and the empire cowering before them.’
Gallus lowered his voice to barely a whisper; ‘You speak
of him in the past tense, sir? I have heard much rumour and legend about his death, long ago. But something needles at my thoughts. What if . . . ’
Traianus shook his head. ‘I saw Iudex Anzo die on a wharf in Constantinople, Tribunus; an arrow ripped out his throat and he bled his last on the flagstones, twenty-five years ago. And on that day, Ivo swore to see out his slain master’s destiny.’
Gallus’ gaze fell to the ground, eyes darting as if to make sense of it all.
Traianus leaned in closer as the legionaries began setting up a perimeter around the dell for their camp. ‘Do not dwell on whatever smoke and myth Ivo has blown up to cover his tracks. Know only this; a relief column is on the way.’
Gallus looked back, eyes burning, eager.
‘Three full legions of comitatenses and one of limitanei are on their way to these foothills along with two alae of cavalry. They move northwards as we speak. Used wisely, they could tip the balance. Your determination to hunt down Ivo is admirable, Tribunus. But tomorrow, at dawn, we must withdraw to rendezvous with our army.’
‘And these men you see here today will fight at their head, sir,’ Gallus replied evenly, hiding his frustration well. With that, the tribunus turned and strode around the dell, barking orders at his legionaries.
Traianus allowed himself a wry smile at this iron-skinned soldier’s fortitude. Then he looked to the horizon again. His mind replayed those last moments of the wharf on that blood-soaked summer day, all those years ago. Gallus’ words of doubt prickled at his thoughts.
Could a shade come back to life, he wondered?
Chapter 20
‘Wake up!’ A gruff voice pierced the air.
Pavo grunted, pulling his cloak tighter to keep in the warmth.
‘Ivo is within our grasp!’ The voice continued.
Pavo sat bolt upright, as did the rest of the legionaries in the ditch and palisade encampment, blinking sleep from their eyes, squinting at the halo of sun creeping over the horizon.
Crito and Noster were standing in their midst, having been on scouting duty overnight.
‘Is it true?’ Traianus asked, a frown wrinkling his forehead.
Crito nodded excitedly, his gruff veneer dropping for once. ‘We stole past their sentries, to the tip of the Gothic camp; Ivo was there.’
Noster nodded hurriedly. ‘We overheard him talking by their campfire.’
Crito scowled at the interruption, then continued. ‘Ivo will be riding, later this afternoon, alone! Well, he and a small clutch of riders are to go hunting in the woods just northeast of here. They talked of visiting a gully where deer can be cornered and slain.’
Gallus stepped forward. ‘You are certain that they will be separated enough from the main body of the Goths?’
Crito nodded. ‘We heard it all; Fritigern is keen to press south, while Ivo hunts.’
‘Then we have our opportunity,’ Gallus looked to Traianus, ‘we cannot pass it up.’
All eyes fell on the magister militum as he hesitated. Then finally, he nodded.
Gallus’ chest swelled at this and he turned to the legionaries and riders. ‘Let’s make it count. We eat and then we pack up. Be ready to march by the time the sun’s fully up.’
The group of legionaries – starved of decisive action for weeks – cheered at this and the equites joined in. Then the men set to work; some kindling fires to cook breakfast, others saddling the mounts and gathering their arms and armour.
Pavo dropped a handful of millet grain into his cooking pot, then added a splash of water from his skin. All around him the legionaries bantered in nervous excitement. This was his chance to avenge the murder of Salvian and all the Roman citizens, to avenge the slaying of Tarquitius and the loss of that one last truth about his father. But something felt wrong.
The phalera medallion tingled on his chest, and he could not help but recall the dream where it had burned on his skin; the cave; the dead thing.
The afternoon sky over the Moesian foothills had greyed and a fine rain began to drift down over a red-earth gully. It was humid, and a whiff of damp vegetation hung in the air. All was sedate in the gully but for darting rabbits, grazing deer and swifts circling overhead. Then, like an asp, a column of legionaries emerged silently from the nearby trees.
Gallus led the column while Pavo and Sura followed, some four ranks back. Those who still possessed helmets, shields and armour had left that equipment back in the dell, choosing to wear only linen tunics, boots and swordbelts.
Pavo’s breath stilled as, suddenly, Gallus slowed, raising one hand to halt the column and placing the other on the grass. They all felt it at that moment, the distant vibrations of approaching cavalry. ‘Down!’ Gallus hissed over his shoulder.
As if playing dead, the column collapsed to their bellies on the lip of the gully, eyes peering through the grass, down into the red-earth bowl. It was empty, and there was only one level path in or out – an earth walled corridor pierced with gnarled tree roots.
Pavo looked across to the far side, but the opposite lip was deserted. Traianus and his riders were supposed to be there to complete the trap. ‘Where are they?’ He whispered to Sura.
‘Something’s wrong,’ Sura whispered beside him. ‘I can feel it too.’
Then the sound of hooves grew, echoing through the bowl of the gully. It sounded like every last Thervingi rider was coming towards them. Pavo sunk even lower in the grass, eyes fixed on the entrance corridor as the cool rain soaked his face.
Then, muted gasps were snatched back into mouths as four terrified doe raced into the gully, one with an arrow trembling in its bloodstained flanks. Then a foreign roar filled the air and Roman hearts froze.
‘Ya!’ A jagged voice cried.
The lead rider came into view first; a Goth wearing a red leather tunic with a thick beard and blonde hair flowing loose. Still moving at a gallop, the rider winked as he stretched his bow and then loosed. With a twang, the arrow zipped through the air and ripped into the wounded doe’s throat. The animal fell, hooves thrashing, blood bubbling from the wound.
Three more riders followed the archer into the gully. Ivo was the last to enter, his grey hair scooped back into a topknot, his good eye sweeping around the basin and his bronze earrings and scale vest glinting.
Pavo’s eyes hung on the vest. He frowned. It reminded him of something. Like the scales of a snake. Images of the dream came to him again, and he searched for meaning.
‘Four . . . five.’ Sura whispered beside him. ‘There are only five of them!’
They watched as Ivo slid from his horse, taking up the bow from his saddle and training his sights on a terrified fawn that skipped around its mother’s corpse. The grizzled warrior loosed his arrow and then roared, punching the air in delight as the fawn’s body crumpled, its ribs shattered and its heart ruptured by the shaft. The Goths gathered up their kills, then struck up a campfire, before skinning the largest of the deer, splicing it on a spit to roast.
Gallus stared down shufflings of impatience from the legionaries, all the while darting glances to the far side of the gully; still empty. ‘We wait for the magister militum!’ The tribunus hissed.
Ivo circled the campfire, patting his men on the shoulder. Then the giant warrior carved off four slabs of meat from the animal’s haunches, handing a slice to each of them.
‘Taste the flesh, taste its sweetness, its succulence,’ he enthused. ‘Satiate your hunger on it as if it were the very corpse of the empire. For now is the time to reap the rewards for your loyalty.’ As the giant warrior spoke, he slowly untied his arm greaves.
‘This is it,’ Pavo whispered to Sura, eyes fixed on Ivo as the segments of leather armour fell to the ground. There it was, as stark as daylight; upon each of his forearms, a blue, winding snake stigma curled around his flesh.
‘The Viper!’ Sura hissed. The phrase echoed along the line of watching legionaries.
But then Ivo drew his sword and held it aloft. ‘My master and I have drawn the
disparate Gothic tribes together, blending them like ore in a furnace.’
My master? Pavo’s brow wrinkled. He shared an anxious frown with Sura and Gallus.
Down below, the Goths nodded in approval, all apart from the bearded one. Ivo continued; ‘Neither Fritigern, Alatheus, Saphrax nor Athanaric for that matter, is strong enough to seize destiny alone. Thus they will be driven through Roman lands like war dogs. When they have served their purpose, they will be knocked from their thrones by the Viper, my master, the rightful iudex! Then we will be invincible!’
Legionary: Viper of the North (Legionary 2) Page 31