Legionary: Viper of the North (17 page)

Pavo’s eyes darted around the arena, then he strode over to the timber cage and slashed at the rope that held its door shut. The huddle of villagers, starved and dirty, tumbled out, thanking the legionaries. The wide-eyed man from the cage clasped his forearm, introducing himself as the village chieftain, loyal to Fritigern.

But Pavo heard only a voice rasping in his head, repeating the words of the dead rebel leader over and over.
The Viper has risen! And by dawn tomorrow, this plain will be alive with his northern allies!

He pushed the chieftain away and strode for the northern village wall, but the chieftain followed him.

‘Roman, I cannot thank you enough,’ he started, following Pavo up the watchtower stairs, ‘but you must listen. It may be too late even now!’

Pavo did not reply as he slapped each of his hands onto the timber stakes that formed a balcony atop the watchtower. The forest to the north was still. Then he spun to the man, his face stony. ‘Tell me what is happening here!’

The chieftain’s expression was grave. ‘He has lured you here, just as he has manipulated Athanaric, just as he has brought this darkness from the north!’

Pavo frowned. ‘
Who
has lured us here?’

The man’s eyes widened. ‘The Viper! The hooded shade in the green cloak, the one who plots the end for all Rome.’ He gestured to the snake banner flying above the village. ‘That is his mark!’

Pavo grimaced at this. ‘Then that banner will burn tonight!’

‘No!’ The Chieftain shook his head. ‘We must leave it in place – for when they come!’

‘For when
who
comes?’ Pavo frowned harder, then something in his peripheral vision sent a chill to his soul. He spun to the northern forest. It seemed to be writhing.

The chieftain backed away, eyes bulging, lips trembling. ‘It is as I feared. Our lives are already lost, this is a trap, Roman, a death trap. First Fritigern will fall, then your empire will tumble!’

Pavo saw the edge of the forest darken, then glimmer, as a wave of
something
flooded forward. Then a sea of torches sparked to life, illuminating it all.

A vast horde of warriors spilled from the trees, converging on the village.

There were many thousands of them, moving in clusters, each group distinctly armed and dressed. First there was a wave of mounted men. They resembled the Goths with their flowing blonde hair and pale features, but the majority wore scale vests, pointed conical helms and flew banners with emblems that were not of the Thervingi or any other neighbouring Gothic people. And they were fine riders, powerful in the gallop, holding a lengthy iron lance in a two-handed grip, carrying neither a shield nor holding the reins of their mounts, such was their grace.
Alani
, Pavo realised, the horsemen of southern Scythia.

Behind them marched a series of smaller groups of warriors, some mounted, some on foot, and each pocket of men was distinct in its appearance. The men of one group wore blue paint on their faces and bare shoulders and had their scalps scraped clean of hair around the sides and back. Another group wore furs and carried bows as tall as a man. Then another group wore a curious leather - Pavo’s eyes strained to see what it was, then his gut lurched as he noticed two red-rimmed holes in the fabric; human eyeholes. More and more groups rumbled towards the village and Pavo could only gaze through them, looking for an answer.

What terrible thing drives these people south?

Sura and Crito ran up to stand alongside him and the three gawped at the approaching mass.

‘Mithras, save us!’ Sura croaked.

‘Alani, Agathyrsi, Geloni, Neuri,’ Crito frowned, scanning the horde, pointing out each distinct group. Then he jabbed a finger at the edge of the northern forest, ‘but who or what are
they?
’

Pavo and Sura craned over the watchtower edge, peering in the direction of Crito’s outstretched finger. From the forest, an even larger sea of shapes spilled forth, cupping and dwarfing the many tribes that already filled the plain. Riders. More than they could hope to count. Pavo’s eyes danced over the scene, a frown wrinkling his brow.

Then, a horribly familiar war horn moaned and brought with it the jagged cries of thousands of men and the drumming hooves of thousands of beasts. A set of invisible, icy claws walked up Pavo’s spine. He glanced to Sura and Sura glanced back.

‘
Hunnoi!
’ They spoke in unison.

Pavo’s stomach fell away. Every night since the torturous mission to the Kingdom of Bosporus, he had prayed that he would never set eyes on them again. But here they were, their fearsome appearance betrayed by the torchlight; stocky and powerful, with flat, yellow-tinged faces etched with three scar welts on each cheek. Their hair was shaved at the temples and forehead and pulled taut on top. They were armed with long cutting swords, composite bows, lassos, nets and daggers and were clad in goatskin and leathers.

‘The Huns?’ Crito’s face paled. ‘I thought they prowled far to the north, on the steppes beyond the edge of the world?’

Pavo pinned him with a wide-eyed look. ‘So did I. Indeed, I prayed they would remain there.’

‘If we’d stayed out there overnight . . . ’ Crito started, jabbing a thumb to the plain and thicket south of the village. Then he swallowed the rest of his words, shooting a furtive and defiant glance at Pavo.

But Pavo didn’t care about the troublesome veteran or for his own pride; an invasion was coming like a tide, and they were to face it, alone. ‘Honestly, Crito, I don’t think it would have made any difference. They’re coming for us.’ He glared at the approaching mass, then eyed Sura and Crito. ‘If we are to die, then we die as legionaries,’ he spoke solemnly. ‘Have the men form up by the village gates.’

He drew his spatha. Sura and Crito did likewise. Then he filled his lungs to roar in defiance at the approaching horde. But the roar stuck in his throat when a hand was cupped over his mouth and another grappled roughly at his shoulders, pulling him down behind the lip of the palisade.

The village chieftain and a group of villagers had wrestled him, Sura and Crito to the timber platform and out of sight of the oncoming horde. He snarled at them, then stopped, seeing the consternation twisting their faces. The Goths jabbered in their own tongue, their tone urgent, pointing to the dark-green banner that fluttered above the village. Then the chieftain himself hushed his kinsmen and then turned to the Romans, pushing a finger to their lips for silence.

Pavo frowned. The marching horde was almost at the walls and the watchtower platform trembled like a leaf. He braced for what was to come.

Then a jagged cry called out from the blackness.

At this, the chieftain stood and waved, calling out, his tone warm. But, behind the palisade, he was waving his other hand at the Romans to stay down.

‘Whoresons! They’re in league with the rebel Goths and that lot out there!’ Crito spat, wriggling free of the Goth who restrained him then clutching at his sword hilt.

‘No!’ Pavo held up a hand, peering through the sliver of gap between the palisade stakes: the horde was spilling past the village like a river round a lonely rock. And then they continued to the southeast, towards Fritigern’s heartland. The Hun rider who had hailed the village was marshalling them in that direction and now stood, watching as the village gates were opened to allow the villagers to scuttle out and heap fresh animal carcasses onto the Hun wagons.

‘I might have been wrong about staying outside, but I’ll be damned if . . . ’ Crito snarled, sliding his spatha from his scabbard.

‘No!’ Pavo repeated. ‘These villagers are on our side and loyal to Fritigern,’ his eyes darted across the timbers by his feet as it all fell into place, ‘but the horde think this village is sided with the Gothic rebellion,’ he glanced to Sura, nodding, ‘because of
that
.’ He stabbed a finger up at the dark-green snake banner. ‘That’s the only reason we’re not rent with a thousand arrows right now.’

Sura’s eyes widened. ‘But they’re headed for the river. We’ve got to get word back to Durostorum and the fort.’

The village chieftain crouched beside them, face whiter than snow, eyes wide. ‘Roman, there is no going back to your empire now,’ he whispered, ‘the Huns will fall upon Fritigern’s men and it will be a battlefield all along the great river. To travel through that land would be to run onto myriad sword blades and spears. I must implore you to stay here, for outside, the Viper is at large!’

Pavo frowned. ‘This Viper, he is a Hun?’

The chieftain frowned at this. ‘No, he is Thervingi.’

‘Then tell me, for Mithras’ sake, where is this man?’

The Chieftain shook his head, his face falling grave. ‘The Viper is no man; he once tried to unite all the tribes of Gutthiuda and rise against Rome, but he was slain before his ambitions were realised. Slain by Romans. Yet now, many years after his death, some say that his shade still rides on these plains, cloaked and hooded in green, seeking vengeance.’ The chieftain stabbed a finger out in the direction of the departing horde. ‘This is
his
doing!’

Pavo frowned, searching for the words to reply. He looked to Sura and Crito, who wore puzzled frowns. A shiver of doubt danced across his skin. ‘His shade rides on these plains . . . ’ he began, then sighed and pinched his nose between his thumb and forefinger, screwing up his eyes as his head thundered with exhaustion and a thousand thoughts. ‘We don’t have time for this. We will be moving on as soon as we’ve had a moment to take on food and water.’

‘But you must stay, at least for tonight. Tend to your wounded, fill your bellies and rest properly.’

Pavo shook his head. ‘We are already behind that horde. Every heartbeat that passes will see them edge closer to the imperial borders. We leave. Tonight.’

Then he turned to Sura and Crito. ‘Thoughts?’

‘If Fritigern fights,’ Sura spoke first, ‘he’ll lose, surely. His armies are numerous and well-trained, but they are unprepared for . . . that,’ he nodded in the direction of the departed horde, then shivered, pulling his cloak tighter.

Pavo nodded solemnly. ‘So what if he chooses not to fight? He is no fool – Gallus has always said that Fritigern won’t fight unless he knows he can win,’ he looked to Sura, his expression grave. ‘What if he chooses to run?’

Sura frowned. ‘Run, run where?’ Then his face fell.

‘The only place left for them to go. Across the Danubius. Into the empire.’

The first thick flakes of snowfall danced around Pavo, Sura and Crito as they gazed southeast, eyes wide.

Chapter 7

Iudex Athanaric’s feasting hall echoed with jagged laughter and a wasp-like melody buzzed from a pair of pipers. The cavernous interior was bathed in a warm orange from the guttering torches and the roaring log fire in the centre while the shutters rattled from the snowstorm outside as if in protest. All around the hall, a hundred or so of the iudex’s finest warriors and an equal number of buxom and fiery Gothic women were packed around the long timber tables. They drained keg after keg of barley beer and fruit wine, growing more rosy-cheeked and boisterous with each one.

At the top table, Gallus sat beside Salvian, Tarquitius, Felix and Paulus. Opposite sat Iudex Athanaric, Fritigern’s rival and probably the most belligerent whoreson the empire had known in years. The iudex and the two brutish warriors flanking him cast flinty glares back at the Roman party.

Probably in his mid thirties, a similar age to Gallus, the Gothic Iudex was tall and lean, wearing a silver band to hold back his shoulder length, straight, jet-black hair. His eyes were constantly narrowed and his broad, battered nose spoke of his love of conflict.