Legionary: Viper of the North (51 page)

‘Your empire will soon be in ashes, Legionary!’

Pavo turned back in the saddle, his heart pounding. Draga stood at the front of the horde, a bow in his hands.

‘I watched my father bleed his last at the hands of Rome’s legions. And now
you
will never know the truth about
your
father, Roman . . .
never!
Tarquitius is dead and the truth died with him!’

Pavo gritted his teeth, then hefted the splintered head of the spear shaft in his hand and hurled it back over his shoulder with all the strength he could muster. The makeshift missile sclaffed from Draga’s face, then ploughed into the dust.

Draga touched a hand to his bloodied cheek, eyes burning.

‘And you will not see another spring,’ Pavo roared.

With that, Pavo turned and lay flat in the saddle. His knuckles trembled, white on the reins as he rode, and the wind whipped at his face.

Chapter 22

In the baking spring heat, Pavo crouched by the brook to fill his water skin. He slaked his thirst and washed the dust from his throat, then cupped water in his hands and threw it over his freshly cropped scalp and shaven jaw.

With a groan, he stood and adjusted his linen tunic, slick with sweat, then trudged over to the oak where he had tethered his chestnut mare in the shade. He took an apple from his satchel and bit into its cool, sweet flesh. Then he slumped against the tree trunk to finish the fruit before washing it down with another swig of water. When he felt the strength returning to his limbs, he stood to feed the apple core to his mare. Then he stroked the beast’s mane, whispering comforting words to her as he looked northwards, over the foothills to the limestone giants of the Haemus Mountains. At this, his thoughts darkened; Draga was out there, holding Felicia captive, manoeuvring Fritigern and honing the Gothic horde like a giant blade.

The Goths had pursued Traianus’ cataphractii for many miles on the day of the frantic rescue. They had broken off the pursuit only when they had come within sight of the four legions levied from the east – the comitatenses of the II Isauria, the IV Italica and the II Armeniaca, plus the limitanei of the I Adiutrix – here, at the southern edge of the foothills. Traianus had hurriedly organised the legions into a wide front only ten ranks deep to exaggerate the Roman strength – the dust plume behind the legions disguising the paucity of depth. With the two forces only a half mile apart, a tense standoff had ensued, the Goths eyeing the Roman lines and the Romans praying their opponents’ resolve would weaken. And at last, the war horns moaned and the Goths had melted back into the foothills and the mountains. That had been weeks ago, and the Goths had not been sighted since, despite these daily scouting patrols.

The Romans had taken this period of respite to re-establish a foothold in their own land. A huge fortified camp had been constructed in a plain to the south to serve as a command centre. Smaller forts had been established at all the southerly passes and routes that led from the mountain range.

While this fragile border was constructed, rumour had become rife that more Goths were flooding over the Danubius unchecked, fleeing southwards from the Hun raiders in Gutthiuda, swelling Fritigern’s armies as he readied for a decisive push southwards. Some in the camp whispered that Traianus had sent an appeal for support to Emperor Gratian in the West. However, few expected that the besieged legions on the Rhine and northern Italy could do anything other than pray to Mithras for their eastern brothers.

Pavo was jolted from his ruminations when a lone rider burst over the crest of the nearest foothill, red-cheeked and furious, galloping on a white gelding.

Sura! About time . . . fastest rider in all Adrianople, indeed!
He chuckled wryly, standing as his friend and scouting partner slowed to a trot and then slid from the saddle.

‘There’s no way you’d beat me in a flat race. You’re mare’s obviously a hill-runner!’ Sura insisted as he drew level. Then he pulled the purse from his belt to rummage and produce two folles, dropping them into Pavo’s extended palm with a scowl.

‘Aye, and yours obviously isn’t,’ Pavo replied. Then his face fell stony. ‘You saw nothing, I take it?’

Sura shook his head, wiping the sweat from his brow. ‘Nothing apart from traces of where they have been. The valleys are maze-like.’

‘Aye, Salv . . . ’ Pavo started, then bit his tongue, ‘Draga will have them moving camp every day.’ He stared out at the mountains again.

‘Tomorrow, Pavo,’ Sura said, reading his mind. ‘We will find the Goths . . . and Felicia . . . tomorrow.’

The pair remounted and set off southwards at a canter. As they descended the last of the foothills, they entered a plain stained bright yellow with wild rapeseed. To the east of this plain, a small brook ran around a willow grove and the small town of Ad Salices, known by most as ‘The Town by the Willows’. The town was tucked in behind the trees and surrounded only by a light timber fence, more to keep the village goat herds in check than anything else. The settlement lay only a quarter of a mile from the edge of the foothills and mountains. Traianus had considered this plain around the town as a site for the Roman camp. Pavo himself had wondered as to the wisdom of this, imagining how the Goths could come within a fraction of a mile of any such camp and remain unseen. Fortunately, Traianus and the senior officers – Tribunus Gallus, Tribunus Profuturus plus the tribuni of the eastern legions – had come to the same conclusion, resolving to set up camp a further two miles to the south on the next plain, over the ridge.

Pavo glanced across at the sun-baked settlement as they cantered past; the townsfolk busied themselves with their daily lives, farming and weaving. Men loaded hay bales, scythes and sickles into a wagon, readying to harvest the early crop, eager to fill the near-empty horrea. One amber-haired woman was stooping by the brook, drawing water into an amphora while her children splashed in the shallows. It was a picture of serenity. But every few heartbeats, she would glance up to the north, her features wrinkled in concern.

And these townsfolk were right to worry, despite Traianus’ assurances. The century of legionaries the magister militum had garrisoned there was a gesture and no more. It was the turma of equites sagittarii stationed with them that seemingly mattered more. These thirty men, mounted on the fastest steeds from Traianus’ stable, would relay any sign of a Gothic advance back to the main Roman camp.

And the villagers would be left to the whims of Fortuna.

He glanced over his shoulder again as the town slipped into the distance behind them, and whispered a prayer for those people.

‘We’ll be ready for them this time,’ Sura said as they approached a slight rise at the southern end of the plain.

Pavo welcomed the grim look of determination on his friend’s face. It was a look that each and every legionary in the camp had worn over these last few weeks, as the scale of the Gothic destruction had come to light. The limitanei legions had been crushed or scattered, leaving the towns, cities and forts of Moesia undefended. While Durostorum had been evacuated, Odessus and Marcianople had been part-razed and plundered, and every settlement and fort in between had suffered the same fate.

‘But do you not fear that – after so much scheming and subterfuge – no matter what we do, we’re always going to be undermined? What if Draga has planned all of this as well? And what of the Huns? We worry about the Goths in the mountains when the darkest souls the empire has ever faced gather across the river, unchecked.’

Sura sighed. ‘We can only fight those that stand before us. And Draga is blacker-hearted than any Hun.’

Pavo frowned. He thought of the long conversations he had shared with the ambassador; the sharp, knowing look in the man’s eyes as he had talked of his father, telling him things he had shared only with the few in life he trusted. And then the man had betrayed him like no other. He avoided Sura’s gaze.

‘You still long for things to be as they were, don’t you?’ His friend asked, tentatively. ‘Draga . . . Salvian, he really meant a lot to you, didn’t he?’

At last, Pavo steeled himself and straightened in his saddle as they crested the rise. ‘Salvian? The façade? The man who we knew has evaporated like a morning mist, Sura. I don’t have time to pine for some sham friendship. None of us do. There are an untold number of war-hungry Goths back there and we need to be ready for them.’

They crested the rise and Sura broke out in a trademark beaming grin. ‘Aye, that we must, and we will be!’ He swept a hand across the vista on the next plain;

The vast Roman camp dominated the land, bristling with legions, cavalry, archers and artillery. A few slivers of silver marched to the fort from the south. These were the precious few cohorts from the garrisons of the southern cities and the recruits from southern Thracia, mustered to bolster the Roman ranks.

Pavo’s skin tingled at the sight. ‘Mithras, but that warms my heart every time I see it.’

Despite the size of the encampment, the traditional layout was instantly recognisable. A rectangular ditch was the first line of defence, followed by a tall earth rampart, bristling with stakes. Atop the rampart, a tall timber palisade had been erected. Watchtowers punctuated this barrier at regular intervals, with sagittarii
archers and legionaries packed onto their platforms, scouring the northern horizon.

Inside the walls, a sea of goatskin contubernium tents were laid out in grids; one grid per cohort of each legion. Each tent was surrounded by tiny figures, some in their red or white tunics and others glistening in their armour, as the ranks kindled their fires and cooked their rations and catches from the local countryside. Two paths split the camp in a north-south and east-west axis, each connecting with one of the four main gates. At the junction of these paths, five silver eagle standards were staked in the ground at the centre of a cluster of larger tents. This temporary principia was where the officers had been locked in strategic discussions for days.

Outside the camp, intensive drilling and training was underway. The barking of officers and rustle of iron armour filled the plain, drowning out the cicada song. A thick line of sagittarii lined the practice range, emptying quiver after quiver of arrows into painted targets. Equites circled a stretch of plain, swooping past timber posts from which hung sandbags in the shapes of men. Then there were the legionary cohorts, practicing marching drills, plumbatae volleys and shield walls.

The warm air was spiced with sweet woodsmoke and roasting meat as Pavo and Sura cantered down the rise and towards the north gate. As they neared the earth bridge that crossed the ditch, the sentries on either watchtower flanking the gate shuffled bolt upright. They levelled their plumbatae at the pair, and two sagittarii archers stretched their composite bows. Then one sentry called out to them, lifting a buccina to his lips, ready to sound the alarm. ‘Identify yourselves!’

Pavo looked to Sura, each of them cocking an eyebrow. Then Felix barged up and onto the leftmost tower, grasping the lip of the balcony, eyes wide. Then he sighed. ‘Oh, for Mithras’ sake! Let them through!’

‘Yes, sir!’ The sentry barked back in an overly-officious tone.

The gates creaked open and Felix darted down the timber ladder to greet them as they passed inside the fort. ‘Anything?’ He narrowed his eyes and pulled at his forked beard.

Pavo and Sura saluted their primus pilus, then shook their heads.

Felix punched a fist into his palm and grimaced, stifling a curse.

‘We went over a mile into the hills this time, sir,’ Pavo sighed. ‘I know our orders were to stay within half a mile of the plains, but we were so sure we’d sight them.’

‘Aye, and I’d be first to buy you an ale if you had. But tomorrow, stick to your orders, eh? If you go getting skewered out there then we learn nothing of the Gothic whereabouts.’