Legionary: Viper of the North (46 page)

Colias gawped at the Roman lying on the flagstones, his lips blue and the last of the lifeblood pumping from his chest. Then a hand gripped his shield arm.

‘Shields!’ Suerdias barked.

Colias raised his shield to the hail of darts, rocks and stones the mob hurled at him. He looked to Suerdias. Suerdias looked back at him.

‘We have no choice,’ Colias roared over the tumult.

Suerdias nodded, his face grave. ‘We slay these dogs, then we plunder the imperial warehouse. We take all we can. Then we seek out our people.’

Colias nodded, then twisted back to shout at his men. ‘Iudex Fritigern awaits us, brothers,’ he spoke through trembling lips, ‘and Allfather Wodin will see us safely to him.’

With that, the pair pulled their shields down and stabbed forward. ‘At them!’ Suerdias cried, and the Gothic legionaries roared, rushing forward to butcher Governor Drusus’ ramshackle mob.

Chapter 19

Fritigern heeled his stallion again, and at last he burst clear of the curtain of fog to crest the foothill, bathed in dawn sunlight. He slowed his mount, stroking her mane as he surveyed the land; the surrounding hilltops and the Haemus Mountains looked like islands in the sea of fog that clung to the lowland. He sucked in the air, crisp and clear. Then he lifted the iron helmet from his head and closed his eyes, welcoming the warmth of the sun on his skin.

For the briefest of moments, he tried to imagine that he was alone up here. His thoughts had been jabbering and jumbled in these last weeks. It felt as though the hand of Wodin had swept him and his people through the recent happenings, and the pressure of being a leader had never felt greater. Then, from behind him, the clanking of iron and thundering of footsteps and hooves in their thousands jolted him back to this reality. He twisted in the direction from which he had come to see the fog swirl and part.

‘Iudex, you must not ride ahead like that,’ Ivo said.

The scarred warrior rode at the head of a wing of one thousand cavalrymen. These riders, like the rest of his people, looked well-fed and refreshed, their armour polished and clean, their hair washed and groomed, their weapons sharp, their minds focused. It was the first time his people had looked healthy in months, ever since the Huns had driven them from their homelands. Perhaps, he thought, he should be grateful for this blessing. For now his destiny was clear; just like the parting fog, all doubt was gone. The empire had to be punished.

Ivo sidled up to him. His loyal aide wore his grey locks braided into tails and wore an old, bronzed helmet that covered his face to his cheeks. Fritigern cast his mind back to that day, twenty years ago, when they had first met. It had been on a journey home from a parley with a Thervingi rival. He had been riding with his twenty finest horsemen, men whom he trusted like brothers to fight by his side to the last. And they had. The masked brigands who sprung his column from the trees were like starved wolves, pulling his riders from their mounts. His men fought with all they had, slaying any who came for their Iudex, but there were too many of them. Then, when the last of his men was felled, the twelve surviving brigands had turned to him, bloodied blades readied to strike him down. It was then that the lone warrior had appeared at the end of the track. All eyes had turned to the one-eyed giant. Then the warrior had stalked forward with the confidence of a lion, spinning a longsword in his grip as if it was a twig. At this, the brigands hesitated. Then a few to the rear broke and ran for the trees. The giant smashed his sword into that of the lead brigand, shearing the blade. At this, the rest of the bandits had turned and fled. That moment had forged a friendship that had grown stronger with every day since.

Fritigern’s thoughts came back to the present and he looked to his most loyal aide once more.

Ivo’s milky eye and the good one peered from the eye-slits, examining the hills ahead.

Fritigern followed Ivo’s gaze. ‘You are certain that they will come, Ivo?’

‘Absolutely,’ Ivo nodded. ‘Any past disputes pale in comparison to what lies before their people and yours now, Iudex. It is time for the tribes to unite.’

Fritigern nodded, gazing around the hilltop; so this was the place and the time for it to happen. Then he frowned, remembering the tales his mother used to tell him; tales of the one they called the Viper, the Iudex who would unite the tribes and bring bloody war to all. He looked up to the sky;
yet it is me who brings about this brutal reality.

A needling voice in the back of his mind would not fall silent. Like a trapped man pleading from the bottom of a well, calling out for him to open his eyes, to see what was going on around him. He remembered the claims of Tribunus Gallus and his gaze drifted to Ivo’s leather arm greaves.
What if
. . .
no!
He shook his head clear of the doubts, remembering the number of times this man had bled for him. A firm voice and a true leader was needed now.

Then Ivo grasped his shoulder.

Startled, Fritigern looked to his aide.

‘It is time,’ Ivo said, nodding to the far side of the hilltop.

There, the mist swirled and parted and another army marched into view. Thousands of Gothic spearmen and hundreds of cavalry. These were the Greuthingi Goths of northern Gutthiuda. Leading them were Alatheus and Saphrax, the dominant Iudexes of their people.

Alatheus heeled his mount forward.

‘Noble Fritigern,’ he clasped a hand to his heart, ‘Having spent so many weeks fleeing from the demon horsemen from the steppes, it warms me to see you and your kin.’

Fritigern nodded, placing his fist over his heart in reply. ‘Aye,’ he replied tentatively, thinking of their past quarrels and bloody wars. ‘Yet it pains me that it has taken a catastrophe like this to bring us together.’

Alatheus nodded solemnly. ‘Know that my men will shed blood for your cause. Over the coming weeks, more of my kin will join us and swell the ranks. But it is not just kin from the north that flock to join you . . . ’ he held out one hand to the curtain of mist.

Fritigern frowned as the mist swirled again. Then, like an iron serpent, a column of Roman legionaries marched forth onto the hilltop. A century became two, then they were a cohort, then nearly a thousand.

At this, Fritigern’s men rippled to arms, panicked shouts splitting the air.

‘At ease,’ Alatheus bawled, raising both hands. ‘They are with us. Look! They wear Roman armour, but they have Gothic hearts.’

Fritigern’s men watched, still uncertain as the legionaries came closer. Then they saw it. Blonde and red locks tumbled from their intercisas and blue stigmas spiralled on their jaws.

The two centurions leading the legionary column stopped short of Fritigern. The nearest pulled off his helmet to reveal narrow, handsome features. He clasped a hand to his heart. ‘Suerdias of the northern plains, loyal to the Thervingi, sons of Allfather Wodin!’ He boomed. Then he swept a hand back over the wagons they brought with them – laden with Roman arms and armour. ‘We will fight alongside you until the last.’

As Fritigern eyed the two armies, a tense silence crackled in the air.

Then Ivo heeled his mount into a canter and halted between the three armies.

‘Feel the sun on your skins, my people!’ He roared out. ‘For today is a great day. Today we see, at long last, the unification of the tribes. Armies will flock to our cause. Iudex Fritigern will lead us to greatness!’

A murmur broke out across the ranks, some of Fritigern’s men started to cheer.
 
Then all eyes fell upon the iudex.

Fritigern felt the weight of expectation like an anvil on his shoulders. There was no turning back now, he realised, steeling himself. He drew his longsword, held it aloft and addressed his followers;

‘We cannot allow this moment to pass us by. We stand by our common enemy’s artery. Our blades are sharp. Let us cut through it with all our combined might!’

Then Ivo punched the air. ‘Let the blood of the Romans flow under our feet like the Mother River. The time has come!’

To a man, the Goths roared like lions and the earth shook beneath them.

Pavo ducked back from the ridge, his heart pounding, his skin rippling at the tumultuous roar. Was this really happening? Had the thin air and the mist played tricks on his senses? He glanced up again, over the lip of the ridge. No, it was all real; Goths innumerable cried out in fervour as Fritigern and Ivo stood amidst the three united armies. But there was another figure, mounted and flitting between the masses of spears being punched into the air. Pavo’s skin crawled; was it the hooded, green cloaked rider from the plain? He blinked and rubbed his eyes, and the rider was gone, consumed in the sea of warriors . . . or perhaps never there in the first place? He turned away from the ridge, flushing the thoughts from his mind.

Lying flat beside him, Gallus punched a balled fist into the grass. ‘Whoresons!’

All along the line of legionaries, similar muted curses and laments rang out.

The handful – just over thirty – who had survived these last few weeks since the sack of Marcianople had tracked the Gothic column vigilantly. They had stalked along the ridges of the foothills, hidden in dells, slept in caves, melted into the forests as though they were the barbarians, waiting on the moment, the sliver of opportunity when they could get at Ivo. In all that time, hope had ebbed on an almost daily basis as they had passed burnt-out forts, razed settlements and scorched lands. Now it all appeared to be for nothing.

‘It’s over,’ Sura said, his tone that of a lost child. ‘The Goths have won.’

Pavo ran his fingers across his scalp, his dark locks curling and his beard thick after so many weeks without shaving. ‘And we didn’t even get a chance to fight them properly.’

Felix gathered the group together, then turned to Gallus. ‘We need a new strategy, sir,’ the primus pilus’ voice was steady, but his eyes urgently searched the tribunus for a response.

Gallus looked across his weary band of men. ‘No, we still have a chance. You all saw how cold Fritigern was with the Greuthingi Iudexes and the renegade legionaries; it was Ivo who bound them together and brought that cheer from their armies. The strategy still holds good. Until a viable alternative becomes apparent, we must stay honed on getting to Ivo.’

‘We need hope,’ a lone voice spoke up.

Pavo turned with the rest to the voice. It was Crito. The veteran had become withdrawn in the weeks since Marcianople, and was surely a portent of where the morale of the rest would be headed.