Legionary: Viper of the North (32 page)

Inspired, he lifted the scroll from his cloak and kissed it, then clutched it tight in his grip and leaned flat on the saddle, heeling the beast. ‘Come on, boy, not long to go now. Ya!’

Focused on the last rise before he would break clear of the forest and onto the plain of Durostorum, he did not notice the figure lurking in the shadows by the trackside, hands cupped to the mouth.

Ennius heard a shrill bird call and frowned; it was the first note of birdsong he had heard since returning to this snowy land. He glanced over his shoulder.

Nothing.

He turned back to set his sights on home, when two dark figures darted from the trees ahead, a rope held across the track between them. Ennius’ eyes bulged and a scream caught in his throat as the two pulled the rope taut, lifting it so it caught Ennius around the chest and pulled him from his saddle. A sharp crack rang out as he tumbled, head over heels across the snow and bracken of the forest floor.

Then everything came to a standstill. Groggily, Ennius saw his panicked stallion gallop off into the distance. He struggled to sit up and glanced around; the two figures were nowhere to be seen. He saw the scroll beside him and gratefully snatched it up from the ground. He made to stand then buckled and collapsed again with a scream as white hot agony coursed through his left leg: a shard of pure white bone jutted from the shin, poking through his leather boot, and the lower shin and foot hung at an absurd angle. He twisted away and vomited.

Then footsteps crunched through the snow, right behind him.

Retching the last of the bile from his belly, Ennius looked up. Two Gothic spearmen grinned like sharks, their topknotted locks billowing in the chill breeze, features illuminated in the moonlight. Ennius clawed at the dirt, pulling himself away despite the agony of his leg. But then he froze, hearing the gentle clop of hooves just behind him.

He twisted round to see a figure, in a dark-green cloak and hood, face in shadow, mounted on a black stallion. One of the Gothic spearmen plucked the scroll from Ennius’ hand as he gawped at the dark rider.

‘This is what you wanted, Master?’ The spearman asked, holding up the scroll.

‘Indeed,’ the dark rider replied, pulling another, identically sealed scroll from his cloak. Then the shadows within the hood turned to behold Ennius. ‘Orders will reach the legionary fort, rider. Just not the ones you have carried all this way,’ he unfurled the original scroll, nodding as he read the contents. ‘No, this scroll will be little more than ashes in a matter of moments, as will you, Roman. As will your empire, before too long.’ With that, the figure raised one hand and extended a finger, then swiped it down.

Ennius gawped, fear stiffening him at once. Then he twisted back to the two spearmen just in time to see the nearest of them draw a longsword to hold it two-handed, then swing the blade towards his neck.

The forest echoed with Ennius the rider’s scream until it was abruptly cut short.

Moonlight illuminated the plain as Senator Tarquitius made his way from the fort back to his rented room in Durostorum.

‘What have I done?’ He raked frozen fingers over his bald pate, muttering to himself as he crunched through the carpet of snow, past the crackling torches and fires of the nearby Gothic camp. Then, on seeing a family of emaciated Goths walking towards him on their way to the camp, eyeing him nervously, he straightened up and cleared his throat to stride in his best senatorial fashion. But as soon as he had passed them, his shoulders slumped again and he rubbed at his temples.

He had been used, like a puppet, like a stepping stone. Again. Power had been dangled before him, like a carrot before a donkey, to lead him into this mess. All the expense, all the effort, all the lickspittle behaviour he had employed – all to ascend the ladder of imperial power. Yet it had all blinded him to the reality;
he
was the die in another’s hand. And if this Viper’s desires were to be realised, then there would be no empire. For the first time in so long he wanted to confide in someone, but he no longer knew who he could trust. And there were few if any who trusted him.

The men of the legion barely disguised their contempt for him, and Salvian, his protégé, had seemingly sided with them. Then there was Pavo. His ex-slave glared at him like a demon every time their paths crossed.
But I cannot tell him what he wants to know
, he affirmed, remembering the Viper’s threat.
You should continue to deny the legionary this knowledge, Senator, for without it, it seems you would be truly worthless to me, and I would have little reason to keep you alive.

And then there were the Goths. Every one of the towering warriors who cast him a cold look could well be one of the Viper’s riders. Rumour had been rife that those very riders were secreted within the Gothic camp, and were the ones behind the numerous midnight slayings of noble Goths and ruination of what little grain supply they had. Perhaps, he gulped, looking around the plain, he might be their next target.

A chill wind whipped up, blowing snow over him.

‘Why do you mock me,’ he shook a fist at the night sky, then wondered at which deity he cursed. Wealth and power had been his gods since his earliest days as a politician, and both had served to humiliate him. He felt a fresh wave of despair creep over him, then pursed his lips and balled his fists. ‘Bury your self-pity, you fool,’ he affirmed, ‘it will bring you little providence.’

‘Speaking to shades, Senator?’ A voice spoke from the darkness, startling him.

He spun to scour the shadow under a lone snow-cloaked oak. There stood a dark figure beside a pair of tethered geldings. His nightmares rushed in for him as he remembered the green-cloaked apparition in Athanaric’s feasting hall.
The Viper?

The figure stepped forward, and he heaved a sigh of relief upon seeing not a green cloak but a scale vest. It was Fritigern’s aide. ‘Ivo! What are you doing here?’

The giant warrior stepped forward, bronze hoops sparkling in his earlobe, the milky matter in his ruined eye glistening in the moonlight. ‘I have come to summon you.’

Tarquitius frowned. ‘Fritigern wants to see me, at this time?’

The big warrior shook his head, a cool grin splitting his face. ‘No, my
true
master has deemed it time to call upon you. He is nearby.’

Tarquitius scowled as Ivo carefully removed the two leather greaves on his arms. Then an icy horror raked across his skin as he set eyes upon the blue ink snake stigmas that coiled around the giant’s forearms.

The Viper’s words hissed in his mind.

When you see my mark, you will obey.

Pavo and Sura walked the snowy track through the Gothic camp on the first of their night patrol circuits. Their brief from Gallus was simple; to catch the Viper’s riders at large and to ensure that no innocent Goth was harmed. However, the passing Goths who carried firewood between the tents saw them as intruders rather than protectors, casting them steely glares and uttering low growls.

But Pavo’s mind was elsewhere. He wondered just how far he was prepared to go to weed the truth from Senator Tarquitius. Just last night he had found the nightmare of Father replaced by one where he was drinking a cup of warm blood, draining it before gleefully asking for more. Then he had looked down to see that in his dream he wore a senatorial toga. That had been enough to waken him, panting, bathed in sweat.

He shook his head of the memory and cast a glance across the plain to the dark outline of the Durostorum. At this, another cloud was quick to settle over his thoughts. They had visited
The Boar and Hollybush
earlier that evening
.
Felicia had been there, and once again, she had been distant, distracted.

‘You think she’s after a bit of Quadratus?’ Sura chirped, blowing into his hands.

Pavo’s face wrinkled and he turned to his friend.

‘Well she did ask more than once when he was due to patrol the Gothic camp?’ Sura shrugged. ‘I’d say there was a chance she was after a bit of . . . ’ he looped one forefinger and thumb and prodded his other forefinger through it vigorously.

‘Did she look as if she was in that kind of mood?’ Pavo snapped.

‘Ach, she has a reputation . . . ’ Sura started, then stopped, seeing Pavo’s scowl.

They walked on in silence, and Pavo thought of his bunk, praying tonight would be the night when he would fall into a dreamless sleep. The phalera tingled on his chest as if to remind him that hope was futile. He rubbed at his eyes; perhaps another night of chatting with Salvian was in the offing. They had spent many nights in these last few weeks talking and drinking watered wine while the rest of the fort slept. Conversation was always so easy with the ambassador, and offered a pleasant alternative to the nightmares. Pavo felt the beginnings of a smile lift his lips.

Then a high-pitched scream and angered voices rang out from a nearby cluster of tents.

Pavo looked to Sura and Sura stared back.

The Viper?
Sura mouthed silently.

Then, without another word of deliberation, the pair clasped their hands to their scabbards and ran to the noise, their mail vests chinking.

From the corner of his eye, Pavo saw tent flaps ripple, Gothic heads poking out, frowning.

‘Every Goth in the camp must have heard that scream,’ Sura hissed as they ran.

Then they stopped, mouths agape at the scene before them, lit by the dancing orange of a campfire. This was not the work of the Viper.

A golden haired Gothic lady, ageing but still beautiful, cowered in the centre of a circle of eight legionaries. She whimpered, holding a hand to her face, unable to stem the flow of blood where her teeth had been knocked out. The legionaries were scale-vested comitatenses and carried blue shields; Lupicinus’ men. They had their spears levelled, keeping at bay a pack of five Gothic men, all of the same family going by their hair and features.

Then the lead legionary kicked a dark piece of matter, clearly crawling with maggots, towards the woman. ‘You got your meat, now eat it, before it rots!’

Pavo recognised the voice instantly; it was Ursus, the snub-nosed and scowling ringleader of the group accused of raping the Goth noble’s wife. Ursus rubbed at his knuckles, red with the woman’s blood. The rest of the men were those of Ursus’ contubernium, and they wore the same sneers of malice.

A wave of ire and nausea swept over Pavo as he eyed the scene, and his mind echoed with Salvian’s words.
There are occasions when brute force is the order of the day.

‘What in Hades is going on here?’ He roared.