Legionary: Viper of the North (60 page)

‘Stand firm, stay together!’ Gallus rallied those around him as he grappled the handle of a round Gothic shield, salvaged from a dead warrior. The battered legionaries pushed up next to him, shoulder to shoulder. Then the Goths smashed home and the compact Roman square was shattered.

Gallus was thrown back as the Gothic cavalry broke the Roman front rank, tearing the square apart, driving for the eagles and
Traianus
at the centre. His helmet fell into the gore and the passing hooves threw a spray of mud and blood over his face.

Beside him, Tribunus Profuturus scrambled through the crimson mush in an attempt to reach
Traianus
. ‘Protect your leader!’ He bellowed. ‘Protect yo-’ his cry was cut short as a sword sliced off his head in one swipe.

Gallus scrabbled back from the head as it bounced to rest before him, mouth and eyes still gawping mid-cry. Then he looked up to see the rider who had felled Profuturus, and his heart steeled. The silver topknotted locks and beard, the glinting bronze hoops, the arrowhead nose and the angry scar welt over one eye.

‘Your part in history will be forgotten Roman,’ Ivo trotted around Gallus as the rest of the Goths piled into the disintegrating Roman square, washing round the pair like a river round rocks. ‘And your empire’s time is short.’

Gallus stared at the warrior, then stood, grappling his spatha hilt. ‘Your men may slay my army today, Ivo, but
by Mithras
, you will die with them.’

Ivo slipped from his saddle, and clasped the hilt of his longsword with both hands. ‘Do you know how many legionaries I have slain? Do you know how many great men of the north coveted my status as Fritigern’s champion, only to die on the edge of my blade?’ He flicked the longsword around in his hands as if it was a light stabbing blade.

Gallus raised his spatha. ‘It matters not. You have slain your last.’

Ivo roared in laughter at this, as all around him, legionaries were put to the sword, their screams cut short and their blood soaking the field. Then the big warrior’s face fell into a glare, and he rushed forward with a battle cry.

Gallus whispered a prayer to Mithras and a sweet word to Olivia, then roared and leapt to parry the Goth’s blade. A screaming of iron upon iron sent sparks across both of them. The force of the big man’s strike was ferocious, and Gallus was thrown back, his spatha cleaved, the hilt and a shard of blade left in his hand.

‘An ominous portent, is it not, Roman?’ Ivo grinned.

Gallus backed off as Ivo stalked forward, then jinked to avoid a swipe of the giant’s sword. The blade scythed through his mail vest, drawing a spray of blood from his chest, the vest falling loose, dangling from one shoulder. He felt something inside, something long buried. A cold realisation, creeping from his core, spidering across his skin.
Was it fear?

Ivo roared in delight. ‘Now, weapons gone, fear begins to consume you, does it not? You have moments to live, Roman; see my face, remember my words, and take them with you to
Hades!
’

Ivo raised his sword over his head and brought it crashing for Gallus’ skull with a guttural roar. Gallus stared through the huge warrior, seeing the faces of all those who had fought by his side over the years, now merely memories. Then he saw Olivia, reaching out to him, smiling, tears staining her cheeks. At once, all fear was gone and his soul reverted to ice. He thrust the shard of his spatha up. His whole arm shuddered and the bones in his hand cracked as the sliver of blade punched into the edge of Ivo’s longsword, halting the strike. The pair hovered, eye to eye.
To Hades with fear!

‘You mistake me for someone who fears death,’ Gallus spoke in an even tone, then pulled the spatha shard away, pirouetted round and plunged the makeshift blade into Ivo’s neck. He tore the blade along Ivo’s throat and the artery was rent.

Gallus was showered in the giant’s blood. He bored his icy, wolf-like glare into Ivo as the Gothic champion slid to the ground, confusion dancing across his good eye.

‘Hold the line!’ Traianus bawled, his voice cracking and rasping as he barged forward. As he reached the front of the huddle of surviving Romans, he hefted his sword overhead to strike at the Gothic mass. But a hand grappled his wrist. It was the tribunus of the IV Italica legion.

‘Stay back, sir. Stand tall with the eagles. The men need to know you live,’ he growled. ‘If you are slai-’ the tribunus’ words were cut short as a Gothic spear hammered into his chest, showering Traianus with blood.

Traianus twisted to see the clutch of Gothic riders who had thrown the spear; Draga was mounted at their head. His gore-spattered hood was plastered to his face, covering all but one manic, sparkling eye and his teeth, clenched in a frenzied half-grin. The look bored through Traianus’ armour to his soul, just like the look the boy Draga had given him on the wharf all those years ago.

Then the Viper raised his sword and cried out to his riders. As one, they charged for the Roman square.

Traianus’ mouth fell agape.

Pavo leapt up to hack his spatha into a Gothic spearman’s shoulder. The limb slid clear of the body and the man fell, howling, to be butchered by Sura, Zosimus and Felix.

‘That one was for Avitus,’ Pavo cried to Quadratus.

‘Every one of these whoresons is for Avitus!’ The big centurion bawled, then headbutted a Goth before plunging his sword through the felled warrior’s chest.

The Gothic press was relentless. Pavo felt his limbs quivering, growing heavier with every parry and strike. Every breath felt like fire, rasping in his parched throat. Never had battle drawn so much out of him. But when he glanced up, the sight before him fired his blood like never before; Draga and his riders were charging
 
for the legionary huddle, ready to leap over the crumbling shieldwall and into its heart.

He followed the Viper’s manic glare and saw that it was fixed on Traianus – the magister militum was stumbling back to the centre of the Roman cluster.

‘Sir,’ he barked to Zosimus, ‘take my place!’

Zosimus squinted at him through a crimson mask and then flicked his gaze to the Viper’s charge. At this, the centurion’s eyes narrowed and he nodded, barging into Pavo’s spot, locking his shield with the legionaries either side. ‘Go! Take that bastard’s heart out!’ The big Thracian cried.

But Pavo was already on his way, pushing through the crush of legionaries, focused on the Viper. His brow dipped and he flexed his hand on his spatha hilt.

A clutch of the Viper’s riders raced ahead of their master and heeled their mounts into a jump into the Roman centre, hooves dashing out brains and longswords sweeping through necks like scythes. But Pavo ignored the screaming and readied himself, like a cat, as the Viper made to follow his riders.

Draga heeled his mount into a jump. Then, when man and beast were mid-leap, Pavo launched himself with a roar.

His shoulder smashed into Draga’s midriff, barging the Viper from his saddle and away from the legionary last stand. The pair tumbled through the gory filth, rolling under Gothic boots and hooves as they grappled and wrestled. Then, finally, the chaos subsided.

They were alone. The Gothic swell had pressed on past them, driving into the Roman huddle.

Draga was first to his feet, longsword raised. Then Pavo scrambled back to level his sword with the man. The one he had once known as the warm and wise ambassador Salvian was a demonic shade of red under his hood, the wet blood bubbling under his nostrils as he snorted in indignation.

‘You fool! You think you can stop me?’ Draga spoke through a twisted half-grin as the pair circled one another. ‘Look around you, your army will all be carrion long before dusk arrives. But rest easy as you go to your death, for you have played your part in bringing my vision into being.’

Pavo shook his head. ‘You still don’t see it, do you? You have dedicated your whole life to avenging your father’s death.’ He cast his free hand around the jumble of ruined corpses they walked upon. ‘Yet to have your revenge, you bring thousands upon thousands of your own kin to their deaths. The empire wanted peace, Draga, and you must have seen this, in your position as an ambassador. You knew the emperor sought nothing but an alliance.’

Draga’s twisted half-grin faded. ‘Do not presume to know what I have seen, legionary. Some of the darkest deeds I have ever witnessed have taken place in the fine climes of the senate building in Constantinople, in the cool and luxurious upper tiers of the Hippodrome,’ he leant forward and hissed, ‘in the Imperial Palace itself!’

‘And has that not swayed you from perpetrating such acts?’

Draga burst into a chilling laughter. ‘It has not swayed me, legionary, it has inspired me.’ The man’s eyes sparkled like a roaring fire under the shadows of his hood.

Pavo flinched at this, then squared his shoulders once more, all the while conscious of the shrinking band of legionaries amidst the Gothic noose, only paces away. Then one eagle was plucked from the crowd, a Goth holding aloft the standard and the severed head of a legionary. Pavo glanced at this spectacle for just a moment, then realised what a grave mistake he had made.

Like a viper uncoiling to strike its victim, Draga leapt for him with a flurry of sword hacks.

Pavo fell back, troubled by the man’s deft handling of the weapon. He could find time only to parry. Then his heel caught in a discarded conical helmet, and he crashed onto his back. In a flash, Draga had his swordpoint at Pavo’s jugular.

Draga let a serrated laugh escape his lips as he pressed the blade, the edge pricking Pavo’s skin. ‘Now send a prayer to Mithras, legionary, and perhaps you will meet your father in Hades!’

Pavo felt the phalera burning on his chest. Something in his heart roared, and he clawed at the blood-soaked earth by his sides as he waited on the death blow. Then words of advice echoed in his thoughts. But not those of the lost ambassador, Salvian. Instead, they were the words of Brutus – that grim-faced bull of a centurion who had welcomed him into legionary life with a regime of sadistic training torture. Now long dead, like so many others.

Don’t be a hero . . . be a dirty bugger!