Legionary: Viper of the North (41 page)

Senator Tarquitius loped through the southern streets of Marcianople behind a handful of Roman citizens. The stench of burning flesh and woodsmoke followed them and the smashing of clay and cracking of wood told of the destruction taking place all around.

The screaming from the north of the city had stopped and now these few citizens who had escaped the influx of Goths were headed for the southern gate. Tarquitius’ lungs burned as he tried to keep pace with them.
Got to get out, got to get away. Back to Constantinople. I’ll be safe there.
He shot a glance over his shoulder and saw the wall of Gothic spearmen who were sweeping the streets north to south, only a hundred paces away.
The Viper may still have a use for you,
a nagging voice spoke in his mind.
No, with Pavo surely slain before the walls, you can offer him nothing, nothing! He will be the death of you, and you know this!
Another voice countered.

‘They’ve taken the southern walls too!’ A man cried out shrilly from amongst the fleeing citizens.

Tarquitius skidded to a halt, lips flapping, blood chilling in his veins as he saw the Gothic spearmen spill around the battlements and the southern gatehouse. Whimpering and wailing, the citizens dispersed into buildings like rats scattering before a bright light. Suddenly, Tarquitius felt more alone than ever before. Then he saw two elderly Roman women at the door of a smithy, tugging at the handle in vain, glancing back in terror.

Tarquitius rushed forward, barging the two to either side of the door and shoulder-charging it open. He tumbled into the soot-blackened room, still hot from forging and the floor still lined with sword racks. His eyes darted around the space for a place to hide. Then he saw the faint outline of a trapdoor in the filthy floor.

‘Jupiter bless you!’ One of the women croaked behind him from the doorway.

He spun to see the pair coming in to hide with him. Then his eyes bulged as he saw a wave of Gothic spearmen rounding the corner, roaring. Their spears were lowered for the kill, eyes manic with bloodlust and sweeping the street for victims.

Before he realised what he was doing, Tarquitius charged back against the door, slamming it shut once more, pushing the two women out into the street.
Better one of us lives than all three of us die!
He consoled himself as he lifted the trapdoor, heaved out the crate of tools in the small space underneath, then crouched and lowered the trapdoor on top of himself. He screwed his eyes shut tight and bit into his wrist as he heard the thundering footsteps of the Goths approaching, then the tortured screams of the women. Mercifully, they were cut short. Then the footsteps grew distant.

He waited in the floorspace for some time. His legs grew numb and his bowels and bladder creaked.
But I have survived!
He realised. At once, his mind began to turn over the possibilities. Perhaps the Goths would bypass this insignificant smithy? There was bound to be a water bucket in here somewhere. He could hold out for a few days without food and then he could slip out of the city once the Goths left or reduced their presence within the walls.
Yes,
he enthused,
the Viper will assume I perished in the sack of the city. I can slip back to Constantinople, I can resume my role in the senate, then put my mind to my quest for power. Nothing stands in my way . . .

Then, the door of the smithy creaked open.

Tarquitius’ heart froze.

A single, slow set of footsteps trod slowly into the smithy. Then they stopped, right by the trapdoor.

‘He came in here, master, our men swear they saw him,’ a voice spoke from further away, near the doorway.

Then another, horribly familiar voice rasped, and it felt to Tarquitius that the speaker was right by his side; ‘He is in here. We just have to draw him out . . . ’ Then a rasp of iron sounded from one of the sword racks.

In the silence that ensued, Tarquitius’ eyes darted this way and that in the darkness of the floorspace.

Then, with a thunder of shattering timber, an iron blade plunged through the trap door and scythed past Tarquitius’ neck.

At once, the breath spilled from the senator’s lungs, and he burst from the trap door, wailing, clasping at the scratch on his neck. He beheld the two figures that stood in the smithy, and knew what a mistake he had made.

‘Close the door, Ivo,’ the Viper hissed from the shadows of his hood, clutching a dagger in one hand, his cloak damp with blood from the slaughter.

‘Aye, master,’ Ivo said, the door creaking then clicking shut.

‘I . . . I have done as you asked! I let you in to the city,’ Tarquitius croaked, crawling from the floorspace, then creeping backwards from the Viper on the palms of his hands until he clashed against a sword rack.

‘Aye, you have,’ the Viper nodded, drifting forward. ‘But I must ask myself; are you still of use to me?’ He said, flexing his fingers on the sword hilt. ‘Now, I have other places to be; let’s make this quick.’

Then the Viper reached a hand to either side of his hood.

The shadow slid away and the poor light within the smithy fell upon the Viper’s face.

Tarquitius’ eyes bulged and his heart froze. ‘Gods, no!’

Salvian galloped from the ridge and into the plain north of Marcianople. He caught up with the head of the Roman refugee column then slid from his mount, panting, and turned back to face the sea of terrified faces. The handful of scouts and non-combatant legion staff who had led them this far were struggling to curtail the panic of the group.

‘They want to run, ambassador,’ one scout gasped, his eyes wide, barging the crowd back with the shaft of his spear. ‘They want to scatter and break for the trees.’

Salvian shook his head. ‘No, they must stay together.’ Then he waved them forward pointing to the timber bridge over the River Beli Lom, a good mile in the distance, and bawled; ‘Pull together, once over the river we will be safe.’ To his relief, the authority of a single voice seemed to stay their fears somewhat, and they moved forward together.

But when they reached the centre of the plain, Salvian stopped, feeling the ground tremble.
Riders.
He looked to the eastern end of the ridge behind them. There, in the distance, a cloud of dust rose, growing closer.

Then, a wing of several hundred Gothic riders burst into view, helmets donned, spears lowered, their leader carrying a dark-green snake banner. The Romans broke out in a panicked wail, turning to run in the other direction. But on that side another Gothic wing raced into view, equally readied for slaughter. The two wings cantered forward to encircle the Roman refugees, then stopped.

‘Ambassador! What do we do?’ The scout was trembling, his face ghostly white.

Salvian looked to the scout, his face grave. ‘This is for me to handle. All my years of learning have been for this moment.’ With that, he turned to look up in silence at the lead rider. Then he stepped forward, unarmed, palms extended by his side in a gesture of supplication.

But the lead rider’s face curled into a predatory grin at this. Then a rasp of iron rang out as he drew his longsword.

‘Once we’re over that rise, there’s less than a mile to go to the bridge; keep the pace!’ Gallus bawled to his legionaries, eyeing the grassy ridge that marked the northern end of the plain of Marcianople.

As he ran, he took to firing glances back over his shoulder at the now distant city. It was glowed orange, the walls were blackened, flames licked above the battlements and smoke spiralled out across the sky. The acrid tang of destruction stung in his nostrils. The die had been cast; Fritigern had been turned irreversibly. The truce was shattered. He issued a silent prayer to Mithras for the legionaries and families inside the burning city.

He dropped back to the rear of the column to perform a head count of the bloodied, tattered rabble, many having lost helmets, shields and weapons in the action. He counted sixty and frowned, then counted again. Still only sixty. The cobbled-together cohort had been all but extinguished only days after being formed. All those unfamiliar faces he had led from the fort yesterday had slipped into the army of shades that marched in his memories. It warmed him ever so slightly, however, to see that the core of his best men were still with him. Felix, Zosimus, Quadratus and Avitus formed the front of the retreating column and Pavo and Sura brought up the rear. He picked up the pace to join the head of the column again as they crested the rise, then he sucked in a breath to rally them once more.

Then the sixty stopped. Not a single breath escaped as they gaped at the scene before them.

The top of the ridge and the near side of the plain on the other side was carpeted with slain bodies. The Roman refugees. Eyes staring, mouths agape, hands reaching out, frozen in death.

Thousands of them.

Gallus’ eyes bulged at the sight, and he heard some of his men vomiting around him. He saw the corpses of the few non-combatant legion staff tangled in the mire of blood and bodies.
Mithras save us,
a voice whispered in his head,
they’ve been slaughtered like cattle.
He craned his neck to gaze over to the end of the plain; the tip of the bridge over the Beli Lom was just visible.
And they were but a mile from safety.

He felt all eyes fall upon him. Looking up, he saw glassy determination in each of his men’s eyes, except Pavo; Pavo shook his head in denial as he gawped at the carpet of dead, the knotted limbs, the shorn flesh. Gallus frowned, then he realised.
Salvian
. Gallus closed his eyes, his heart sinking.
I pray you have a swift journey to Elysium, my friend.

Then, when he opened his eyes, he saw a hoofprint in the earth, still fresh and swirling with pooling blood. The iron veneer came crashing down once more. ‘The horsemen who did this must still be nearby. Get to the bridge!’

As one, the sixty rippled into a jog, down the ridge to make their way across the northern plain. Up ahead, the timber bridge beckoned. Then, a few hundred yards after that, a forest stretched for some distance.

‘Whoa! What’s that, sir?’ Felix skidded to slow down, then nodded forward to a shape positioned at the far bridgehead. It was about as tall as a man and as broad as four, covered with a large cut of hemp cloth. The rest of the sixty slowed likewise.

Gallus’ eyes glinted. ‘That’s our last hope. A four-fanged creature . . . ’

Felix cracked a dry grin. ‘The giant ballista?’ Then he turned to the sixty and bellowed; ‘Come on, did I say you could stop?’

Gallus gazed past the device and up ahead. He frowned as he searched the grass around the shape for sight of the four legionaries he had left there, but not a soul was to be seen. He leaned in towards his primus pilus; ‘Well hopefully we won’t need it,’ he said tentatively, darting a glance around the deserted plain. ‘We get over the bridge and we get ourselves into those trees. Then we can take stock, see to the men’s wounds, check our rations and equipment . . . ’