Legionary: Viper of the North (45 page)

Gallus glanced at him, frowning.

Zosimus paused momentarily, then his face split with a broad grin. ‘ . . . but this one will top the lot!’ With that, the big Thracian drew his spatha, then stabbed the blade into the earth and rose to stand by Gallus.

Felix stroked his beard. ‘To even get close enough to assassinate Ivo would be some feat.’ The little primus pilus looked up with a solemn frown. ‘But if we do it, if we bring him down and Fritigern sees him for what he is then thousands and thousands of lives, Romans and Goths, could be saved.’ With that, the primus pilus stood and joined the two in the centre. With a dry chuckle, Quadratus and Avitus stood to join them.

‘I won’t stand in the way of any man who chooses to flee to the south,’ Gallus eyed the rest of the legionaries. ‘Mithras knows every other cur in our sister legions has taken that path.’

At this, a murmur rippled around the circle.

Pavo’s mind had been made up since he had awoken that morning, and Sura’s was too. The pair stood to join the veterans in the centre. ‘I don’t know if what you suggest is possible, sir, but I’d gladly die trying.’

Then he turned to look the undecided men in the eye. If they were to have a hope of succeeding, they needed every man they could get. But the rest of the legionaries seemed to be sheltering behind Crito’s doubt.

At that moment, he remembered how Salvian had put him at ease with a few light-hearted words. He took a deep breath and cocked a wry grin. ‘Who knows, if we succeed, we may even find ourselves promoted to lead our own legions?’ He looked to Crito with a sparkle in his eyes. ‘Though Hades knows I’d make a piss-poor officer!’

Crito cast a hard glare back at him for what seemed like an eternity, but was unable to stop a broad grin creeping across his pitted features. The veteran stood, nodding and chuckling, then joined the group in the centre. There, he clasped his arm to Pavo’s and gave him a sharp nod.

With that, the tide had turned, and the rest of the legionaries flocked to the centre.

In unison, nearly forty spathas were slid from scabbards and held high in the air. Then, a flock of nesting doves were scattered from the trees as a lung-bursting cheer rang out from the clearing.

Chapter 18

Governor Drusus was a cold-hearted and miserly man, the kind of man who would stride up to the pyre and prise the coins from his dead mother’s eyes. He rested one hand on the balcony and stroked the end of his pointed chin with the other, his narrow eyes scouring the northern horizon, stained with black plumes. Then he drew his gaze in over his magnificent city; Adrianople, the pride of central Thracia, the sea of domes, red-tiled roofs, marble and timber, all blanketed by a haze of gentle spring heat. But then he looked to the streets, swollen with low-life, and his nose wrinkled.

The city had descended into chaos in these last few days, with thousands of citizens from the northern cities and towns flocking through the gates. They carried with them all they had salvaged from their homes before fleeing from the Gothic invasion. Now he had a choice to make; the city needed its garrison to police this lot, but more than half of that garrison were Thervingi.

He spun round and strode back into his meeting room, eyes fixed on the two tall, blonde-locked Gothic Centurions before him. Suerdias and Colias had Roman names, and dressed in mail shirts and intercisa helmets they looked every inch like Roman soldiers. And they had served him loyally.

But they were Goths.

And he had his suspicions that the pillaging of his country villa last summer had been carried out by men known to the pair. Now that Fritigern’s masses rode unchecked across the countryside to the north, how long would it be before these rogues would join forces with the iudex, razing the country villa and everything else in sight? Yes, they had to be despatched, one way or another.

He affixed them with a hard stare. ‘You will take your men and move to the coast. Four imperial galleys are moored south of Tomis. They will take you east. Emperor Valens will employ you against the Persian dogs that lie in wait there.’ He held their stares
. And with any luck they will rip your barbarian throats out.

Suerdias looked to Colias, frowning, then turned back to the Governor.

‘But we have homes in this city . . . ’

‘You will be gone from my city by nightfall, Centurion, or you will be forcibly removed.’

Colias sighed. ‘At least give us a few days to wind up our affairs, pay our debts and then move on?’

Drusus thought on the idea for a moment. No, he reasoned, Fritigern’s forces were reported to be moving closer to Thracia every day, edging south across Moesia. ‘Guards!’ He bellowed.

Six Thracian legionaries marched into the room.

‘Escort the centurions to the barracks. See that they and their men have left the city by sunset.’

Colias and Suerdias’ faces wrinkled, first in confusion, then in ire. Colias shouted over his shoulder as they left. ‘You are a fool, Governor. You will be leaving your city with a half garrison at a time when it will need every man available!’

‘Oh, you are so sure that Fritigern will bring his armies to my walls?’ Drusus cocked an eyebrow, taking this as confirmation of their black blood. But Colias had a point; more men would be needed – first to expel these Gothic legionaries swiftly and then to repel any Barbarian assault. Perhaps it was time to call on the dregs of the populace. Yes, the cutthroat street gangs and the filthy warehouse workers owed him this, he mused.

He clapped his hands, a narrow grin splitting his face as a messenger came running to him.

Tullius swigged another mouthful of ale and then leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms out to behold the drunken rabble that packed the inn and the streets outside. ‘And so here I am, in mighty Adrianople, with only a purse and a dagger. Meanwhile my inn lies abandoned, probably drunk dry and being pissed in by brigands and barbarians!’

The ruddy-faced man across the table from him nodded, eyes dull with inebriation. ‘Durostorum?
The Boar and Hollybush
, you say? I’ve been in there when I was trading along the borders. Nice place, but I always felt I’d be likely to lose an eye whenever the legion decided to visit for the night.’

‘Aye, made me a fine living, they did,’ Tullius mused wryly. ‘But, by the gods, did they make me work for it!’

‘Well, we’ve all lost whatever we had,’ the man replied, staring through Tullius. Then he seemed to perk up. ‘Another ale?’ He asked, and was up and staggering to the bar before Tullius had a chance to answer.

Alone, Tullius swirled the ale in his cup. Then a maudlin cloud drifted over his heart. He pulled a leather and gemstone trinket from his purse and held it to his lips. It was the Gothic piece the young lad Pavo had bought for his daughter. Felicia had worn it every day since. He chuckled at this, remembering the many times he had felt for the lad; Felicia made him fight like a dog for scraps of affection. Then, after Pavo left in resignation, she would always have this glow – a mix of satisfaction and happiness, he reckoned. She liked Pavo, that was for sure. So Tullius had been surprised when his daughter had given the piece to him. It was on the last night he had seen her, the night before the exodus of the limitanei and the citizens.

His throat thickened again at the thought.
Why . . . why did she go there?
He grappled at the trinket now, his knuckles whitening. Yes, she was concerned for Pavo, as she had stated in the sheaf of parchment she had left explaining her overnight disappearance. But he knew there was another, darker reason for her rushing headlong into the Gothic crisis. He thought of his dead son and the bitter ire the boy’s murder had evoked in his daughter. He closed his eyes.
Curtius, I miss you dearly, but it seems your sister is set on avenging your death, or joining you.

Then, a smash of clay outside shook him from his thoughts. He looked up; outside, angry shouts rang out, some Roman, some Gothic.

‘Get out of our city, Gothic scum!’ One voice cried.

Tullius stood and pushed through the crowd. On the street, the drunken rabble and the swell of refugees had been pressed to the sides as, in the walkway, a mob of grim-faced men swaggered forward bearing clubs, daggers and rocks. Workers, Tullius reckoned, going by their grease-stained tunics. There were nearly five hundred of them. Backing away from this rabble were over two hundred legionaries. Three pure Gothic centuries, judging by their height, fair skin and blonde hair. The two centurions who led them seemed to be trying to pacify both the mob and their own legionaries.

‘You will not harm any citizen,’ one of the two centurions roared to the nearest of his soldiers. But the legionaries bore foul grimaces, swords already drawn.

‘But our people have risen, the tribes are uniting!’ The nearest of them yelled back. ‘Fritigern is out there, this is our calling. Goths in Roman service all across the land are going over to him, you know this! What loyalty do we owe the people of the empire? They mean to cast us outside their walls anyway, or have us murdered should we resist!’

The tall centurion stifled a frustrated growl. While the other one desperately pleaded with the oncoming mob. Then a rock was thrown, smashing the nose of one of the Gothic legionaries, who slumped to his knees, moaning, blood soaking his armour.

Tullius felt the ale clear from his mind. He stepped forward, before the mob. ‘You fools, don’t you see what you’re doing?’

‘Out of our way, vagrant!’ The mob leader snarled.

‘If you drive these men from the city, then they almost certainly
will
turn to Fritigern! And you will have a paltry garrison left to man the walls!’

The mob leader barged forward, shoulder charging Tullius out of his way.

Tullius thudded to the ground, scraping his elbows.

Then, just as the mob leader roared, waving his men forward, Tullius stood and leapt in front of the man once more. ‘You fool, stop this madness!’

Tullius felt a sharp tearing in his ribs. He swayed where he stood, then looked down to see the dagger hilt jutting from his chest, his tunic sodden in dark blood. At once he moved a trembling hand past the hilt and to his purse, fumbling to open it, to find the trinket. Then blackness engulfed him and he toppled to the ground.