Pavo was jolted from his ruminations when a lone rider burst over the crest of the nearest foothill, red-cheeked and furious, galloping on a white gelding.
Sura! About time . . . fastest rider in all Adrianople, indeed! He chuckled wryly, standing as his friend and scouting partner slowed to a trot and then slid from the saddle.
‘There’s no way you’d beat me in a flat race. You’re mare’s obviously a hill-runner!’ Sura insisted as he drew level. Then he pulled the purse from his belt to rummage and produce two folles, dropping them into Pavo’s extended palm with a scowl.
‘Aye, and yours obviously isn’t,’ Pavo replied. Then his face fell stony. ‘You saw nothing, I take it?’
Sura shook his head, wiping the sweat from his brow. ‘Nothing apart from traces of where they have been. The valleys are maze-like.’
‘Aye, Salv . . . ’ Pavo started, then bit his tongue, ‘Draga will have them moving camp every day.’ He stared out at the mountains again.
‘Tomorrow, Pavo,’ Sura said, reading his mind. ‘We will find the Goths . . . and Felicia . . . tomorrow.’
The pair remounted and set off southwards at a canter. As they descended the last of the foothills, they entered a plain stained bright yellow with wild rapeseed. To the east of this plain, a small brook ran around a willow grove and the small town of Ad Salices, known by most as ‘The Town by the Willows’. The town was tucked in behind the trees and surrounded only by a light timber fence, more to keep the village goat herds in check than anything else. The settlement lay only a quarter of a mile from the edge of the foothills and mountains. Traianus had considered this plain around the town as a site for the Roman camp. Pavo himself had wondered as to the wisdom of this, imagining how the Goths could come within a fraction of a mile of any such camp and remain unseen. Fortunately, Traianus and the senior officers – Tribunus Gallus, Tribunus Profuturus plus the tribuni of the eastern legions – had come to the same conclusion, resolving to set up camp a further two miles to the south on the next plain, over the ridge.
Pavo glanced across at the sun-baked settlement as they cantered past; the townsfolk busied themselves with their daily lives, farming and weaving. Men loaded hay bales, scythes and sickles into a wagon, readying to harvest the early crop, eager to fill the near-empty horrea. One amber-haired woman was stooping by the brook, drawing water into an amphora while her children splashed in the shallows. It was a picture of serenity. But every few heartbeats, she would glance up to the north, her features wrinkled in concern.
And these townsfolk were right to worry, despite Traianus’ assurances. The century of legionaries the magister militum had garrisoned there was a gesture and no more. It was the turma of equites sagittarii stationed with them that seemingly mattered more. These thirty men, mounted on the fastest steeds from Traianus’ stable, would relay any sign of a Gothic advance back to the main Roman camp.
And the villagers would be left to the whims of Fortuna.
He glanced over his shoulder again as the town slipped into the distance behind them, and whispered a prayer for those people.
‘We’ll be ready for them this time,’ Sura said as they approached a slight rise at the southern end of the plain.
Pavo welcomed the grim look of determination on his friend’s face. It was a look that each and every legionary in the camp had worn over these last few weeks, as the scale of the Gothic destruction had come to light. The limitanei legions had been crushed or scattered, leaving the towns, cities and forts of Moesia undefended. While Durostorum had been evacuated, Odessus and Marcianople had been part-razed and plundered, and every settlement and fort in between had suffered the same fate.
‘But do you not fear that – after so much scheming and subterfuge – no matter what we do, we’re always going to be undermined? What if Draga has planned all of this as well? And what of the Huns? We worry about the Goths in the mountains when the darkest souls the empire has ever faced gather across the river, unchecked.’
Sura sighed. ‘We can only fight those that stand before us. And Draga is blacker-hearted than any Hun.’
Pavo frowned. He thought of the long conversations he had shared with the ambassador; the sharp, knowing look in the man’s eyes as he had talked of his father, telling him things he had shared only with the few in life he trusted. And then the man had betrayed him like no other. He avoided Sura’s gaze.
‘You still long for things to be as they were, don’t you?’ His friend asked, tentatively. ‘Draga . . . Salvian, he really meant a lot to you, didn’t he?’
At last, Pavo steeled himself and straightened in his saddle as they crested the rise. ‘Salvian? The façade? The man who we knew has evaporated like a morning mist, Sura. I don’t have time to pine for some sham friendship. None of us do. There are an untold number of war-hungry Goths back there and we need to be ready for them.’
They crested the rise and Sura broke out in a trademark beaming grin. ‘Aye, that we must, and we will be!’ He swept a hand across the vista on the next plain;
The vast Roman camp dominated the land, bristling with legions, cavalry, archers and artillery. A few slivers of silver marched to the fort from the south. These were the precious few cohorts from the garrisons of the southern cities and the recruits from southern Thracia, mustered to bolster the Roman ranks.
Pavo’s skin tingled at the sight. ‘Mithras, but that warms my heart every time I see it.’
Despite the size of the encampment, the traditional layout was instantly recognisable. A rectangular ditch was the first line of defence, followed by a tall earth rampart, bristling with stakes. Atop the rampart, a tall timber palisade had been erected. Watchtowers punctuated this barrier at regular intervals, with sagittarii archers and legionaries packed onto their platforms, scouring the northern horizon.
Inside the walls, a sea of goatskin contubernium tents were laid out in grids; one grid per cohort of each legion. Each tent was surrounded by tiny figures, some in their red or white tunics and others glistening in their armour, as the ranks kindled their fires and cooked their rations and catches from the local countryside. Two paths split the camp in a north-south and east-west axis, each connecting with one of the four main gates. At the junction of these paths, five silver eagle standards were staked in the ground at the centre of a cluster of larger tents. This temporary principia was where the officers had been locked in strategic discussions for days.
Outside the camp, intensive drilling and training was underway. The barking of officers and rustle of iron armour filled the plain, drowning out the cicada song. A thick line of sagittarii lined the practice range, emptying quiver after quiver of arrows into painted targets. Equites circled a stretch of plain, swooping past timber posts from which hung sandbags in the shapes of men. Then there were the legionary cohorts, practicing marching drills, plumbatae volleys and shield walls.
The warm air was spiced with sweet woodsmoke and roasting meat as Pavo and Sura cantered down the rise and towards the north gate. As they neared the earth bridge that crossed the ditch, the sentries on either watchtower flanking the gate shuffled bolt upright. They levelled their plumbatae at the pair, and two sagittarii archers stretched their composite bows. Then one sentry called out to them, lifting a buccina to his lips, ready to sound the alarm. ‘Identify yourselves!’
Pavo looked to Sura, each of them cocking an eyebrow. Then Felix barged up and onto the leftmost tower, grasping the lip of the balcony, eyes wide. Then he sighed. ‘Oh, for Mithras’ sake! Let them through!’
‘Yes, sir!’ The sentry barked back in an overly-officious tone.
The gates creaked open and Felix darted down the timber ladder to greet them as they passed inside the fort. ‘Anything?’ He narrowed his eyes and pulled at his forked beard.
Pavo and Sura saluted their primus pilus, then shook their heads.
Felix punched a fist into his palm and grimaced, stifling a curse.
‘We went over a mile into the hills this time, sir,
’ Pavo sighed. ‘I know our orders were to stay within half a mile of the plains, but we were so sure we’d sight them.’
‘Aye, and I’d be first to buy you an ale if you had. But tomorrow, stick to your orders, eh? If you go getting skewered out there then we learn nothing of the Gothic whereabouts.’
‘Yes, sir!’ The pair barked.
They dismounted by the stables, Pavo patting his mare on the nose and feeding her a handful of hay. He surveyed the goings-on in the camp: siege engineers worked furiously to cobble together ballistae and onagers, their hands blistered and bleeding; smiths smelted and shaped spearheads, spathas and mail; fletchers piled quiverfuls of freshly-hewn arrows and bows by the archery range. Yet Pavo’s mind still dwelt upon those lonely hills and rugged mountains, two miles north.
‘Pavo,’ Sura slapped a hand on his shoulder, nodding to the goatskin awning nearby that offered shady respite from the blistering sun. Zosimus and Quadratus were sitting there, supping from their wineskins and munching on joints of charred and juicy meat. ‘Refreshments?’
Pavo nodded and followed his friend. But his mind was set on one thing and one thing only.
To Hades with the orders, he affirmed. Tomorrow, we ride into those hills until we find them! I’m coming for you, Felicia.
Chapter 23
Pavo hesitated for a moment, panting. His hands were bleeding and coated in grey dust and his neck was burnt from the sun. He eyed the peak of the mountain; a jagged limestone ridge some fifty feet up. Though it felt like it hadn’t got any closer for the last hour. Then his gaze locked onto a lone mountain goat stood near the peak, munching on a shrub, eyeing him with disdain. He closed his eyes and rested his forehead against the rock face.
‘Pavo, come on; we should have turned back long before now!’ Sura rasped from below. ‘The sun’s dropping.’
They had set off from the base of this, what had initially looked like a modest mountain in the Haemus range, at mid-afternoon, and not for the first time since then, doubt danced in Pavo’s mind. But again from the other side of the mountain a clash of iron rang out, along with cheering and a jagged Gothic rabble. Above the craggy limestone peak, woodsmoke plumed into the orange-tinged sky.
‘Then let it drop!’ He spat back, flushing the doubt from his thoughts. ‘I’m not turning back now; they’re right over that crest.’
‘And?’ His friend replied dryly, shooting nervous glances to the noise. ‘We need to get back, to alert the legions. If we are killed then the legions will never know the whereabouts of the Gothic camp!’
Pavo twisted round, a foul expression on his face. ‘You climb down and ride back, then, and report that Pavo is being a stubborn whoreson. But I’m not leaving until I’ve found her.’
Sura groaned and wiped his hands over his face. ‘Felicia? Look, Pavo, I’m with you in that I want to see her safe. But do you really think we have a chance in Hades of freeing her from the horde that lies in wait over that ridge?’
Pavo held Sura’s pleading gaze in silence. Then he drew his dagger, clamped the blade between his teeth, turned back to the rock face and scrambled on and up.
A groan sounded behind him. ‘Slow down, will you?’
He turned to see Sura scurrying after him, scowling.
‘I can’t leave you to get skewered, can I?’ Sura fumed. With that, the pair continued their climb.
They halted for breath momentarily when at last they reached the top of the mountain. There, a welcome, stiff breeze hit them from the east, ruffling Sura’s blonde locks and cooling Pavo’s freshly shorn scalp. After this brief rest, they stalked over to crouch behind a large limestone cairn and peeked over the top.
The land in the valley below was awash with Goths.
Soldiers carried piles of longswords, composite bows and armour, stacking them high, while others groomed their warhorses. It was coldly reminiscent of the Roman camp – except there were far more Gothic warriors. Amongst it all, families milled around, cooking stews, pleating hair, darning and scrubbing clothes. Pavo winced as he saw one Gothic woman washing a pile of robes in a barrel of water, her children tugging at her hem demanding she played with them; it was all too similar to the amber-haired Roman woman at the brook by Ad Salices, yesterday. Many innocents would die in what was to come.
Then an elbow jabbed his ribs. ‘I’d wager that that’s where you want to start looking,’ Sura growled, solemnly.
Pavo followed the line of Sura’s outstretched finger; the Gothic camp was so vast it spilled through the grey-green pillars of the mountains into the next valley, where a huddle of bedraggled Roman captives were being marshalled across the flatland towards a group of assembled wagons. His heart stilled as he saw the bald, stocky man who owned the wagons handing over a hefty purse to the Goths who herded the sorry figures.
‘Slave traders! Romans! Buying their own kind when the empire is crumbling around them!’ Sura gasped. ‘Have they no shame?’
Pavo bit into his lower lip as a bitter boyhood memory flitted through his thoughts; that day in the slave market in Constantinople when he himself had been paraded in front of nobles and senators like a cut of meat before that fat reprobate Tarquitius had bought him. The very idea of Felicia being subjected to some lecherous, abusive master sent a wave of fire through his heart.
Then Sura slapped a hand on his shoulder, jolting him from his thoughts. ‘Sentries! Get down!’
Pavo ducked, then peeked over the rock pile to see the Gothic spearmen dotted along the narrow, high mountain paths that wove around the camp. There were two every few hundred feet, and a tall and broad-shouldered pair were approaching the cairn. He sized their red leather tunics and conical helmets, his eyes narrowing as he noticed how the helmets shaded their faces. ‘Right, if they come this side of the cairn, they’re out of the line of sight of the rest of the sentries and we can take them. If they go the other side, we wait.’
Sura nodded, flexing his fingers on his dagger hilt.
The pair of sentries strolled closer, joking in their jagged tongue. Pavo readied himself to spring like a cat. But the sentries veered away from the cairn, staying within view of their people. He stifled a curse and dug his nails into his palms. He looked to Sura, then the dropping sun. Doubt laced his thoughts.
Then, an impatient snort from the mountain goat pierced the air. He held his breath; the banter of the two Goths had stopped dead. Then sharp words were hissed, laced with suspicion. Then footsteps ground on the dust either side of the cairn and they heard the sentries’ shallow breaths. Pavo looked to Sura, then they both nodded, each turning to an edge of the cairn.
The two sentries stalked past the stone pile, eyes wide, spears reaching out as they looked down the mountainside. One laughed, pointing to the goat, visibly relaxing. ‘Dinner!’ He bellowed. But the other Goth’s eyes were locked on the mare and gelding tethered far below. ‘Romans?’ He uttered, glancing around for the missing riders.
Pavo leapt at him, wrapping one arm around his neck. The pair fell onto the ground, entangled and thrashing. Pavo brought a sweet right jab down on the Goth’s cheekbone and the man’s head thudded against a sharp rock and he fell still. Then he spun to Sura, who was locked in a struggle with the other Goth, each of them wrestling for control of Sura’s dagger. Seeing Pavo come for them, the Goth forced the dagger towards Sura’s throat. But Sura flicked his head to the side and headbutted the man, who staggered back, dropping the dagger. Sura caught the weapon by the blade, flicked it over to grasp its hilt, then sunk it into the Goth’s heart.
Panting, Sura wiped his blade on the grass.
Pavo eyed the dead pair, then glanced left and right. His heart thundered as he saw two more sentries, only a few hundred feet away. He kicked grey dust over the spilled blood and in the dusk light it was disguised, but the corpses lay stubbornly before him. He glanced around; down the mountain, near the troublesome goat, an outcrop of limestone offered a slim chance to avoid detection.
He stooped and wrenched one
Goth up and over his shoulder. ‘Grab the other one,’ he wheezed to Sura.
As the light faded in the mountain valley, Felicia watched the latest slave cart depart. It was packed with Romans, some nobles, some freedmen, all levelled to slaves now. She pulled at the filthy and frayed hem of her robe and eyed the two who stood before her in the line: a young lad and a pretty Roman woman. Then she would be next, she figured. Before dusk another cart would come and she would be taken away. Yet she cared little for her future. It was the memories of the past few weeks that consumed her every waking thought, and her chest still felt raw and hollow from weeping. She had set out to avenge her brother’s murder. Instead she had lost everything.
Legionary: Viper of the North (Legionary 2) Page 34