Legionary: Viper of the North (15 page)

‘Lupicinus said there was some standoff between Fritigern’s villagers and the rebels?’ Sura said beside him, his breath clouding in the chill. ‘Well I don’t know about you, but I’d say the rebels won?’

Pavo looked to his friend, then glanced round at the clutch of wide-eyed and doubt-ridden faces behind him. His throat dried out as he felt the weight of expectation fall upon him; all of the fifty were glancing at him and then the village. He weighed the next move in his mind and two options materialised: to march on the village, or to wait out here for dawn. Then he remembered Gallus’ words.

Go to the village, sort out the mess there, and then get back to the fort, Pavo. But by Mithras do it fast. For I fear there is a snake in the grass, and out here, we are in its sights.

If Gallus’ suspicions were correct then waiting for dawn could be a fatal mistake, he realised, as any roaming rebel riders could hack down fifty legionaries isolated on flat ground like this. He looked up to eye his fifty.

‘We should leave it till morning,’ Crito said before Pavo could speak. ‘We’ll get a clearer picture of the place then. Besides, we’re all tired and hungry – we need to rest.’

Pavo spun to him, angry with the veteran’s interjection but also anxious at his decisiveness and confident tone. And all of Crito’s cronies were nodding, murmuring in agreement. Pavo felt his heart shrink. Perhaps the veteran was right; despite Gallus’ advice, the land around Istrita seemed to be deserted and this thicket offered a modicum of shelter; maybe waiting out here until daylight was the safer option.

No
, he insisted in his mind,
Gallus has been out here for longer than Crito or anyone else in the fifty, and he is the far more experienced soldier.
He felt his heart thunder as he tried to assemble the words of his argument for marching on the village here and now. His tongue felt bloated like a damp loaf of bread, and his lips seemed like dry, taut rope.

‘We should march on the village to . . . ’ he started, the prickling doubt in his chest choking his words.

‘What’s that?’ Crito cut him off, cupping a hand to his ear, exaggerating how little he had heard.

Pavo spun away, humiliation burning on his neck, pretending he was eyeing the village. At that point, the words of Salvian floated into his head, and he saw the ambassador’s calm, cool countenance in his mind.
Breathe in through your nose, slowly. Let the breath fill your lungs . . .
 
Pavo did this, certain it would not be enough. But he felt his heart slow again, and his blood seemed to flow warmer and smoother in his veins, the jitteriness in his limbs subsiding. He turned back to the fifty.

‘We march on the village tonight,’ he said, his words even and his tone a little deeper.

Crito gasped, shook his head, then his lips twisted over gritted teeth. ‘Then you’ll be sending fifty men better than yourself to their deaths . . .
sir!
’ He spat the last word like a piece of gristle.

Pavo felt his shame of moments ago boil into anger, and realised his own lips were twisting to match Crito’s expression. The first words of a bitter retort danced on his tongue, then he heard another smash of clay from the village and saw fear dance across the faces of the fifty. He sighed, closed his eyes and dropped his hands to his sides. He focused his thoughts and worked back over his reasoning. Then he looked up to set a sincere gaze on Crito.

‘I want every one of us to return to our homes as soon as possible, safe and well. You make a good point, Crito,’ he said. Crito seemed disarmed by this statement, his grimace falling. ‘So three of us will reconnoitre the village, while the rest stay out here, safe and concealed.’ He looked to the rest of the fifty. ‘You can eat your fill and slake your thirst until we return.’

The legionaries looked to one another, each checking for looks of dissent on the faces of the others, but finding none. Pavo glanced to Sura, who wore a look of relief.

‘Habitus,’ Pavo barked at the beanpole legionary, one of Crito’s cronies, ‘If we don’t return for whatever reason, if anything should happen to us, you should return to Wodinscomba and look to rendezvous with Tribunus Gallus and his men when they come back through that way on their return from Dardarus.’ Then he nodded to the two men nearest to him. ‘Crito, Sura, drop your shields and spears; you’re with me.’

With a grumble, Crito jogged forward to join Sura. Then the three set off, stalking forward in a crouch to stay low and in the shadows as they neared the ditch surrounding the settlement. Mercifully, the Gothic sentries on the watchtowers seemed more interested in the source of the commotion inside the village than the night shadows outside. Pavo and Sura slid down into the ditch and then scrambled up the earth rampart to push their backs up against the timber palisade. There, they fired glances at Crito, still climbing from the ditch, then to the tip of the wall and then to the village gate. Another raucous cheer erupted from within the village along with a smash of iron upon iron.

‘Sir!’ Crito hissed.

Pavo didn’t turn to the veteran, instead locking his gaze on the guard towers. ‘For Mithras’ sake, Crito, keep your voice down!’

‘Sir!’ Crito said again, this time in a half-hiss, half-yelp.

Pavo spun to him; Crito was some five paces away, ducking near the top of the earth rampart, eyes wide and mouth agape. He followed Crito’s panicked stare and gawped at the dark shape that lumbered towards them.

A sliver of moonlight revealed a hulking Gothic warrior, bare-chested, skin and hair coated with black dirt, spear hefted in his hands. Pavo grappled at his spatha hilt, when footsteps sounded from behind him. He spun to see two more dark shapes rounding the walls on their other flank. Pavo rushed to meet the nearest of them, but the Goth swung his spear shaft like a club. Pavo’s nose cracked and a white light filled his head.

Darkness took over.

Chapter 6

In the attic of a stall-house in the heart of Dardarus, Gallus knelt, alone, whispering the last few words of his prayer to Mithras. He clutched the wooden idol to his heart, all the while seeking out the wraith-like memory of his long dead wife, but begging the deity of the legions for the strength to go on without her. He took a breath to begin the prayer yet again, but hesitated on noticing an orange glow of torchlight dancing outside the open shutters. At that moment he realised he had been praying since mid-afternoon.

Enough for today,
he told himself, standing. He tucked the idol into his purse, stifling the long-buried, stinging sensation of sorrow behind his eyes.

He firmed his jaw, then wrapped his ruby cloak around his shoulders. Then he glanced around the timber floor and whitewashed stone walls of his room in search of some form of distraction. The room was sparsely furnished; tucked into the corner was a bed topped with a hay mattress and thick woollen blankets. In the other corner, by the open shutters, there was a chair, an old oak chest and a table, stocked with a jug of fruit wine and a jug of water, plus a loaf of wheat bread and a bowl of cherries. He lifted the water jug and filled a pewter cup, before draining it in one gulp. Then he found his gaze was drawn to the shutters and the vista of the winter’s night outside.

He rested his palms on the window ledge, framed with thick thatchwork, and studied the scene; it had begun snowing heavily, he realised. The Goths shuffled through the wide streets, cloaked in snow. The jagged tongue of the locals intermingled with the crackling of torches. The firelight from the city houses and streets cast a haunting glow up the side of the sheer mountain that formed the northern wall of the citadel.

He chuckled wryly; the setup inside the walls of Dardarus only served to further blow away the Roman misconception of the Gothic lifestyle. Yes, the citadel lacked the finesse and architecture of Roman cities, but the streets were wide, the defences sturdy and well thought out. The buildings, although mostly timber, wattle and daub with thick, thatched roofs, were stocky and hardy, their foundations sunken firmly into the bedrock. But there was one aspect of the skyline in particular that kept drawing his gaze: the feasting hall, where the talks were to take place.

That afternoon, when they were escorted through the streets of Dardarus they were, no doubt intentionally, taken past this impressively long and sturdy structure that seemed to be central to the citadel. Outside the hall was what looked like a muster area with a tall pole erected in its centre, bearing a pagan banner depicting a boar on an emerald background. Any doubt that this was testament to Athanaric’s firm rejection of Christianity was dispelled with one look at the bloodstained earth around the foot of the pole. How many young women’s throats had been opened on that spot in sacrifice and in search of Allfather Wodin’s approval of their warmongering? Gallus’ eyes grew distant;
and
how many poor souls have died on Rome’s swords?

He spun from the shutter and placed his intercisa helmet on his head, the short plume adding to his height. They had been told that Athanaric had chosen to wait until the evening to meet them – a blatant show of power and control, Gallus thought. But now evening was upon them. Any moment now they would be summoned to eat and then talk with the Gothic Iudex and his trusted men. Gallus had never felt less hungry or talkative. He had once dined with Emperor Valens himself and almost felt choked by the formality of it all, but this would be something different entirely. This would be like dining in Hades.

He glanced through the door of his room, lying ajar, and across the corridor to Salvian’s room; the ambassador’s door lay shut. In the briefing scroll delivered by Ennius the rider, Dux Vergilius had rambled like a poet.
Tarquitius and Salvian are men with gilded tongues and jewels for minds
. Gallus was sceptical of the rhetoric as usual, and the description was certainly ill-fitting of the odious Tarquitius. But he liked what he had seen of Salvian so far; a sincere man who could also employ a dry wit when it was called for. Then he remembered the dux’s insistence that Gallus was to stay with the pair at all times to ensure their safety.
Their loss would be more costly than an entire cohort of your men, Tribunus; guard them with your life!

Gallus grimaced, drained his cup of water, then strode across to Salvian’s room. He lifted a hand to knock on the door, but it opened silently under his weight on the floorboards. The door swung open to reveal a neatly made bed with Salvian’s satchel upon it, and then the ambassador, in the corner of the room, pulling on his white, eastern-style tunic.

‘Ambassador, I expect we will be summoned . . . ’ Gallus begun.

At this, Salvian started, spinning to face Gallus. ‘By the gods!’ He exclaimed, wrenching his tunic on. ‘You mustn’t creep up on me like that, Tribunus.’

Gallus cocked an eyebrow in bemusement; so the man was flappable after all.

Then Salvian composed himself and cocked his familiar, half-mouthed grin as he slid his legs into his woollen trousers. ‘You should see about getting new hobnails in the soles of your boots!’

Gallus chuckled despite himself.

Then, without warning, a jagged voice spoke, right by his shoulder.

‘Iudex Athanaric is ready for you now,’ a granite-featured Gothic warrior spoke in broken Greek, ‘follow me.’ With that, the warrior turned and strode down the corridor.

Gallus shared a cagy glance with Salvian, then darted back into his room to pick up the rolled-up snake banner before following the big warrior.

When they reached the end of the corridor, Gallus was warmed by the sight of Felix and Paulus, equally adorned in polished armour, with Tarquitius in his senatorial robe.

‘The empire’s finest, eh?’ Then he turned to address Tarquitius and Salvian. ‘Remember that we’re there by your side. Just give me a nod or a glance if things start to spiral out of control.’ He eyed each of them. ‘Are you ready for this?’