Legionary: Viper of the North (35 page)

And while they fight, I can reach safety,
Lupicinus affirmed, before shouting up to the gatehouse. ‘Open the gates!’ Then he lowered himself in his saddle. The sea of stunned Gothic faces gawped as he hared forward. The men in the Roman column yelled out in anger and confusion, while those atop the gatehouse frowned at his calls for the gates to be opened.
But they don’t understand; I’m not a soldier, I’m not meant to be here.
The gates were growing closer and closer. All he had to do was swerve past Fritigern and Ivo and he was there. Surely they would open the gates for him? Inside the city he would be safe.
To Hades with you, Father!

Then the iron-clad, mounted figure of Gallus swung into his path, face burning with ire. Three legionaries flanked him on either side, presenting a Roman spearwall to protect Fritigern and Ivo.

‘Halt!’ Gallus roared.

Lupicinus’ heart leapt and he reined in his mount, the beast skidding and the riders behind him toppling from their saddles. The comes’ wild gaze swept over Gallus and those flanking the tribunus. Then his eyes locked onto Pavo.

Pavo returned the stare, his top lip curling to reveal gritted teeth, his spearpoint resting by Lupicinus’ heart.

Lupicinus’ hands grew slack on the reins and his shoulders slumped. His mind drifted and his eyes grew distant.

Then a lone voice taunted him in his mind
.

You coward!

Gallus raised a pleading hand to Fritigern, then trotted over to Lupicinus, grappling his wrist, shaking the sword from his grip. ‘You imbecile! You could have killed us all!’

But Lupicinus’ face was ghostly white and his gaze was far-off.

Gallus frowned. Then, finally, the comes twisted his head round to look straight through him, his lips moving but the words carried no feeling. ‘Dux Vergilius . . .
 
will hear of your . . . insubordination.’

Gallus gripped his wrist and hissed in his ear. ‘That fat sot hears only the gurgle of wine disappearing down his throat. Here and now our actions could save the empire . . . or end it!’ He glared at Lupicinus, anticipating another retort, but the comes was lost somewhere behind his own eyes. Then, the reflection of Ivo grew in Lupicinus’ pupils.

Gallus steeled himself and turned to face the giant warrior.

‘Odd behaviour for an ally?’ Ivo sneered. ‘I feared we would have to slay you and your column in self-defence, Tribunus.’ The sea of spears and arrows poised around the scrawny Roman column creaked and rippled as if in agreement.

Gallus hesitated for a moment, then looked Ivo in the eye. ‘This was a dreadful miscalculation by my comes. Just as some of your riders broke rank when you first crossed into the empire.’ Then he turned to Fritigern. ‘I apologise unreservedly for this incident. Thanks to Mithras and Wodin that no blood was spilled.’

‘Yet the gates are shut, Tribunus. My people will still perish from hunger,’ Fritigern spoke coldly.

Gallus held the iudex’s gaze. ‘Grain
will
be delivered to your people.’

Fritigern frowned. ‘You will open the gates?’

Gallus shook his head.

Fritigern snorted. ‘Then don’t waste your breath, Tribunus.’ He looked around his people, then up to the walls. ‘This reeks of trickery; perhaps Rome thought she could spring some kind of trap upon my armies here, below your fine city walls?’ Fritigern spread out his arms to the surrounding countryside. ‘Well I see no reason to be fearful. My armies could shatter anything the empire was to throw at it,’ he leaned forward, wagging one finger at Gallus, ‘and you know this.’

‘It does indeed reek of trickery,’ Gallus replied, his eyes narrowing on Ivo. ‘Unfortunately, I fear both your people and mine have been tricked.’

Ivo looked back, his face expressionless.

Gallus glanced to Salvian, a few ranks back; the ambassador almost imperceptibly shook his head. One word rang in his thoughts.
Proof.
He suppressed a growl of frustration. To obtain proof would require time, and they had precious little of that.

‘But let us put this to one side and focus on the vital issue – your people need grain, as do mine. And I can assure you, Iudex Fritigern, that we are still bound as strongly as ever by our truce.’

‘No,’ Fritigern hissed, ‘this has gone too far. Too many concessions have been made. We came to you under truce, seeking refuge. Yet we have been subjected to rape, murder, starvation and humiliation!’

‘I beg for your patience, Iudex Fritigern. Grain could be here, in front of you, by morning,’ Gallus said, the tension tight in his voice. ‘Surely the promise of peace is worth one more night of patience?’ At this, the surrounding Goths fell silent.

‘Do not make promises you cannot fulfil, Tribunus. It will be worse for all your people in the longer term.’

Gallus looked Fritigern in the eye, his face gaunt and unsmiling. ‘I do not make false promises.’ A breeze whistled over them as they eyed one another in silence. ‘It is possible. Difficult, but possible,’ Gallus continued. ‘You would have to provide wagons and riders though, say two hundred of each. My turma of cavalry will lead your men to the settlements nearby. We could pull together enough to see us through a few more weeks.’

Fritigern made to reply, then stopped as Ivo whispered in his ear. Gallus’ eyes narrowed at this. Fritigern seemed to mull over the giant’s words for some time, before finally shaking his head, drawing a barely disguised sneer of disgust from Ivo.

The Gothic Iudex looked up, then beckoned a tall rider with topknotted locks and a decorated red leather cuirass. ‘Gunter, muster your riders.’ The rider nodded and wheeled away on his mount, then Fritigern looked back to Gallus. ‘You have until sunrise, Tribunus.’ Then he placed a hand over his heart and pointed to the Chi-Rho above the church basilica, then pointed to the wooden idol of Mithras Gallus was clasping in his hand. ‘After that, no god can help you and your empire.’

The waxing moon flitted between the scudding clouds in an otherwise pitch-black night. Mercifully, spring had taken hold of the land at last and the air was pleasant. Amidst the sea of Gothic tents and campfires surrounding Marcianople, a small, neatly aligned block of contubernium tents offered a semblance of order to the chaos of the day just passed; the XI Claudia legionaries were posted here outside the walls whilst Lupicinus and two centuries of his comitatenses had quickly volunteered to bolster the city garrison.

Inside his contubernium tent, Pavo lay stretched out on his cot. He had lain there for what felt like an eternity, studying the shadows cast by a guttering candle on the roof of the tent. He struggled to see how tomorrow could be anything other than his last day; the end of the XI Claudia and perhaps the beginning of the end of the empire? On and on his thoughts churned until, almost surreptitiously, sleep crept across him. He felt the jabbering of his ruminations become distant, and his eyelids grew heavy. Then the nightmare came to him again.

‘Father?’ He called out, reaching for the hunched, tired old man before him. His heart wept at the sight. The once-proud legionary seemed to be fading before him. ‘Take my hand, before it is too late!’ He roared, glancing nervously around the peaceful dunes. The sandstorm would come any moment now, and when it did, Father would be gone again.

But this time, the sandstorm did not come.

Then Pavo realised that Tarquitius was standing by his side. The senator carried a writhing viper on his shoulders; the beast’s scales glistened as it wrapped around him, as if soothing him.

‘Senator?’ Pavo said uncertainly.

But Tarquitius’ eyes were glassy and distant. He did not hear Pavo’s words.

Then the viper slipped around Tarquitius’ neck and its head rose up behind him, tensing, broadening. Its jaw dislocated and stretched wide, fangs bared and dripping venom, throat gaping, ready to devour. Yet Tarquitius was oblivious to this.

‘Senator!’ Pavo stumbled back, horrified. The snake readied to sink its fangs into Tarquitius’ skull. The man would die and the truth would die with him.

Suddenly, Pavo felt the weight of a spatha in his hand. At once, he hefted the blade towards the creature, but the snake slipped free of the senator at the last moment. With a punch of ripping meat, the blade scythed halfway through Senator Tarquitius’ neck. Blood pumped from the wound like an ocean, flooding the sands until Tarquitius’ body was shrivelled and shrunken to the size of a peach stone. Pavo stared, repulsed at the sight. Then he saw the tip of the viper’s tail slip under the sand.

The first stinging grains of the sandstorm danced against his face, and Pavo remembered where he was. He shot his gaze back to the nearby dune, looking for Father.

But the dune was empty. Father was gone.

Pavo’s thoughts raced. Then he filled his lungs and clasped the phalera.

‘If there is a truth about you that I must know, then I will find it!’ He cried out over the empty dunes.

Pavo blinked, realising he was sitting bolt upright, slick with sweat. The candle had burnt out, and it was still dark outside. He rubbed at his temples as the angst of the nightmare slipped away. Then he sighed at the sight of Sura in the nearby cot, snoring like a boar, as if tomorrow was just another day. Apart from Sura, the tent was empty; evidently many of the legionaries had found sleep hard to come by. He lay back in his cot, determined to sleep again.

It seems the Viper is even infiltrating my nightmares,
he stifled a wry chuckle as he shuffled into a more comfortable position. As he did so, his drowsy gaze fell upon a shadowy shape by the tent flap.
Did it just move?
He rubbed his eyes, sure it was just the residue of sleep in his mind. But his nightmares swirled with all that had happened in these last months: the Viper’s riders, embedded within Fritigern’s horde, operating under cover of night, slipping into Goth and Roman tents to slit throats and pillage grain.

Then the shape glided forward like a shade, cloaked and hooded. Panic gripped Pavo’s every sinew.

Was this the Viper himself? The hooded shade in the green cloak, the one who plots the end for all Rome?

Pavo scrambled backwards from his cot, clawing out for his spatha and hopping up to standing, pointing the blade at the figure. Then he smelt a sweet, floral scent, saw the slender shoulders and curve of hips. He hesitated, sword in hand.

‘I was going to surprise you by slipping into your cot,’ Felicia whispered, stepping into a patch of dull torchlight from outside and lowering her hood. Then she let the cloak fall from her shoulders and her amber locks tumbled down her back and chest. She wore a close-fitting blue tunic and brown leggings. ‘I thought you might be pleased to see me, but not this pleased.’