Legionary: Viper of the North (47 page)

‘I’ll stick with the plan, to the last,’ he spoke steadily, ‘but I fear the last is not too far away. That’s what I mean, when I say we need hope. Something has to go our way.’

Pavo felt for the man, and his words seemed to resonate around the group as some heads nodded, some went down, and shoulders sagged. He turned to Gallus, but even the iron tribunus was struggling to find the words of inspiration Crito sought.

Then, the ground rumbled with the thundering of hooves, approaching fast from the misty lowlands behind them.

Instinctively, the thirty spun away from the ridge and the meeting of the Goths. They snatched their spathas from their scabbards and leapt to readiness, eyes wide as they scrutinised the misty curtain down the hill. Gallus signalled frantically but in silence for the thirty to gather together as a square.

Pavo stumbled into position on the front line, Sura pushing up beside him. The pair only had a single shield to share between them, and barely half the front presented spears. Mutterings of despair started across the Romans as they waited on the Goths to burst from the mist.

‘Been a pleasure fighting alongside you,’ Sura said.

‘Aye, likewise,’ Pavo replied.

‘Cut out the chit-chat, you couple of bum-boys,’ Zosimus cut in abruptly, ‘and get ready to fight as I taught you!’

A panicky chuckle spread across the line and then the group fell silent, and then braced as a shape burst from the fog.

‘Mithras on wine!’ Zosimus gasped, his mouth falling agape.

Pavo’s eyes bulged at the sight.

A turma
of thirty Roman equites rode in a wedge on fine, muscular mounts. But the lead rider was mounted on the finest of them all as he trotted forward to examine the thirty. The man’s jaw was broad and speckled with grey stubble, his nose narrow and hooked and his skin sun-darkened. He was no renegade Goth – this man was Roman through and through.

Gallus stepped forward and saluted. ‘Manius Atius Gallus, Tribunus of the XI Claudia Pia Fidelis.’

‘Appius Velius Traianus, Magister Militum Per Orientalis,’ the man replied with a salute. ‘Now tell me, Gallus, what in Hades has happened here?’

The Roman cavalry turma and the straggle of legionaries spilled down a shrub-coated hillside into the dell, where a trickling stream would make a fine and secluded site for rest and refreshment.

Traianus sighed, flexing his grip on the mount’s reins, his chest tightening as he tried to take stock of the sorry state of affairs. Every town, city and fort from the Danubius to Marcianople had been razed or was braced for such an assault. The limitanei legions were in disarray and he and his cavalry had encountered ragged bands like this dotted all across the countryside. But this band was different; they were not fleeing south. It had come as no surprise to him that these thirty were led by the fastidious Tribunus Gallus. Valens had warned him of a selection of unworthy dogs who held sway in the limitanei, but had described Gallus in stark contrast as a pithy and iron-hearted man who would fight until his heart burst. Indeed, Gallus was insistent that they should stay close to the main Gothic horde, despite Traianus’ plans to withdraw to the south.

‘We cannot fall back,’ Gallus insisted again, marching ahead of his straggle of soldiers to draw level with Traianus’ mount. ‘We are on the cusp of bringing down the man who has orchestrated all of this!’

Traianus’ eyes narrowed at this. The chatter since they had stumbled across Gallus and his men that morning had been swift and chaotic, but he had heard a name mentioned several times now.

And he longed for it not to be true.

‘This Ivo . . . you say he was behind the rebel uprisings in Fritigern’s lands, and now he rides at the head of the united Gothic army?’

Gallus nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’

A cold shiver danced up Traianus’ spine.
It is him, it has to be
. ‘Describe him to me.’

‘Three hoops in his ear, a nose like an arrowhead and . . . ’ Gallus started, then touched one hand to his eye.

‘. . . one ruined eye, milky and scarred?’ Traianus finished for him.

Gallus’ eyes widened. ‘Then you know of him?’

Traianus nodded. ‘I do. I once crossed swords with the man.’

Gallus frowned. ‘If you know of Ivo, you must surely know of the Viper?’

Traianus nodded. ‘Iudex Anzo was a callous whoreson, Tribunus. Yes, he lived for this to happen: to see the tribes united and the empire cowering before them.’

Gallus lowered his voice to barely a whisper; ‘You speak of him in the past tense, sir? I have heard much rumour and legend about his death, long ago. But something needles at my thoughts. What if . . . ’

Traianus shook his head. ‘I saw Iudex Anzo die on a wharf in Constantinople, Tribunus; an arrow ripped out his throat and he bled his last on the flagstones, twenty-five years ago. And on that day, Ivo swore to see out his slain master’s destiny.’

Gallus’ gaze fell to the ground, eyes darting as if to make sense of it all.

Traianus leaned in closer as the legionaries began setting up a perimeter around the dell for their camp. ‘Do not dwell on whatever smoke and myth Ivo has blown up to cover his tracks. Know only this; a relief column is on the way.’

Gallus looked back, eyes burning, eager.

‘Three full legions of comitatenses and one of limitanei are on their way to these foothills along with two alae of cavalry. They move northwards as we speak. Used wisely, they could tip the balance. Your determination to hunt down Ivo is admirable, Tribunus. But tomorrow, at dawn, we must withdraw to rendezvous with our army.’

‘And these men you see here today will fight at their head, sir,’ Gallus replied evenly, hiding his frustration well. With that, the tribunus turned and strode around the dell, barking orders at his legionaries.

Traianus allowed himself a wry smile at this iron-skinned soldier’s fortitude. Then he looked to the horizon again. His mind replayed those last moments of the wharf on that blood-soaked summer day, all those years ago. Gallus’ words of doubt prickled at his thoughts.

Could a shade come back to life, he wondered?

Chapter 20

‘Wake up!’ A gruff voice pierced the air.

Pavo grunted, pulling his cloak tighter to keep in the warmth.

‘Ivo is within our grasp!’ The voice continued.

Pavo sat bolt upright, as did the rest of the legionaries in the ditch and palisade encampment, blinking sleep from their eyes, squinting at the halo of sun creeping over the horizon.

Crito and Noster were standing in their midst, having been on scouting duty overnight.

‘Is it true?’ Traianus asked, a frown wrinkling his forehead.

Crito nodded excitedly, his gruff veneer dropping for once. ‘We stole past their sentries, to the tip of the Gothic camp; Ivo was there.’

Noster nodded hurriedly. ‘We overheard him talking by their campfire.’

Crito scowled at the interruption, then continued. ‘Ivo will be riding, later this afternoon, alone! Well, he and a small clutch of riders are to go hunting in the woods just northeast of here. They talked of visiting a gully where deer can be cornered and slain.’

Gallus stepped forward. ‘You are certain that they will be separated enough from the main body of the Goths?’

Crito nodded. ‘We heard it all; Fritigern is keen to press south, while Ivo hunts.’

‘Then we have our opportunity,’ Gallus looked to Traianus, ‘we cannot pass it up.’

All eyes fell on the magister militum as he hesitated. Then finally, he nodded.

Gallus’ chest swelled at this and he turned to the legionaries and riders. ‘Let’s make it count. We eat and then we pack up. Be ready to march by the time the sun’s fully up.’

The group of legionaries – starved of decisive action for weeks – cheered at this and the equites joined in. Then the men set to work; some kindling fires to cook breakfast, others saddling the mounts and gathering their arms and armour.

Pavo dropped a handful of millet grain into his cooking pot, then added a splash of water from his skin. All around him the legionaries bantered in nervous excitement. This was his chance to avenge the murder of Salvian and all the Roman citizens, to avenge the slaying of Tarquitius and the loss of that one last truth about his father. But something felt wrong.

The phalera medallion tingled on his chest, and he could not help but recall the dream where it had burned on his skin; the cave; the dead thing.

The afternoon sky over the Moesian foothills had greyed and a fine rain began to drift down over a red-earth gully. It was humid, and a whiff of damp vegetation hung in the air. All was sedate in the gully but for darting rabbits, grazing deer and swifts circling overhead. Then, like an asp, a column of legionaries emerged silently from the nearby trees.

Gallus led the column while Pavo and Sura followed, some four ranks back. Those who still possessed helmets, shields and armour had left that equipment back in the dell, choosing to wear only linen tunics, boots and swordbelts.

Pavo’s breath stilled as, suddenly, Gallus slowed, raising one hand to halt the column and placing the other on the grass. They all felt it at that moment, the distant vibrations of approaching cavalry. ‘Down!’ Gallus hissed over his shoulder.

As if playing dead, the column collapsed to their bellies on the lip of the gully, eyes peering through the grass, down into the red-earth bowl. It was empty, and there was only one level path in or out – an earth walled corridor pierced with gnarled tree roots.