Legionary: Viper of the North (57 page)

The early morning heat prickled on Pavo’s skin and the scent of spring honeysuckle and wild rapeseed danced on the warm air. He looked east, across the verdant plain, his gaze hanging on the willow thicket shimmering in the heat haze over there. The town of Ad Salices lay nestled in the lacy shade offered by the trees. For a heartbeat, he could hear only the chirruping cicada song and it felt like an ordinary day, his armour momentarily weightless. Until he saw the trail of discarded belongings scattered outside the deserted village. Until he heard the barking officers and the rippling of iron beside him and all along the Roman lines that hemmed the southern edge of the plain. Until he turned his head forwards again, and beheld the massive Gothic horde that stained the northern end of the plain, their jagged cries and chanting now drowning the cicada song. Until the screech of a vulture split the air, and the sky began to darken with seemingly prescient carrion birds.

Swatting at a persistent mayfly, he eyed the army they were to face. Fritigern’s ranks had swollen to over twenty thousand warriors. To a man, they were hungry for imperial blood, readied under a collection of Chi-Rho standards and the old pagan banners of the sapphire hawk and the emerald boar.
And all of them march unwittingly under the banner of the Viper,
he grimaced.

Over twelve thousand spearmen formed the tightly-packed Gothic centre. These warriors were tall and broad, blonde locks braided and knotted, weapons readied, eyeing the central party of their leaders eagerly; Fritigern and Ivo, with Draga lurking behind. Absurdly, while most of the Goths wore their red leather armour and conical helmets, many now wore Roman mail and scale vests and intercisa helmets, having plundered the legionary fabricae workhouses across Moesia.

Behind their deep and wide ranks of spearmen, a mass of some three thousand chosen archers lined the rise of the first of the foothills. Their quivers were packed, their fingers flexing in impatience to take advantage of this excellent elevation over the plain. Behind the archers, a thick ring of Gothic wagons plugged the entrance into the foothills and the path into the towering Haemus Mountains. The wagons formed a rudimentary barricade, sheltering the Gothic women, children and elderly, and doubtless a large supply of fresh weapons and armour. Bookending the Gothic ranks were two wings of cavalry, each numbering some two thousand. The front ranks of each wing wore full-face helmets like iron wolves, eyeing their prey across the plain.

‘More’s the better!’ Centurion Zosimus grumbled by his side.

Pavo pulled a wry grin at this, then glanced over his shoulder at his century and then across the Roman lines that stretched out to his right.

The rear of the Roman army was finally settling into formation. Now, five legions – nearly eight thousand men – were readied; the limitanei wore iron-finned intercisa helms and mail shirts over white tunics, and they grappled spears and the ever-trusty spathas. Each of them gripped painted oval shields with three plumbatae clipped onto the inside. The comitatenses were even more finely armoured, wearing glistening scale vests, and additionally equipped with
lancea
javelins. Each man’s skin was bathed in sweat, fingers flexing on weapons. Some glared at their enemy, chests heaving in fear and battle-lust. Others stood, silent, eyes closed in prayer, trying to block out the incessant Gothic chanting and rapping of weapons on shields.

The legions’ flanks were protected by the Roman cavalry; two compact wedges of cataphractii and two cobbled-together alae of equites and equites sagitarii. Barely two thousand all-told. At the head of the Roman line was a thin screen of skirmishers: a cohort of sagittarii foot archers who wore ruby cloaks, mail shirts over their tunics and helmets with slim iron nose-guards; a few hundred
funditores
who were already strapping up their wrists and stretching their limbs and their slings; and a cohort of auxilliaries, clutching light javelins, swords and daggers, but unarmoured bar the few who clutched battered shields or helmets. Some eleven thousand men all told were to stand in opposition to the wall of Goths across the plain.

Two comitatenses legions – the IV Italica and the II Armeniaca – formed the Roman centre, while the II Isauria formed the prestigious right wing. Meanwhile, the limitanei of the I Adiutrix formed the inner left. And so it was left to the XI Claudia – each of the three cohorts less than half-strength, patched together with recruits and the tattered remains of the other limitanei legions that had strayed into the Roman camp – to form the far left of the Roman line. This was a position long-held as unlucky and doomed to break if the line was to come under too much pressure. Their job was to refuse the flank and prevent this eventuality at all costs.

And what a soldier to see that job through,
Pavo affirmed, glancing a handful of paces to his right. There, Tribunus Gallus stood tall at the head of the XI Claudia. The legion aquilifer stood next to him in nervous silence, clutching the silver eagle standard, the ruby bull banner hanging motionless in the muggy, still air.

Pavo shuffled, rolling his head to double-check his intercisa helmet was firmly secured. Then he readjusted his mail vest, reaffirmed his grip on his shield and spear, then corrected his posture. His linen tunic was slick with sweat and still he couldn’t brush away the nagging of his full bladder. He cursed under his breath.

‘Every bloody time, eh?’ Sura grumbled, just behind him, biting his lower lip and jostling on the balls of his feet.

‘Reminds me I’m alive,’ Pavo replied over his shoulder, gruffly. ‘Long may it continue.’

‘Not too long though,’ Sura replied, squinting up at the sun, ‘or we might cook out here.’

‘The Goths need to move first if we are to have any chance,’ Pavo replied, nodding to the far end of the Roman line. ‘He’s biding his time.’

There, heading up the Roman right, Traianus was dressed
in full battle armour, crested with a purple plume, mounted on an equally well-armoured stallion. He was engaged in frantic discussion with Tribunus Profuturus and the other comitatenses tribuni.
Traianus
seemed to be insisting that they wait, despite the growing heat and despite some of the tribuni calling for the legions to make the first strike.

Pavo heard the nervous grumblings all along the ranks behind him. Standing in full armour in the searing sun was doing little to aid morale, especially when the Goths were in full song, their ululations and guttural chanting echoing across the plain. But he also saw the Gothic advantage in numbers, and that their archers held the high ground. There would be no victory by an early attack or by brute force today. Strategy would be the key. They would have to wait. Pavo noticed the magister militum gazed to the western horizon as his tribuni appealed to him for action. His brow furrowed.
Mithras tell me he has a plan!

Then, young Noster spoke out from behind him, his voice hoarse. ‘Sir, permission to down helmets and weapons and take on water?’

Centurion Zosimus twisted round at this, his incredulous expression glistening with sweat. ‘You just keep your hand on your sword hilt and your shield on your arm!’ The big Thracian shouted over the Gothic song.

But then, suddenly, the Gothic chorus stopped dead. All Roman eyes snapped forward. There, beside Fritigern, Ivo held his arms aloft, like a bird readying to soar. All Gothic heads were turned to him. Then, after revelling in the silence for a few heartbeats, the giant warrior took to rallying the Gothic army with a booming anti-Roman tirade. His every exclamation was met with a sharp, raucous cheer that shook the land, amplified by the foothills cupping their ranks and the Haemus mountains behind them. Then the grizzled warrior drew his sword and levelled it across the plain, tip pointing directly at the Roman centre. As one, the Gothic army took to battering their spears and swords on their shields, and threw forth a baritone roar that seemed neverending.

Pavo clutched the phalera through his mail vest and tried to block out the doubt that raced through his heart. But it was no use, morale was already disintegrating. The silence across the Roman lines was painful. He looked across the plain; at the centre of the Gothic line, Fritigern and Ivo were mounted at the fore. ‘Fools!’ He cried over the cacophony of the Gothic chorus, seeing the mounted Draga lurking behind the pair. ‘They don’t even know they’ve been led here, like cattle, to fight the Viper’s war.’

At this, Zosimus scowled at him. More, Gallus also turned, glaring at him. Then a sparkle appeared in the tribunus’ eyes.

With that, Gallus turned to the legion. ‘Aye, as have we,’ he boomed in response. ‘You’ve all heard the rumours about the Viper, the one man who will bring all Gutthiuda crashing down upon the empire? A master of strategy, a shade, a
demon
. . . I’ve heard it all.’

The men of the front ranks frowned at this.

‘Well that very whoreson stands just over a plumbata’s throw across the grass.’ Gallus’ chest grew as he sucked in a breath and clutched the eagle standard from the aquilifer. ‘He’ll bleed like any man, and if we fight like the lions we are, then he’ll bleed his last today! So are we here today to lie down before his mighty army? Are we?’ Gallus shook his head briskly, a manic sparkle in his eyes. ‘I am not!’

Pavo sensed the mood change at that moment.

Gallus ripped the spatha from his scabbard and held it aloft, the standard held high in the other hand. ‘I have fought these whoresons on the plains, in the forests, in the mire and on the waves for longer than I care to remember. For what? Just to have them devour my corpse on this day, on this land,
our
land? I don’t think so!’ His words seemed to be piercing the Gothic chant, and the adjacent I Adiutrix and nearby IV Italica had all picked up on the rousing homily. Pavo could see heads being turned in the ranks of the II Armeniaca and II Isauria as well, with expressions of bemusement touched with hope.

Then, Gallus stabbed his spatha into the ground, and pumped the standard towards the sky.

‘Remember we are the XI Claudia
Pia Fidelis
, men. The name was bestowed upon us for our loyalty and determination to stand firm when all seemed lost. Fight for your brothers by your side, men; fight for your people;
fight for your empire!
’

At once, the XI Claudia erupted in a roar that swept across the Roman ranks like wildfire, and then out, across the plain like the first wave of intent. The Gothic chant notably hushed at this, albeit briefly. Pavo saw
Traianus
look up in astonishment, then cock an eyebrow in thanks to Gallus. Then his heart bristled with pride as Gallus in turn looked to him, eyes narrowed, and gave him that ice-cold look and a hint of a nod.

But within moments, the Gothic chant grew again to match the Roman resurgence. At this,
Traianus
lifted his huge, silver eagle banner, and the front-line comitatenses with him roused the Roman lines into an even louder chorus. Then all the roaring was drowned out by the low wailing of Gothic war horns.

Fritigern and Ivo waved the Gothic centre forward.

In response, the Roman buccinators raised their instruments to their lips, and replied with a near-deafening chorus of higher pitched notes, the age-old song of the empire going to war.

The standards across the Roman line were raised. Zosimus braced, ready to move, then hissed to Pavo. ‘This is it! Let’s keep the lads in formation at all costs.’

Pavo nodded, gritting his teeth. Then he turned to Sura. ‘Ready?’ He roared.

‘Ready!’ Sura grimaced.

As one, the Roman legions marched forward. The sagittarii, funditores and auxiliaries ran out ahead in loose formation. They loosed stones, arrows and javelins first to test range, then to make the first kills of the day as the foremost Goths were punched back from their charge by the hail. Hundreds of the blonde warriors toppled, stones embedded in skulls, arrows tearing out throats and javelins bursting through chests. But within a few heartbeats, the Gothic chosen archers packing the banking of the foothills had found their range with which to retaliate. Arrows darkened the sky and the Roman skirmishers up ahead fell in swathes, screaming, crimson blood jetting from their arrow wounds. Only the armoured sagittarii stood firm, the bulk of the arrows dancing from their mail shirts and glancing from their helmets.

The plain before Pavo jostled as he kept pace with Zosimus, seeing one of the last of the slingers, only a few strides ahead, spin on the spot, an arrow through his eye. Then an auxilliary crumpled beside the slain slinger, three flights quivering in his chest.