Legionary: Viper of the North (34 page)

Gallus twisted to Ivo. ‘Senator!’ He barked. ‘I can only hope that there is record of Ennius the rider bringing that scroll into the fort.’

Tarquitius’ features blanched and his jowls quivered. ‘I . . . ’

‘Don’t test me, you fat fool!’ Gallus roared over the snowstorm. ‘Where did the scroll come from?’

‘It came from the rider . . . ’ Tarquitius stammered, ‘ . . . I think.’

‘Who handed it to you?’ Gallus pinned him with a glare, heeling his mount over to Tarquitius and grappling the neck of the senator’s robes, yanking him from his saddle so they were nose to nose.

‘Ivo. He brought it straight from the rider and then the rider made haste to Constantinople. Ivo thought that haste was imperative and so came straight to me,’ Tarquitius lied, his eyes darting wildly over Gallus’ enraged features. ‘So there will be no record of Ennius the rider’s arrival at the fort.’

Gallus snorted, shoving the senator away again. ‘Then we are to believe that the words on a scroll delivered by a Goth are those of our emperor? This is a nonsense – we must ride Ivo down and take him from Fritigern’s side!’

Salvian placed a hand on the tribunus’ forearm. ‘Be wary, Tribunus – we are on the brink of war. Remember, we need proof!’

Gallus closed his eyes, his shoulders heaving as he took in a series of calming breaths. ‘Then we must shadow Ivo’s every move,’ he spoke at last. With that he heeled his mount into a turn and barked at the watching legionaries. ‘Form up the legion; we march south immediately!’

Chapter 15

Dawn broke over southern Moesia, and with it came the babbling of scores of meltwater brooks. The thousand men of the XI Claudia spliced the land, marching south in an iron fin topped column towards Marcianople. Then, as the morning wore on towards noon, the snow gradually became dappled with patches of green where a thaw had begun. For the first time in months, the air was mild. But in every Roman heart, the ice had yet to thaw.

They had overtaken huge trains of Gothic women, children and elderly headed for Marcianople. But they had little hope of catching the huge sprawl of some seven thousand of Fritigern’s spearmen, miles ahead, let alone the vanguard of some three thousand Gothic riders that would already be at the city’s walls.

In the Moesian countryside all around them, Roman landworkers, slaves and estate owners stood together as one; frightened and confused by the massive horde of Goths that had swept down the Roman highway that morning, fully armed and unchecked. They called out to Gallus, Lupicinus, Salvian and Tarquitius at the head of the Roman column, pleading to be told what was happening, before rushing to join the rabble of Roman citizens in the column’s wake.

Pavo marched near the front of the third cohort, first century, alongside Sura. He cast frequent glances over his shoulder to the rear of the column where this rabble of Roman citizens followed. He prayed that Felicia and the folk of Durostorum were either in that rabble or had heeded Gallus’ hasty orders.
Take word to Durostorum and the outlying towns and farms; they are to head south, to seek shelter in Thracia. The walls of Adrianople and the surrounding cities will protect them.

Pavo had scanned their faces again and again, but there was no sign of Felicia and her father in that lot.

‘She’ll be safe,’ Sura said, beside him. ‘She’s a smart one.’

Pavo gave his friend an unconvincing smile. ‘Too smart for her own good.’

Then they slowed as the column narrowed a little to filter across a fragile-looking timber bridge. The structure straddled the River
Beli Lom
– a narrow, twisting and deep waterway with spruce and beech thickets dotting its steep banks. Pavo frowned as he saw Gallus despatch a group of five legionaries from the head of the column to the rear, where they stopped the driver of the slow and cumbersome wagon at the tail end. He watched as the wagon slowed to a halt at the northern bridgehead, and the legionaries began unloading its contents; coils of rope and lengths of timber. The kit looked familiar, but he couldn’t quite place where he had seen it before.

Then an elbow jabbed him in the chest, and he twisted to face front again.

‘We must be near, look,’ Sura pointed to the columns of what he prayed was hearth smoke just over the rise ahead.

Pavo fixed his gaze on the plumes. His stomach shrivelled and he felt his bladder swell – the usual prelude to any battle. ‘Perhaps the ambassador can still find a diplomatic route to bring Fritigern back from the precipice?’

Sura looked up. ‘Eh? Salvian? I doubt he’ll get the opportunity. The time for talking is past.’

Pavo shook his head. ‘I’m not sure. Fritigern still has a good heart. If he can be persuaded to talk, there might be a chance.’

They marched until the rise fell away to reveal a verdant plain, frosted but mercifully snow-free. To the east, the hills tapered to reveal the distant blue waters of the Pontus Euxinus
.
To the west, patchwork farmland hugged the hills, punctuated by thickets of pine forest. Then the shimmering limestone hulk of Marcianople rose into view with its tall, sturdy walls and towers, and the hardy but few limitanei legionaries lining the battlements. It would have been a sight to warm any Roman heart had it not been for the swarm of thousands upon thousands of baying Goths pressing around the base of those walls.

Wrapped inside the walls, domes and red-tiled roofs jostled for space, an indication of city’s rise to prominence in recent years. The church dome towered higher than any other, a gold Chi-Rho cross extending into the clear sky. Pavo wondered if the Christianised Goths amongst those surrounding the city might hesitate upon seeing the symbol. But already, timber and vine ladders were being passed forward and leaned against the walls, reaching the battlements. The Goths were riled, just waiting on the order to fall upon the city. Before the main gate, Fritigern was mounted and as ever Ivo was by his side. The pair seemed to be berating the wall guard, gesticulating towards the high-arched and iron-studded gate, shut tight. Then, to add to their leader’s voice, a Gothic roar caused the land to shake and many of the rawer recruits to shrink, such was its ferocity. Then it fell sharply into silence, as Ivo raised his hands.

‘The empire has betrayed us!’ Ivo roared. ‘They promised us food and let us march on our last trace of strength. The Romans must be punished!’

As they neared the Goths, Pavo noticed Lupicinus and his riders slowing, dropping back down the column. He frowned, seeing the comes’ face etched with fright, knuckles white and trembling on his mount’s reins. Then Lupicinus shuffled in his saddle as if readying to . . .

‘Mithras, no!’ Pavo gasped in realisation.

Lupicinus’ blood ran cold and panic welled in his heart as he gawped at the baying Goths staining the plain, wrapped around the city like a noose.
So many of them. So many sharp blades. They’re going to cut us to pieces. They will slice the flesh from my bones!

In the few battles he had fought in his time, the odds had never been this grim and he had managed to remain safely tucked into the rearmost ranks. Victory and survival had lifted him to his current post. Yet today, there would be no hiding, he realised, his limbs quivering. And his tarnished reputation would no doubt live on. The shame and ridicule from his early career would be his legacy.

At that moment he felt a surge of regret. Why had he let the bitterness of his childhood follow him through the rest of his life like a vile stench? Why oh why had he not ignored his father’s jibes and pursued a career in the senate regardless? He remembered that childhood day, on the shore outside the city of Odessus, when he had first gauged his father’s disgust at his craven nature. He had been playing happily in the sand, collecting shells and splashing in the shallows. Then, a scowling, pug-nosed boy had picked a fight with him, butting him back with the palms of his hands. Lupicinus had first felt the terror on that day; his breath short, his skin clammy and cold, his mind awash with confusion. He had looked to his father, sat nearby on the shingle, supping wine by the skinful, face red from inebriation and sun. ‘Help!’ He had cried out, reaching one hand to his father. ‘Fight back, you coward!’ Was all the help he received. The pug-nosed boy had beaten him to the ground and then rained blow after blow upon him unchecked. When at last the boy had finally grown bored and left, Lupicinus had squinted through swollen eyes, tasting the metallic tang of his own blood washing down the back of his throat. His father had stood over him, sneering, breath reeking of stale wine. ‘You’re no son of mine if you can’t fight, you
coward!
’

Something stung behind Lupicinus’ eyes and he felt them moisten. Then reality pushed the memories away as he heard Iudex Fritigern’s voice pierce the air.

‘Your emperor granted us access to your horreas and all the grain they hold, so you will open the gates, or we will smash them from their hinges. Do not presume that you could resist my armies. We may not possess siege engines, but I have enough men to pull your walls down by hand. And when my men fall upon your people, I can no longer be held responsible for what will happen to them.’

Lupicinus’ guts turned over at this. He realised that he and his riders were dropping back as the marching legionaries kept up the pace set by Tribunus Gallus. Then, as the column approached the rear of the Gothic swell, the warriors there turned, braced and ready for conflict, presenting a wall of spears to the Romans. Behind them were Gothic women, children and elderly; gaunt, pale and with black-ringed eyes, their usually well-groomed hair tousled and dirty. They reeked dangerously of desperation. Then, they split apart like curtains, opening up a spear-walled corridor leading to Ivo and Fritigern.

At the head of the column, Gallus did not hesitate, leading them into the corridor. Lupicinus and his riders were the last to enter. He could feel the baleful glares of the Goths burning on his skin and the speartips hung just an arm’s reach away on either side of him. Every muscle in his body twitched, longing to pull the reins and heel his mount into a turn and then a gallop out of the Gothic mass and far from this plain.
Yes,
he affirmed,
my men will understand, they will ride with me.
He stabbed out his tongue to dampen his lips, then glanced over his shoulder. But the faces of his men were stony. They were not for turning. In each of their eyes he saw his father roaring at him.
Make your mark, you coward!

Worse, the Gothic corridor had closed up behind the column, like a predator devouring a meal. Panic rippled through him, and he shuffled in his saddle, wide-eyed. There was no going back. His heart thundered until he thought it would explode from his chest, when suddenly, an idea formed amongst the chaos in his mind.

He looked to the walls and saw safety behind the timber, iron studded gates. He filled his lungs.

‘Forward!’ He bellowed, digging his heels into his mount’s flanks and tearing his spatha from his scabbard, pointing it directly at Ivo and Fritigern. ‘Take down the leaders!’ Lupicinus roared. As he set off, his riders threw their confusion to one side and followed their comes.