Legionary: Viper of the North (61 page)

As the longsword split through the skin of his neck, Pavo cupped a handful of earth and gore and hurled it at Draga’s eyes. Draga staggered, blinded momentarily, the longsword retracting at the last.

Pavo pounced on the moment of respite, rising and hoisting his sword. He hacked forward, smashing at every one of Draga’s parries with a newfound vigour. ‘You call me legionary,’ he cried, ‘but you should know that I am Pavo of the XI Claudia
Pia Fidelis!
’

Draga, startled, parried. Their swords smashed together again and again until the Viper ducked left and jabbed his longsword towards Pavo’s gut. Pavo jinked and swiped at the thrust, cleaving Draga’s sword hand clean off with a dull clunk of shearing bone.

With a roar, the Viper fell to his knees, biting into his bottom lip until blood spilled down his chin. Then he bowed his head and his chest shuddered, the green cloak rippling in a sudden breeze.

Pavo held his swordpoint to Draga’s chest, panting.

‘You can finish me, legionary,’ Draga rasped, squinting up at Pavo, ‘but my vision is already a reality.’

Pavo glanced over to the dying embers of the Roman last stand. Another two eagles were being passed back over the Gothic heads, along with the bloodied corpse of one of the comitatenses tribuni.

‘And know that with my death,’ Draga continued, ‘the truth about your father will evaporate also!’

Pavo’s stare shot back to Draga. His eyes bulged, his heart thundered. ‘You know Tarquitius’ secret?’

Draga nodded with a weak half-grin. His hood had fallen to his shoulders and he wore that open and earnest expression; for all the world he once again looked like the man Pavo had known as Salvian. ‘He talked incessantly when I held him prisoner in my tent. Serve yourself, Pavo. Drop your weapon and I will tell you everything in return.’

Pavo’s thoughts swirled in conflict. To live and learn the truth, or to die here with his brothers, honour intact. He clutched the phalera as a nauseous panic swam over him. Then, like a splash of ice-cold streamwater over his heart, Pavo realised what he had to do.

He dropped his spatha.

‘Good . . . good. You have made a wise choice, lad,’ Draga purred, rising from his knees.

Pavo stared past Draga’s shoulder, his eyes fixed on a point in the distance.

Then, in the blink of an eye, Draga’s face contorted into a demonic grimace; he whipped a dagger from his boot with his good hand, then sprung up, thrusting the blade for Pavo’s throat.

At once, Pavo’s eyes snapped round to fix on Draga’s. He swerved the cut and wrapped one arm around Draga’s neck. With the other hand he grappled at his assailant’s wrist, prising the blade from his grip and then turning it to rest the point upon Draga’s breastbone.

‘I knew in my soul that your blood ran black,’ Pavo panted, ‘but I had to let you prove it once more, to banish the doubts. Your army may be on the cusp of victory today, but your black heart will no longer lead them.’ Pavo’s expression grew cold, and he pushed the dagger into Draga’s chest. The man stared at him, those sharp green eyes sparkling, the manic half-grin defiant as the blade pierced his breastbone.

Then Pavo rammed the blade in to the hilt.

Hot blood washed over his knuckles as he watched Draga’s eyes dimming at last. With that, the body slumped to the ground.

The Viper was dead.

Pavo turned to see one eagle left in the middle of the Gothic swell. The ruby-red bull of the XI Claudia. Pride and sorrow rippled across his skin as he readied to rush for the fray, to die with his brothers.

He picked up a spear and a spatha and ran, screaming the last from his lungs, tears staining his cheeks.

Then he stopped.

They all stopped.

The air was filled with the cry of buccinas. Not just a few. Hundreds.

Pavo stared to the west. There, the foothills and the great mountain range behind shimmered in the dusky orange. Then, from the tips of the hills, twelve silver eagles soared into view, part-silhouetted by the setting sun. Under them fluttered twelve legionary banners. Pavo stood, eyes fixed on the unfamiliar emblems; dragons, wolves and bears. ‘It cannot be,’ he whispered, ‘the western legions?’

But again, the buccinas cried out. And now an iron wall appeared below the eagles; some fifteen thousand legionaries, and two ala of one thousand equites on fine and fresh mounts.

At this, the Gothic swell was instantly dwarfed. Their victorious battle cries of moments ago turned to wails of despair, and even Fritigern seemed stunned into silence. But as the western legions marched forward, the Gothic Iudex was sparked into action, roaring at his men to retreat, urging them to break northwards for the hills.

As the last light of day faded, the Goths fled, leaving behind a bloodied, battered, gasping group of men. Some would call them legionaries. Pavo knew them as brothers. Sura returned his knowing stare, and beside him were Gallus, Zosimus, Quadratus and Felix. The five, together with a handful of legionaries, spathas shaking in their grips, formed a tight circle around the XI Claudia standard and
Traianus
.

Pavo glanced down to see Draga’s empty eyes fixed in a dead stare at the sight.

Then he turned to the setting sun and felt its warmth on his skin.

‘Column, halt!’ Traianus bellowed as the noon sun baked the countryside of central Thracia. Then he nodded to the nearby stream. ‘Fall out, slake your thirst!’

Traianus watched as Comes Richomeres and his unruffled western legions calmly took to their rations. Not for the first time since waking this morning, he whispered a word of thanks into the ether for his foresight in summoning the western legions. Despite the cynicism of the officials in the capital, it was the first thing he had done upon reaching Constantinople from Antioch;
they’ll never come,
some said,
they care more for the Frankish foederati than for their eastern brothers,
others had sneered.
Easy words for overfed togas who did not have to venture outside the fine walls of the capital
, he mused wryly.

Then he turned to the stream; in contrast to Richomeres’ men, the beleagured survivors of the Battle of the Willows had downed their burdens and now lined the sides of the stream. Almost to a man, they had dropped to their knees, cupping the cool liquid in their hands to drink and soak cracked and bleeding lips. Then they filled skins and emptied them over sun-blistered scalps, before wading in to submerge their burning and scarred bodies completely.

Traianus could not suppress a smile at this. Then his face fell when he glanced to the north
, his eyes hanging on the ethereal heat haze over the Haemus Mountains. As the bathing legionaries’ cries of relief rang out, he could see only the field of bones they had left behind yesterday; a portent of what was to come.

For the Gothic Wars had begun.

Then, once again, he saw the staring, dead eyes of the demon who had brought all this into being. Draga.

The man was black-hearted to the core
, he insisted again.

But once more, doubt wriggled into his mind as he remembered that warm summer day on the wharf, all those years ago. The brutal slaying of the young Draga’s father. The boy’s deathly cold stare. Then,
Traianus
closed his eyes, biting his lip as he remembered the tear slipping from the orphaned Gothic boy’s cheek.

Did we make him what he became?

He mulled over the things he had seen in his years; as much as he loved the empire, he was all too often ashamed of the deeds of those who acted in her name. His gaze dropped to the ground; indeed, he had many reasons to be ashamed of himself.

Then, something caught his eye; a few paces away, a tiny pocket of the survivors of the battle had stayed back from the stream. Tribunus Gallus was addressing them. He recognised the faces of those who listened to Gallus’ every word; the big Thracian centurion and the equally hulking Gaulish one bookending the little fork-bearded primus pilus of the XI Claudia. Then there were the two lads; younger, but scarred and bearing the telltale grimaces of veterans now. Then one of the lads - the one with the cropped, dark hair and the beaky nose – stepped away from his colleagues, lifting some bronze trinket from his tunic, examining it.

This lad had done his legion proud yesterday, slaying the Viper and saving Traianus from the creature’s charge. At that moment, Traianus realised he had not thanked the lad, nor any of the others who had put their lives before his.
Perhaps it is time I made amends?

He walked over to the legionary, squinting as the sunlight danced off the bronze medallion. Then he saw the markings on it as he approached. His eyes widened.

‘What’s your name, soldier?’
Traianus
asked, stepping towards him.

Pavo looked up, standing to attention, staring into the distance past
Traianus
’ shoulder. ‘Legionary . . . ’ he paused, blinking, before correcting himself, ‘ . . . Optio Numerius Vitellius Pavo, sir!’

‘At ease, soldier. You have proved your worth to me a thousand times over with your actions yesterday.’

Thankfully the lad complied, relaxing his shoulders just a little and looking
Traianus
in the eye.

‘That’s a legionary phalera,’
Traianus
noted, ‘Legio II Parthica?’

‘Yes,’ Pavo replied, his brow wrinkling, a spark of interest in his eyes, ‘my father died fighting for them, at the seige and sack of Bezabde.’

Traianus
frowned, unsure how to approach this. ‘Bezabde? Are you sure?’

Pavo’s expression remained resigned. ‘I’m certain of it,’ he nodded. ‘He perished like the rest of the legion in that clash.’

Traianus
shook his head, fixing his gaze on Pavo’s. ‘I don’t want to trouble your mind, lad, but not all of the Parthica were lost in Bezabde’s fall.’

Pavo’s eyes widened.

‘In the east, in the desert salt mines, many live on to this day . . . ’

Epilogue