Legionary: Viper of the North (Legionary 2)

by Doherty, Gordon

  ‘Again!’ Traianus roared. The crews scurried around the devices, loading them and then twisting the winches to stretch and ready them once more.

  Pavo felt a mix of joy and terror wash through his limbs; the right was secure, but the left was moments from being shattered. The Gothic charge on that side had only faltered temporarily on seeing their other wing smashed by the Roman artillery barrage. Now they had resumed their charge and were only a hundred strides away at most. The ground shook with their approach and a chorus of terrified moans broke out across the Roman ranks.

  Then the buccinas sang out a series of notes that saw the cavalry alae on the secure right flank burst into life. They hared to the left to join the alae there, doubling their strength. As one, the Roman cavalry then swept across the rear of the legionary lines and then smashed the charging Gothic cavalry wing in the midriff.

  The cataphractii led the way, punching into the Gothic formation as a wedge and then driving deep into their midst. Their lances wreaked havoc as they sliced through to burst clear on the opposite side, then turned back to carve another path of destruction. All the while, the equites sagitarii wheeled in circles to the rear of the Gothic wing, showering the riders with arrows and covering the charge of the cataphractii.

  The Gothic charge had been broken at the last.

  Pinned down and enraged, the Gothic riders lost all formation and were forced to skirmish against the swooping cataphractii, but without any momentum of a charge, their mastery of mounted combat was blunted. The Gothic cavalry were feared by Roman citizens as expert cavalrymen, but these ironclad demons from the east were shredding them. And then the last of the Roman cavalry, the equites, one thousand strong, galloped round to the rear of the Gothic infantry lines. There, they swept across the banking, scattering the chosen archers.

  ‘God is with us!’ One voice from the eastern comitatenses cried above the chaos.

  ‘Mithras is with us!’ Zosimus barked back with gusto.

  At this, the Roman line roared in a joyous release, spared from slaughter by a tactical masterstroke. Pavo felt the press of the Gothic spearmen lift completely as they backed off, wary of the equites at their backs and conscious of the sudden cessation of archer support. He panted, limbs trembling. He wondered why the thundering in his heart was not abating. Then he saw that Draga was in discussion with Ivo, the pair mounted high above the jostling Gothic spearline. Ivo nodded, then turned and relayed Draga’s suggestions to Fritigern as if they were his own. Fritigern nodded hurriedly then called for the war horns. The horns moaned across the plain, and the Gothic cavalry were rallied by this, breaking free of the cataphractii death trap on the Roman left and the artillery bombardment on the Roman right. Then, from behind the wagons by the foothills, a fresh wave of some two thousand Gothic cavalry poured from the valleys. They raced around to the Roman right to flank the artillery, and in moments they were upon the crews of the ballistae and onagers, hacking them down without mercy. With that, the artillery fell silent.

  Pavo looked to Gallus, who looked back with the same wide-eyed look of realisation. The Gothic cavalry had pulled free of the Roman snares and now they were reforming on either flank of their spearmen. The artillery and Roman cavalry charge had merely wounded the Goths. Now they were enraged.

  Only one option remained.

  At the Roman centre, Traianus held his sword aloft, the tip pointing to the Gothic lines. ‘Forward!’ Traianus roared.

  The buccinas sang out and the battered Roman army charged into the fray.

  The late-afternoon sun baked the carpet of dead and tortured the living who fought on in the clouds of flies and flocks of carrion birds.

  Pavo’s body was numb as he stumbled from foe to foe. He did not hear the screaming now, seeing only the red wetness at the back of each opponent’s throat. That and the pure whites of their eyes, stark against the ubiquitous crimson masks worn by all on the field. The formations had disintegrated and the battlefield was speckled randomly with pockets of Romans and Goths, fighting to the last.

  Pavo slashed out at one Goth who ran at him, cutting the man from neck to belly. Then, gasping for breath, he stumbled over the tangle of bodies, sliding on a slick of blood to fall by the staring eyes of a dead cataphractus; the blood had dried on the gaping wound on the man’s throat and his mount was cleaved to its core. The eastern riders and the artillery had been the difference that morning, but that seemed so long ago. Both forces had been shattered since then, and now only a few riders remained, fighting on foot alongside the artillery crewmen. And the skirmishers had all been felled bar the tight pocket of sagittarii who fought on with their swords and daggers near the wrecked remnants of the Roman artillery.

  He staggered to his feet again, hearing only a faint hiss, the tumult of battle sounding dull and far away. Then, from the corner of his eye, he saw Quadratus, locked in combat with a pair of Goths. Beside the big centurion was Avitus. The little optio was mouthing something to him, growing more and more agitated. Pavo squinted at Avitus, his thoughts dreamlike. Then, a searing pain ripped across his neck and, at once, feeling and hearing returned to him like a wave crashing onto a shore.

  ‘Pavo! Pavo!’ Avitus cried.

  Pavo spun, roaring, clutching at the deep gash on the side of his neck. He only had a heartbeat to check it was not an arterial cut before the two Goths who had rushed him lunged forward again, jabbing and slashing their longswords. Pavo staggered back; out of formation like this, a Roman spatha was at a disadvantage against these lengthy Gothic swords. He butted and parried, but the Goths were relentless. His arms were trembling with fatigue and he held his sword lower and lower. Then Avitus rushed to his aid, sliding his spatha into one Goth’s gut. But, before the optio could rip his blade free, the other Goth smashed his longsword across Avitus’ forearm, and the little Roman fell back with a cry. Pavo roared out in fury at this, as did Quadratus, still locked in battle only paces away.

  Avitus slumped to his knees, clutching the wound. The Goth who had struck Avitus lined up for the death blow, but Pavo tore a dagger from the eye socket of a dead legionary and hurled it. The blade punched into the forehead of the Goth, who dropped like a sack of rubble. Then he ran to Avitus.

  ‘It’s over for me,’ Avitus panted, shrugging him away.

  ‘No it’s bloody not!’ Quadratus roared over his shoulder from only paces away, still locked in a swordfight with two Goths.

  ‘You heard your centurion,’ Pavo cried, pushing his own sword hilt into Avitus’ good hand, ‘now get u . . . ’ his words trailed off as he saw the black blood pumping from the optio’s arm. The bone was smashed and his sword hand hung at an absurd angle

  ‘Leave me!’ Avitus barked, slumping back down.

  Then the air echoed with the cry of a buccina. It was a series of shrill notes Pavo recognised, and it sent a shiver down his spine.

  ‘Listen!’ Avitus pushed him away. ‘Traianus is calling for a last stand. Get back to the main body of the legions and protect the eagles!’

  Pavo’s eyes widened as he saw the optio’s face greying, breaths coming in rasps. Avitus was dying. Then he heard Felicia’s pained words in his mind, distant and pleading. Find the truth, Pavo, I beg of you.

  Another wave of Goths rushed for the pair, followed by a trio of cavalry. He had moments.

  He stared into Avitus’ eyes. ‘Sir, I have to ask you again . . . ’

  ‘Pavo!’ Quadratus yelled, slaying one of his three opponents and glancing at the onrushing Goths. ‘Watch my flank!’

  Pavo glanced up, then back to Avitus. ‘Were you a speculatore?’

  Avitus’ face slackened at this, and he gazed into Pavo’s eyes, his pupils dilating. ‘I was, just as her brother was. They sent him to finish the mission that I could not.’

  ‘Pavo!’ Quadratus roared, eyes widening as the Goths rushed closer.

  Pavo frowned. ‘What mission?’

  ‘To kill Gallus,’ Avitus choked on the words, shaking his head.

/>   ‘Gallus?’ Pavo gasped. ‘Why?’

  ‘We all have a past, Pavo. All of us,’ he rasped, then looked Pavo in the eye. ‘Tell her . . . I’m sorry.’

  Pavo’s eyes widened and his lips flapped uselessly, then he looked up to see that the Goths had their spears hoisted, ready to hurl them at Quadratus’ flank. He leapt up, throwing himself in front of Quadratus just as the Goths loosed their spears. But then, as the missiles hurtled for his unshielded midriff, Avitus jolted into a last spasm of life, up from his knees to lurch forward and into the path of the speartips.

  Pavo froze. Quadratus spun round with a cry.

  But the spears smashed into Avitus’ chest. In a spray of blood, the optio crashed to the ground, his body shattered, his blood adding to the mire underfoot.

  Avitus of the XI Claudia was gone.

  ‘Whoresons!’ Quadratus cried, his face twisted in pain. The big Gaul swiped the head from one of his foes and kicked another back into the mire, then rushed at the rest.

  Pavo grabbed his wrist. ‘Sir, it’s too late,’ he pointed all around, where the Gothic numbers seemed to be telling, the many clusters of them having formed into massed ranks again. But Quadratus wrenched his arm free. Then Pavo barked at him. ‘He died to save you, sir. Now come on, we need to form up with what’s left of the legions.’

  Quadratus issued a pained growl and hurled his sword at the Goths, then turned and followed Pavo.

  Pavo called back over his shoulder. ‘We’ll honour his memory with Gothic blood, sir, once we gather with the rest of the legions.’ Then he looked up to see the cluster of only a few hundred legionaries some fifty paces ahead, bristling in defiance with broken spearshafts and bent spathas in a ragged square. There were barely a cohort’s worth of them.

  In their midst were the five silver eagles of the Roman army.

  Amongst this cluster of bloodied men he saw Traianus, Gallus, Zosimus and Felix. Then he saw Sura on the front line, crying out, urging them on.

  Pavo tumbled into the Roman cluster and shot glances all around; every direction presented Goths in dense packs; at least a third of their original number still lived. A full morning and afternoon of butchery and still the enemy had a massive numerical advantage. And now they encircled the Roman remnant, readying for the kill.

  Then his eyes froze on Draga and Ivo who headed one wing of Gothic riders. He felt Draga’s burning glare on his skin as it swept over the tatters of the Roman army.

  The Viper had sighted its prey.

  ‘Stand firm, stay together!’ Gallus rallied those around him as he grappled the handle of a round Gothic shield, salvaged from a dead warrior. The battered legionaries pushed up next to him, shoulder to shoulder. Then the Goths smashed home and the compact Roman square was shattered.

  Gallus was thrown back as the Gothic cavalry broke the Roman front rank, tearing the square apart, driving for the eagles and Traianus at the centre. His helmet fell into the gore and the passing hooves threw a spray of mud and blood over his face.

  Beside him, Tribunus Profuturus scrambled through the crimson mush in an attempt to reach Traianus. ‘Protect your leader!’ He bellowed. ‘Protect yo-’ his cry was cut short as a sword sliced off his head in one swipe.

  Gallus scrabbled back from the head as it bounced to rest before him, mouth and eyes still gawping mid-cry. Then he looked up to see the rider who had felled Profuturus, and his heart steeled. The silver topknotted locks and beard, the glinting bronze hoops, the arrowhead nose and the angry scar welt over one eye.

  ‘Your part in history will be forgotten Roman,’ Ivo trotted around Gallus as the rest of the Goths piled into the disintegrating Roman square, washing round the pair like a river round rocks. ‘And your empire’s time is short.’

  Gallus stared at the warrior, then stood, grappling his spatha hilt. ‘Your men may slay my army today, Ivo, but by Mithras, you will die with them.’

  Ivo slipped from his saddle, and clasped the hilt of his longsword with both hands. ‘Do you know how many legionaries I have slain? Do you know how many great men of the north coveted my status as Fritigern’s champion, only to die on the edge of my blade?’ He flicked the longsword around in his hands as if it was a light stabbing blade.

  Gallus raised his spatha. ‘It matters not. You have slain your last.’

  Ivo roared in laughter at this, as all around him, legionaries were put to the sword, their screams cut short and their blood soaking the field. Then the big warrior’s face fell into a glare, and he rushed forward with a battle cry.

  Gallus whispered a prayer to Mithras and a sweet word to Olivia, then roared and leapt to parry the Goth’s blade. A screaming of iron upon iron sent sparks across both of them. The force of the big man’s strike was ferocious, and Gallus was thrown back, his spatha cleaved, the hilt and a shard of blade left in his hand.

  ‘An ominous portent, is it not, Roman?’ Ivo grinned.

  Gallus backed off as Ivo stalked forward, then jinked to avoid a swipe of the giant’s sword. The blade scythed through his mail vest, drawing a spray of blood from his chest, the vest falling loose, dangling from one shoulder. He felt something inside, something long buried. A cold realisation, creeping from his core, spidering across his skin. Was it fear?

  Ivo roared in delight. ‘Now, weapons gone, fear begins to consume you, does it not? You have moments to live, Roman; see my face, remember my words, and take them with you to Hades!’

  Ivo raised his sword over his head and brought it crashing for Gallus’ skull with a guttural roar. Gallus stared through the huge warrior, seeing the faces of all those who had fought by his side over the years, now merely memories. Then he saw Olivia, reaching out to him, smiling, tears staining her cheeks. At once, all fear was gone and his soul reverted to ice. He thrust the shard of his spatha up. His whole arm shuddered and the bones in his hand cracked as the sliver of blade punched into the edge of Ivo’s longsword, halting the strike. The pair hovered, eye to eye. To Hades with fear!

  ‘You mistake me for someone who fears death,’ Gallus spoke in an even tone, then pulled the spatha shard away, pirouetted round and plunged the makeshift blade into Ivo’s neck. He tore the blade along Ivo’s throat and the artery was rent.

  Gallus was showered in the giant’s blood. He bored his icy, wolf-like glare into Ivo as the Gothic champion slid to the ground, confusion dancing across his good eye.

  ‘Hold the line!’ Traianus bawled, his voice cracking and rasping as he barged forward. As he reached the front of the huddle of surviving Romans, he hefted his sword overhead to strike at the Gothic mass. But a hand grappled his wrist. It was the tribunus of the IV Italica legion.

  ‘Stay back, sir. Stand tall with the eagles. The men need to know you live,’ he growled. ‘If you are slai-’ the tribunus’ words were cut short as a Gothic spear hammered into his chest, showering Traianus with blood.

  Traianus twisted to see the clutch of Gothic riders who had thrown the spear; Draga was mounted at their head. His gore-spattered hood was plastered to his face, covering all but one manic, sparkling eye and his teeth, clenched in a frenzied half-grin. The look bored through Traianus’ armour to his soul, just like the look the boy Draga had given him on the wharf all those years ago.

  Then the Viper raised his sword and cried out to his riders. As one, they charged for the Roman square.

  Traianus’ mouth fell agape.

  Pavo leapt up to hack his spatha into a Gothic spearman’s shoulder. The limb slid clear of the body and the man fell, howling, to be butchered by Sura, Zosimus and Felix.

  ‘That one was for Avitus,’ Pavo cried to Quadratus.

  ‘Every one of these whoresons is for Avitus!’ The big centurion bawled, then headbutted a Goth before plunging his sword through the felled warrior’s chest.

  The Gothic press was relentless. Pavo felt his limbs quivering, growing heavier with every parry and strike. Every breath felt like fire, rasping in his parched throat. Never had battle drawn so much out of him.
But when he glanced up, the sight before him fired his blood like never before; Draga and his riders were charging for the legionary huddle, ready to leap over the crumbling shieldwall and into its heart.

  He followed the Viper’s manic glare and saw that it was fixed on Traianus – the magister militum was stumbling back to the centre of the Roman cluster.

  ‘Sir,’ he barked to Zosimus, ‘take my place!’

  Zosimus squinted at him through a crimson mask and then flicked his gaze to the Viper’s charge. At this, the centurion’s eyes narrowed and he nodded, barging into Pavo’s spot, locking his shield with the legionaries either side. ‘Go! Take that bastard’s heart out!’ The big Thracian cried.

  But Pavo was already on his way, pushing through the crush of legionaries, focused on the Viper. His brow dipped and he flexed his hand on his spatha hilt.

  A clutch of the Viper’s riders raced ahead of their master and heeled their mounts into a jump into the Roman centre, hooves dashing out brains and longswords sweeping through necks like scythes. But Pavo ignored the screaming and readied himself, like a cat, as the Viper made to follow his riders.