Legionary: Viper of the North (20 page)

He heard the rustle of iron and a nervous cough and looked up; the eyes of his fifty hung on him. Doubt grew in his breast, so he focused on the impression of the phalera medallion on his skin, and thought of father. But still, his lungs and his throat felt scrambled and knotted at the prospect of what he was to say. He sucked in a breath through his nose and held it in his belly, before exhaling through his lips. He repeated this three times then issued a thank you to Salvian as he felt the tension in his body ease.

Calmed, he clasped his hands behind his back and eyed the ranks. Crito and the veterans stood with their usual torn expressions while the recruits looked to be on the edge of panic.

‘Last night, we saw something we were not meant to see. At least we were not meant to see it and live,’ he started. ‘That horde is right now ploughing through Fritigern’s lands. Nobody will be safe there – neither Fritigern’s people and his armies, nor the Claudia vexillationes scattered all over his villages. We cannot go back the way we came.’

He looked to Crito, expecting a challenge. But it was a recruit, a boy of barely fifteen by the looks of it, who spoke, his anxiety getting the better of him.

‘My wife and my mother are alone back there, in Ad Salices, the town by the willows, only a morning’s ride from the Claudia fort. Sir, we’ve got to get back to them! If we delay or take a longer route then . . . ’

‘We all stand to lose a great deal, soldier!’ Pavo cut him off sharply, pity stabbing at his heart as the young lad shrank, his face blanching at the rebuke. ‘And we must not panic.’

The veterans shuffled in disgruntlement, and Crito shook his head. Pavo clenched his jaw at this. ‘Legionary, do you have something to say?’

Crito nodded. ‘Absolutely.’

‘Let’s hear it,’ Pavo said in a more even tone, hoping his face wasn’t as flushed as the prickling heat on his cheeks suggested.

‘The lad is right, sir. I too have a wife and daughter, in Marcianople, and they are only safe whilst the borders remain secure. Comes Lupicinus and the dregs left back at the fort cannot stop any attempt by Fritigern to cross the Danubius.’

Pavo nodded, seeing a glimpse of humanity in the big veteran. ‘So do we charge blindly into the rear of what must be the largest army ever formed north of the Danubius?’ He eyed Crito and the lad. ‘Slain, you will be of no use to your families.’

‘So what do you propose?’ Crito spat.

Pavo braced himself. ‘We go through Athanaric’s lands.’

‘What?’ Sura yelped.

Pavo shot him a burning look. ‘We must avoid the Hun horde at all costs. Thus we must march round them, and cross the Danubius upriver, southeast of here. And that, I’m afraid, means marching along the base of the Carpates.’

‘You’ve got to be joking,’ Crito said with a deadpan expression. ‘The march here through Fritigern’s woods felt like walking in a wolves den – and that’s supposedly allied territory. But the lands over there,’ he jabbed a thumb over his shoulder to the edge of the Carpates, ‘are rife with cutthroat Thervingi who would be delighted to bring fifty severed legionary heads to their master. Athanaric has said it openly – murder of Romans is legal and encouraged.’

‘This is true,’ Pavo nodded.

This time Crito gasped, scratched his head and spat into the snow, and the rest of the legionaries broke out in a concerned murmur. ‘You were right, sir, about last night, and I was wrong. We should have marched on Istrita as a fifty. But you’re wrong about this.’

At this, the fifty erupted in a rabble of agreement, only Sura declining the opportunity, though he did wear a look of indecision.

Pavo racked his brain for a tactical answer. Then, once again, Salvian’s face popped into his mind.
Self-doubt is a pox indeed. When you are unsure of yourself, just think back over your decisions, see the strength of your reasoning. I promise you, your confidence will return.
Pavo steadied himself, thinking back over the flurry of thoughts that had danced in his mind since the horde had slipped into the southern horizon: of all the alternatives, this plan was the only one he could bring himself to ask the others to do – knowing all other options meant death for them all. He looked up and fixed his gaze on Crito, but addressed the fifty as a whole.

‘I don’t know if I’m right or wrong, it’s as simple as that. Only the fates can determine whether this is the right action. But consider this: why do you think all of these disturbances with the rebel Goths have broken out so suddenly over the past few weeks across Fritigern’s lands, yet Athanaric’s lands have been apparently untroubled?’ Pavo cast a glance at each of them, as if demanding an answer.

Crito sneered as if to dismiss the question, but Pavo saw the glint of realisation in the veteran’s eyes. At the same time, Sura sighed in understanding, and some of the other veterans groaned as they realised it too. Crito looked up. ‘The disturbances were bait,’ he spoke flatly.

Pavo nodded. ‘Exactly. Bait to draw out the Claudia piecemeal, where each vexillatio would be snared on some incident like this,’ he swept his hands out across the village. ‘Then, when the Huns come at the call of Athanaric, or this
Viper
, they smash into not only Fritigern’s people, but the tattered pieces of the limitanei. It’s not just the XI Claudia – the V Macedonia, the XIII Gemima, the IV Flavia and the I Italica are all scattered around Gutthiuda in tiny vexillationes, tunics up, arses bared . . . the
entire
border army. And the Huns are here to exterminate them.’

‘And all that pressure will end up against the imperial borders,’ Sura barked, backing Pavo up.

Pavo nodded his thanks, then continued. ‘So we come back to it again: take the short route home and certainly die on a Hun arrowhead. Or take the long route home and
almost
certainly die on a Gothic blade.’ A wry smile crept onto his face despite his efforts to keep a Gallus-style iron veneer. But some of the veterans seemed to warm to this, breaking out in dry laughter. Then Crito allowed one side of his mouth to lift and issued a gruff chuckle.

‘So are you with me?’ He called to them, hubris and terror battling in his veins.

There was a mixed grumble, and he shared a nervous glance with Sura.

Sura’s eyes darted around him for a moment, then he drew his spatha and battered the hilt into his shield boss. ‘For the empire!’ He cried. With that, some of the fifty cheered. Others remained silent, looking around uncertainly.

Crito shook his head with a wry grin; a grin that said the veteran was still unconvinced.

Pavo filled his lungs, squaring his jaw.

‘Form up, ready to move out!

Paulus woke, saddle sore from his short journey on Zosimus’ mount the previous day. The babble of the Gothic populace drifted through the shutters and into his room in the stallhouse attic, rousing his mind from sleep. He stretched his legs and groaned as the chill of the winter morning slipped inside his blanket. Then, cracking open his eyelids, he realised it was not morning – it was nearer noon. He sighed and made to sit up. Then a hand wrapped across his mouth and pushed him prone, and another clamped across his chest.

Panic welled in his heart as at once his eyes darted; two bearded Goths stood over him. He writhed under their grip, twisting towards his spatha – within arm’s reach – but they pinned his arms with their knees, their weight simply too great.

‘Your Mithras will not save you now,’ one of them hissed, then pressed something cold against Paulus’ throat.

Then the Goth ripped his hand back. Paulus felt an odd burning on his neck, seeing a dark-red spray of liquid pump up into the air. At once his skin was hot and his insides cool. Then a black veil fell across his vision.

Gallus had fallen into a fitful sleep as soon as he had returned to his room and removed his helmet and vest. Despite the shutter in his room lying open to the bitter chill and the brightening sun, he had remained, neither awake nor asleep, calling out her name as he always did.

‘Olivia?’ He could see her, stood at the end of his bed. She was smiling, cradling the tiny form of a baby in her arms. He sat up, a pained smile stretching across his face as he reached out with one hand towards her. ‘You’re here?’ Olivia shook her head and her smile faded, then a single tear escaped one eye and stained her cheek.

Gallus shuffled forward towards her, reaching out to stroke the babe’s fine hair. But the apparition disappeared before him, like a morning mist. His eyes focused on the reality: a crimson heap that was his cloak, and the tiny, carved idol of Mithras that lay on top of it. He remembered that day, only weeks after she and little Marcus had burnt on the pyre, when he had said his prayers to the war deity, begging to be thrown into conflict, to lose himself in the defence of his empire.

He sensed self-pity writhing in his chest. In disgust, he leapt up from the bed, grimacing, pulling the iron shutters in his mind closed over his moment of weakness. He strode over to the jug of water and splashed a cupped handful of the icy contents over his face and pushed his fingers through his peak of hair, steeling himself for the day ahead. He poured himself a cup of water and moved to the shutters; outside, the town was still cloaked in a thick layer of snow and the centre of the citadel had been set up as a market, abuzz with activity. Then he realised it was not morning, but midday. He scolded himself for sleeping so late, but was distracted when he saw a party of Gothic spearmen pushing through the square. Then he saw another.
Coming this way?
He wondered with a frown. ‘Let your mind rest for one bloody moment,’ he chided himself with a shake of the head and a weary chuckle.

He reached to the table for a date, when a muffled gasp sounded from across the corridor. Like a cat, he spun to the door, eyes wide, swiping his swordbelt from the back of the nearby chair. Then footsteps rattled on the floorboards and ended when his door juddered from a shoulder-charge.

Gallus ripped his spatha from his scabbard and braced.

The door burst open and Felix tumbled in, eyes wide and chest heaving, shaking his head as if lost for words. He was carrying a sword dripping with blood, jabbing a finger back through the door.

‘Speak!’ Gallus hissed in agitation.

Felix gulped in a breath. ‘Assassins, sir! They’ve killed Paulus – slit his throat. I’ve slain the pair that did it, but they nearly had me as well!’

Gallus’ mind raced. ‘You’re sure you killed all of the assassins?’ He asked, pulling on his woollen trousers, leather boots and mail vest.

‘Certain!’ Felix panted. ‘Why?’

‘Because there are twenty or so Goths coming this way, and I’ve got a terrible feeling they’re coming to finish the job.’ He glanced outside; sure enough, the party of Gothic Warriors were filing around the side of the stallhouse, towards the door. ‘Quick, wake Salvian and Tarquitius!’