Legionary: Viper of the North (26 page)

Tarquitius’ haunted expression did not change despite Pavo’s ire. Staring through him, the senator muttered; ‘I can never tell you.’

Pavo felt his hands tremble, and the urge to wrap them around the senator’s fat neck was overwhelming. Then he felt the eyes of the other legionaries on them. ‘This is not over,’ he snorted in disgust, then took another mouthful of wine and strode to the side of the vessel, his breaths coming short and shallow.

He leant over the side; the rippling water growing hypnotic. Perhaps this was fate telling him he had made the wrong choice, he mused. He felt his mind grow giddy as the wine took hold, and this lifted his spirit just a fraction, pushing the senator’s game from his thoughts. But, almost immediately, the grim truth of what might be waiting on them downriver came flooding in to replace it. He longed to learn that Felicia was safe, and he searched the swirling rapids as if looking for some confirmation of this.

He turned from the edge of the vessel and made to take another swig of soured wine, but stopped, seeing Gallus walk over to him.

‘Drink your fill, Pavo. Mithras knows you’ve earned it.’

Pavo nodded, then looked into the mouth of the skin and sighed. ‘Perhaps later,’ he said, putting the cork back in place. ‘I feel it may taste far sweeter once we have set eyes upon Durostorum and the fort and are sure all is well there.’

Gallus frowned.

‘It’s the Hun horde we saw, sir. Every time I think back over it, I am sure it must have been a nightmare,’ he shook his head, ‘but it was real, and I fear that we may be returning too late.’

‘Then you are not alone.’ Gallus looked downriver pensively. ‘A game is being played, Pavo. The Huns will show no mercy to Fritigern’s people, and I just know Athanaric is embroiled in their arrival.’ He paused, shaking his head. ‘But this . . . Viper, I fear he is no shade. We have both seen the rebels and their devotion to the Viper’s cause. Men do not fight for shades, Pavo. Yet this creature has so far remained invisible . . . and the most deadly enemy is the one you cannot see.’

At that moment, a distant moan of a Gothic war horn sounded downriver. The entire crew of the cog froze.

Pavo and Gallus stared at one another.

Avitus could only stare at the sight; the rush of the rapids and the rapping of hooves filled the air as the Gothic cavalry rumbled over the timber bridge, snow churning in their wake.

Every fibre in his being screamed to run or draw his spatha, but he noticed that the riders did not move at a charge. They looked weary and nervous and their weapons were sheathed. More, behind the warriors on the far bank, many thousands of Gothic women, children and elderly had emerged from the forests, their faces gaunt and staring like lost souls. He glanced to Quadratus; the big Gaul’s fingers hovered close to his spatha hilt as he stepped back from the riverbank.

‘What is this? Do they come in peace?’ Avitus said.

‘Aye, so it seems,’ Quadratus nodded, then he turned to the rest of the legion; some were stumbling into a run for the fort, others were levelling their spears, eyes wide in panic. ‘Sheathe your weapons!’ The big Gaul cried. But even as the words left his lips, one legionary roared in a mix of terror and bravado, hurling a plumbata at the foremost Gothic rider who was halfway across the bridge. The dart punched through the man’s jaw and sent him sliding onto the pontoon bridge.

‘You bloody fool,’ Avitus gawped at the legionary who had thrown the dart. It was Ursus, one of Lupicinus’ men, and he had already turned to run for the fort. At this, other legionaries hurled their spears and darts at the approaching riders before turning tail. Three more Goths were punched from their mounts by the hail.

On the bridge, a rabble of confusion grew amongst the Goths, then boiled over into a cacophony of anguished cries as word of the slayings spread. The riders around the slain men cried out and drew their longswords. Then, like a porcupine presenting its spines, all those behind followed suit. As one, the Gothic cavalry broke into a charge.

‘Oh, bollocks!’ Quadratus bundled the recruits back towards the fort. ‘Run, you bloody idiots, run!’

Avitus turned to run with the big centurion, then stopped short as he saw Felicia. Her face was torn in a scowl, stalking round to the rear of Quadratus, a curved iron dagger in her hand. He leapt for her, grappling her by the arm so the dagger fell to the snow.

‘Get your hands off me,’ she hissed, her breath clouding in the air.

‘Sorry, miss. No time for manners or we’re all dead,’ he spoke gruffly, shoving her towards the fort gates.

Her eyes narrowed on Quadratus as she backed away before turning to run for the fort. At that moment, Avitus realised that she knew. Or at least she thought she knew. She had found his scroll and assumed that it belonged to Quadratus, framing the big Gaul for the wage theft.

Then a ham-like hand grappled his tunic collar and yanked him forward as well.

‘Move!’ Quadratus bawled in his ear.

The pair set off at a sprint, the ground shaking beneath them from the chasing cavalry. Up ahead, Lupicinus sprinted at the head of the Roman retreat, all decorum and smug majesty from moments ago discarded. They stumbled past the four-pronged ballista and Avitus growled. ‘Never even got a single shot away!’

Quadratus pulled him along. ‘Just keep your eyes on the gate, we’re almost there . . . ’ his words were cut off by the crunch of a Gothic spear ripping through the chest of a recruit who had stumbled just ahead of him.

‘Death to the Romans!’ A jagged Gothic cry filled the air.

Avitus shot a look over his shoulder; Fritigern and his retinue of riders followed the charging cavalry, but while the lead riders’ faces were twisted in fury, the Gothic Iudex was roaring at them, gesticulating, waving them back. ‘Stop, you fools,’ Fritigern roared at his men, ‘the Romans are not our enemies!’ But the charging cavalry were deaf to their leader’s pleas.

Avitus faced front again. Then his shins thwacked into something, and he and Quadratus tumbled to the ground, ploughing into the deep snow.

Avitus scrambled to his feet and glanced back to see what they had tripped upon.

Comes Lupicinus lay in the snow, clutching his ankle, panic welling in his eyes. He reached out to Quadratus, his lips flapping silently as if stalling when trying to call for help.

Avitus looked to Quadratus, then the pair looked to the cavalry haring in on the felled Roman, spears raised. With a grunt, Quadratus leapt up.

‘No!’ Avitus yelled. But Quadratus was determined, stomping back towards Lupicinus. With a frustrated growl, Avitus prised a spear from the hands of a dead recruit and hoisted it then hurled it forward with a roar. The missile punched through the lead cavalryman, who was thrown back into his fellow riders’ paths and the charge faltered for a precious instant. Quadratus heaved Lupicinus up and slung him across his broad shoulders, then hobbled for the fort gates. Avitus skirted around the centurion, loosing arrows at the reforming riders to cover the retreat. The recruits spilled onto the battlements and began roaring encouragement to the trio.

Quadratus stumbled to his knees as soon as he was inside the fort, dropping Lupicinus to the ground. ‘Get the bloody gates closed!’ He bellowed at the pale-faced and trembling recruits, twisting to see the snarling Gothic riders just strides from the entrance.

As the gates slammed shut and the locking bar clunked into place, Quadratus and Avitus issued a synchronised sigh of relief.

Then, oblivious to the
capsarii
rushing to surround him, bearing dressings and salve, Lupicinus looked up at Quadratus. ‘You saved me?’ The comes stammered.

Quadratus shrugged.

Avitus stepped between the two and stooped to glare at Lupicinus. ‘And I trust he can consider himself pardoned?’

‘Yes,’ Lupicinus nodded, his features milky-white with terror. ‘Yes, he can.’

Then a jagged cry rang out from outside the fort. Not the cry of a Gothic horde, but the booming voice of one man.

‘Sir,’ one of the recruits on the walls cried, ‘Iudex Fritigern requests parley.’

Lupicinus’ eyes widened and his face paled, then he shrugged off the medics and held out an arm to Quadratus. ‘Get me up to the walls, soldier!’

Avitus took the other half of the comes’ weight, and together, he and Quadratus hobbled up the steps to the battlements. There, they let Lupicinus down. The comes slapped his hands onto the battlements to balance, sending thick snow down into the ditch below.

Then the three plus the meagre garrison of the fort fell silent as they gawped out across the plain. Fritigern’s followers were now flooding across the pontoon bridge in a seemingly endless train. All up and down the river, rafts and small boats were being launched to bring over swathes more. Crowds of Goths pressed against the far riverbank, unable to force their way onto the bridge or onto any crafts. They cast frequent nervous glances over their shoulders to the north and moaned in fear at the shadows back there – then huge groups of them began throwing themselves into the raging torrents of the river. They thrashed bravely in an attempt to swim to the southern bank, but few made it more than halfway across before perishing. Already formed up to face the fort were Gothic spearmen in their thousands and cavalry numbering several thousand again. Behind this army, the Gothic women, children and elderly clustered in their tens of thousands. They brought with them emaciated herds of mules, goats and oxen, and drew carts and pulled baggage on timber frames.

The recruits around Lupicinus were quick to offer their insights. ‘Fritigern has pacified his men, sir. The riders who charged us have been disarmed,’ one said.

Lupicinus seemed to draw confidence from this information and the thick walls that separated him from the Goths. He puffed out his chest and straightened his helmet. ‘Good, good. The barbarian knows what a mistake he has made.’

‘Sir,’ Quadratus hissed beside him. ‘We must tread carefully or there will be a massacre here today. Remember, we cast the first dart on the bridge.’

‘Don’t push your luck, Centurion; leave the thinking to me,’ Lupicinus peered down his nose.

As Quadratus turned away to disguise a muted flurry of curses, Avitus noticed something in the comes’ eyes; pure terror.

Down on the plain, Fritigern had pushed through to the fore on his stallion. Grey-flecked, fiery red locks and a beard tumbled down his shoulders from under his ornate, silver, full-face helmet.

Lupicinus called out to him, his voice shrill and wavering. ‘Iudex Fritigern. By crossing the Danubius, you have committed an act of war against the Roman Empire. You will be shown no mercy by our legions.’

Fritigern removed his helmet, his locks framing deep-set, tawny-gold eyes, flat cheekbones and a narrow nose. He pointed to the handful of legionary and Gothic corpses strewn on the path to the fort from the bridge. ‘That Roman and Gothic blood was spilled is regrettable, but you must believe me; I come here not as an enemy, but as an ally of Rome. We had no choice but to hasten across the bridge, for the dark riders are less than a morning’s ride behind us!’ Fritigern waved a hand back to the far riverbank.

Lupicinus heard this and then stabbed out his tongue to dampen his lips. ‘Who?’

‘The Huns. The dark riders of the northlands, they have conquered all who have crossed their path so far; the Alani, the Neuri, the Geloni, the Agathyrsi, the Melanchaenae . . . and they almost exterminated our cousins, the Greuthingi! Now they have descended upon my lands without warning or mercy with many more warriors than I have mustered here,’ he swept a hand across the ever-swelling sea of armoured men and riders. There were at least ten thousand Gothic warriors and what looked like more than many times that number of civilians, with more still flooding across the bridge. ‘My people have suffered terribly in these last days, their families slain, their lands raped and confiscated.’