Legionary: Viper of the North (53 page)

Its proud skyline of domes and marbled columns dominated the verdant flatland, and her heart had soared when she saw the city was intact. But something was wrong, she realised. The thick, towering walls were devoid of the usual generous garrison. Instead, only a handful of intercisas were visible. And then she caught scent of it; an acrid tang of burning flesh. Her heart slowed as she approached the gates, and the cluster of limitanei rushed to the gate top to challenge her. ‘I’m looking for my father,’ she had said, ‘he came here from Durostorum to escape the Gothic incursions.’

The drawn, weary look of resignation on the lead soldier’s face told Felicia what had happened before he said the words to confirm it. They had let her inside the city, where the trail of destruction was still fresh, as was the massive pile of ash where the pyre had been lit. ‘Aye, the innkeeper from the northern limes? He was a brave soul – tried to stop the riots,’ the limitanei legionary had said, resting a comforting hand on her shoulder, ‘but the Goths and the Roman mob were merciless.’

And so she had walked from the city, numb to her core. Then she had mounted her horse and set off at an aimless canter, unaware of time, heat and cold, hunger and thirst, staring through the horizon as she moved. She barely noticed the group of Gothic riders who circled around her until they wrenched her from the mount and roped her wrists together. ‘Another Roman bitch – she’ll fetch a few coins!’ The rider had joked with his comrades.

A pained shriek pulled her back to the present; the slave line had shrunk once more. She looked up to see the pretty Roman woman being dragged away from the front of the line by the hair, her protests silenced when the slave trader balled his fist and smashed it into her jaw. Felicia felt numb.

With her father dead, Pavo surely slain, and her world torn asunder by the invasion, her heart had grown weary of aching. She stared through the ground before her and sought out her father and Curtius’ faces from her memories. She barely flinched when a Goth came over and sliced a dagger through the rope joining her wrist to that of the young Roman. The young man protested angrily, the fear causing his voice to crack.

‘You’re needed,’ the Goth snarled. Then, eyeing the man’s finely manicured nails, he grinned. ‘Time to learn how to shovel dung!’

As the panicked young man was bundled away like a dog, Felicia realised she had not muttered a word nor tried to wrench free of her bonds in days. Then, when she heard the next slave cart approach, its wheels grinding on the scree, she simply shuffled forward.

‘Pick out the ones who will make good whores!’ The slavemaster called out to his helpers in a broad Greek accent. The Goths erupted in a chorus of laughter at this.

Felicia didn’t even have the will to despise the man. She held out her wrists, readying to be taken away, gazing to the ground through a veil of stale tears.

Then a hand grappled at her wrist.

‘Hold on, we’ll have a bit of fun with this one first,’ a gravelly voice muttered, then sliced the ropes binding her to the others.

In a flash, she was pulled past the slave cart and back through the sea of tents and crackling campfires, towards the southerly edge of the camp. She frowned and looked up to the pair who pulled her on; they wore red leather tunics and conical helmets – spearmen. Suddenly, a spark of fear ignited in her heart and she pulled back. ‘Where are you taking me?’ She spat, sickened by the trembling in her voice.

The two simply dragged her onwards.

Then she felt it; the old fire in her veins – it felt good. She yanked back on the rope and kicked out at the backside of the nearest of the two. ‘I said – where are you taking me?’

The Goths all around burst into a rabble of laughter at this and at last, the pair slowed, then turned to her. Her skin crawled as their shadowy faces beheld her. Then her heart skipped a beat and her lungs froze mid-breath.
Pavo, Sura!
She mouthed.

‘Stay quiet,’ Pavo spoke in that forced, gravelly tone, his head bowed a little and the rim of the Gothic helmet casting his dark eyes in shadow.

She nodded quickly and dropped her gaze to the ground.

‘Good little whore, eh? What did you say to her?’ One Goth called out gleefully, swigging from a wineskin.

Felicia sneaked a look up to see Pavo giving the man a furtive nod, while Sura glanced around, checking who was watching. Of the two, Sura could possibly pass as a Goth, but Pavo’s dark features and beaky nose clearly distinguished him as a Roman. Indeed, a few of the nearby warriors seemed to be frowning, scouring his features. She looked around in vain for something, anything to distract them. Then her eyes fell on the bronze pin holding her tattered robe together. Father had given her that pin, and she whispered a prayer to him as she pulled it from the cloth. Her robe fell to the ground, leaving her wearing only a short linen tunic that barely covered her buttocks.

‘My robe!’ She whimpered.

At once the Goths’ frowns dissolved, their stares flicking to Felicia’s ample, bare thighs.

Never fails,
she mused.

And they were at the edge of the Gothic camp now, she realised, looking up to see the cairn on the crest of the mountain before them. Pavo and Sura glanced around, then the three made to ascend the rise. But although Pavo and Sura carried on and started climbing, pulling her with them, she felt an odd burning on the skin on her back.

Someone was watching them.

She turned and swept her eyes across the sea of warriors and families, bustling in the torchlight, all busying themselves with their own affairs. Then her gaze stopped, like a tunic caught on a nail, on one figure.

The one they now called Draga – the dark creature who had slain those Roman refugees on the plain before the River Beli Lom – was standing in the midst of the Goths, wrapped in his dark-green cloak, hood lowered. He was staring at them, the firelight dancing in his eyes.

His lips were curled up in an awful half-grin.

In the centre of the darkened tent, Senator Tarquitius touched a finger to the cracked blisters on his lips, his chains clanking as he did so. Then he pulled out the folds of his tunic that hung limply from his body. He had not been this slim since he was a boy, he mused bitterly. Weeks of eating what scraps Draga had brought to him had seen the rolls of fat wither, leaving sagging layers of empty skin in their place. Perhaps it would have been better had he been slain in Marcianople, he wondered. The thought lent him a modicum of dignity. It felt strange to him after so many years of immorality.

The muffled laughter of a Gothic warrior outside startled him. This reminded him just how lost he was – here in the middle of a sea of tents and an army that would raze everything Roman within its path. He looked at the chains on his wrists and felt a mix of bitterness and self-pity tug at his heart.

Then he stiffened his jaw as he mulled over it again; the chain of events that had tortured his every moment in this tent, the face of the man who had led him like a stray dog in his every action.

Salvian . . . Draga . . . the Viper. The protégé who had in fact been the master.

He searched for some caveat that would dampen the shame he felt at being fooled so readily, but found none. Then he heard the voice of some girl outside.

‘My robe!’ She squealed.

Tarquitius’ ears perked up as he recognised her Greek twang. Welcoming the distraction, he shuffled on his hands and knees to the tent flap, as far as the chains would allow him. Then he pushed his nose and eyes through the flap and squinted into the dusk light. There, near the base of the mountain, two Gothic soldiers seemed to be leading a flame-haired girl towards the mountainside. But, some thirty paces away, he saw it; the green cloaked figure drifting wraith-like between the tents, following the trio. Unhooded and now sporting a thick fawn moustache and flowing fawn locks, Draga looked like any other Goth. Apart from the cold, green eyes – something about them was inhuman.

He watched in a mix of interest and terror as the Viper was careful to stay some distance behind the three, one hand on his sword hilt, the other seemingly ready to shoot in the air as if to raise the alarm. But something was stopping him from doing so.

The two soldiers and the girl disappeared on up the mountain path, and Draga remained, watching them for a moment. Then he spun round, eyes snapping onto the tent and Tarquitius’ filthy, drawn features.

Tarquitius yelped like a kicked dog and scrambled back inside the tent. As footsteps approached, he muttered to himself, eyes screwed shut, praying that the darkness inside would hide him. Then the flapping of hide and a blast of fresh air was followed by the hissing of the Viper, right by his ear. Tarquitius could feel the man’s breath on his skin, but refused to open his eyes.

‘It seems I have a use for you after all, Senator.’

Campfires and torches lit up the dusk like a cloud of fireflies across the Roman encampment. Inside the stable compound, Pavo helped Felicia down from her saddle while Sura fed a clump of hay to his mount.

‘He saw us, I swear it!’ Felicia repeated.

‘Why would he let us escape?’ Pavo replied, stroking her hair to comfort her.
Because he’s playing a game, because he’s still in control.
Pavo shuddered and batted the nagging doubt from his thoughts.

Felicia shook her head. ‘I’ve never seen a man look so . . . driven. He’ll do anything, Pavo, anything it takes. I saw him turn upon all those citizens. He was merciless . . . ’

‘Forget about him,’ he said, trying desperately to rid his own mind of Draga’s image, ‘You’re here now, you’re safe.’

She pushed away from him, her voice cracking. ‘I’m alone, Pavo. Apart from you, I have nobody.’ She choked back a sob.

At this, Sura gave Pavo a knowing nod, and led both the horses away to the feeding trough, leaving them alone.

Pavo turned back to her, his heart aching. ‘Your father would have gladly died to be sure you were not harmed, Felicia.’

‘And now he and Curtius are both just memories,’ she said, her voice hoarse.

He pulled her close again. ‘You have me, Felicia. I’ll not rest until you are safe, and clear of this conflict.’

She looked up to him, her eyes red-rimmed, face glistening with tears. ‘I cannot avenge my father’s death, but my brother’s killer walks free, within the walls of this camp.’

Pavo’s heart sank.

‘I don’t care what becomes of me anymore,’ she continued, her lips curling to reveal gritted teeth. ‘I
must
take vengeance so that Curtius’ spirit can rest in peace. Avitus must pay!’